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I look down at the check in my hand, then the note I hold beneath it. The signature on it is illegible, just a tangle of strokes in blue ink that looks like it shook out of a trembling pen. But I know what it says:

Terrence Brooks

Knowing that, I can almost decipher the first letters of each of the names, but the rest seems to have been purposely scribbled so that it can’t be easily read. It isn’t the name that has my primary focus though. It’s the tiny symbol etched just beneath the name, almost lost in the jumbled letters. The same symbol that was carved into Terrence’s body when it was found. The sign of the person now known as the Game Master.

The chilling message sent to the Ashbury Police Department is still fresh in my mind. Detective Melton gave me the letter that arrived at the station when I returned to the town where Terrence Brooks lived and died, and I have it with the rest of the investigation into his horrific and mysterious death.

When you speak of me, know me as the Game Master. Player selection has begun.

It means there could be more. Other victims. Other horrors I can’t yet fathom because I don’t understand who this person is or what they are doing. All I know is Terrence Brooks was selected as a player, and he ended up dead after weeks of what those closest to him described as “strange behavior.” Now I’m scrambling to figure out what happened to him and who this person is.

But it wasn’t just the police department that received a note mentioning the Game Master and claiming a connection to the Terrence Brooks death investigation. The media has gone wild with notes they received claiming responsibility, signed with the strange symbol I’ve yet to decipher. Echoes of notorious killers from the past, sensationalized names like the Zodiac, have the heat turned up on the investigation as people start to panic about what it all means.

I hate that my investigation has been corrupted like this. There are always details I want to keep to myself to protect the integrity of the investigation, but this time they’ve been stolen from me and splashed all over the evening news. Images of the symbol on the note have been posted alongside pictures of Terrence Brooks smiling during better times. Speculation has given way to full-blown rumors, and people are in an uproar.

The one good thing that has come of the media getting ahold of the story and running with it was the Ashbury Children’s Hospital getting in touch with me to tell me that they had something I needed to see. It’s what brought me to the hospital as I now sit in the director’s office and look at the sizable canceled check signed by the dead man.

“You received this after his death?” I ask the director.

Mary Billings looks at me through emotion-filled eyes. She nods. “He must have put it in the mail just before he died. No one was able to read the signature, and there wasn’t a name or return address on the envelope. It’s not the first time we’ve received a donation that couldn’t be attributed to a sender, but never something this large. We were trying to figure out who sent it so that we could properly thank them, but it wasn’t until I saw the news and heard about the symbol that I put it together.”

Her eyes suddenly look worried, as if she thinks she might have done something to upset me.

“I could be wrong. I still can’t really read the signature, so I don’t know for sure if it says ‘Terrence Brooks.’ It could be something else. Or someone else. I just saw the symbol on it, and I thought…”

I hold up a hand to quiet her.

“I believe you’re right,” I say. “The signature isn’t very clear, but it shouldn’t be hard to confirm that he purchased the cashier’s check. And you’re right about the symbol. That is the one that was used on the communications that went to the police department and to the media.”

“The news said that they were… on his body,” Mary says, hesitating as she speaks, like she intended to elaborate more but decided against it.

I don’t let my face show any change. “I can’t discuss the details of the case,” I tell her. “I can only confirm that this symbol is linked to Terrence Brooks and his death investigation. I really appreciate you bringing it to my attention.”

“There’s something else,” she says hurriedly.

I was starting to stand, ready to leave the meeting and go back to my investigation, but I stop.

“What is it?” I ask.

Her eyes move back and forth, like she is making sure no one else is in the room even though she knows it’s only us and the door is closed. There’s a hesitant energy around her, something that says she doesn’t want to talk about what she’s bringing up but feels like she has to.

“We received several threats before that check came,” she says.

“Threats?” I ask. “What kind of threats?”

“We received letters in the mail as well as phone calls threatening to bomb the hospital, destroy the power grid, and stage a mass shooting. We reported them to the police, but since they weren’t able to trace them to anyone, nothing was done. The day after the check arrived, another letter came.”

She reaches into the drawer of her desk and pulls out a folder. She slides it across the desk to me. I open it and find a single sheet of paper with a typed one-word message:

Released

Beneath the word, in the corner of the paper, a tiny version of the mysterious symbol is etched in pencil.

“We haven’t gotten any threats since. I can’t guarantee they have anything to do with each other. None of the threatening letters had the symbol on them, and the caller never said anything that connects them conclusively, but I thought it was strange and wanted to bring it up to you,” Mary tells me.

“Thank you,” I tell her. “Do you mind if I take this with me?”

She shakes her head. “Go ahead.”

“Thanks. Again, I appreciate you getting in touch with me and telling me about this. It is very useful.”

I stand and reach for her hand. She shakes mine as she stands, and I head for the door.

Walking through the hospital has a different feeling now that I know about the threats. I look at the children being led around by doctors and nurses, some riding little cars in lieu of wheelchairs, others attached to IVs and wearing gowns. I see the parents following behind or waiting in seating areas, their expressions a combination of fear and hope. They are all so invested in what the children are going through that they can’t think of anything else. They feel safe in the hospital, protected by the cheerful decorations and dedicated staff. They don’t know the threats that haunt Mary Billings and the rest of the administration.

The thought of someone planning to bring any harm to a place like this makes my blood boil. There’s no reason for it—nothing that could possibly justify, even in the most twisted mind, wanting to destroy a place like this and all the vulnerable, innocent people in it.

As I continue toward the exit, I hear my name and turn toward it. Mary is coming after me, and I pause to wait for her.

“I’m sorry, I know you were leaving, but I was wondering if you might be willing to do a favor for me. For the hospital, actually,” she says.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Every month we have a birthday party for all the kids whose birthdays are that month so that they will have a chance to celebrate even if they are stuck in the hospital during it. We are hosting one today, and one of the children who is celebrating his birthday heard that there was an FBI agent in the hospital. He dreams of joining the Bureau when he grows up.” Her eyes soften and fill with emotion at that comment. “I was hoping that you might go to the party and meet him. Maybe talk to him a little bit about what you do. I know you’re busy, and I understand if you can’t do it, but it would mean a lot to him and to us.”

I smile. “Of course, I can absolutely do that.”

She grins. “Thank you so much. The party starts in twenty minutes in the dayroom. I’ll see you there.”

I decide to pass the time before the party by going to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee. I know Sam is expecting me back in Sherwood later, so I call him to let him know I’m going to be starting back later than I thought.

“Hey, babe,” I say when he answers. “I just want to let you know that I haven’t left yet. I’m going to be getting home a little later than I thought. I didn’t want you to worry.”

“What’s going on? Is everything all right?” he asks.

It’s always his first instinct to assume something is probably wrong when I tell him that plans have changed in one way or another. Considering everything that has happened, it’s not necessarily an inexplicable response, but I still hate to hear the automatic spike of worry in his voice. I know how protective he is of me and how frustrating it is to him that there is frequently nothing he can do to keep me out of dangerous situations. He knows my dedication to my career and that I will do what I need to do. But at least in this situation, I can assuage his fears pretty easily.

“Everything is fine,” I tell him. “I’m at the hospital, and they asked me to stay to go to a birthday party they’re having for the kids. One of them wants to be an FBI agent, and they thought he might like to meet me.”

“A birthday party?” Sam asks with a chuckle. “Agent Emma Griffin, Make-a-Wish granter.”

I can’t help the laugh that tumbles out of me. “Yeah, it should be fun for the kids,” I say. “I don’t know how long it’s going to last, but it shouldn’t be too much longer.”

“All right. Well, you have a good time, and I’ll see you when you get home,” he says.

We end the call, and I sip my coffee as I make my way back to the main floor so I can find the dayroom. The doors are closed, and pieces of colorful tissue paper have been put up over the windows to preserve some of the surprise for the children who are already gathered out in the hallway excited about the party. I look at them and can’t help but wonder how many of these parties some of them have been to in the time they’ve been in the hospital.

The door opens slightly, and Mary looks out. She smiles when she sees me.

“There you are. Come on in.”

She opens the door enough for me to slip through, telling the children they have to wait just a little longer. I step into the room and see people scurrying around hanging decorations and organizing cupcakes on a long table. There are games set up and little goodie bags in a basket in the corner. It’s obvious how much care and attention has gone into putting this event on for the patients, and it makes my heart feel warm to see it.

“This looks great,” I tell Mary. “I’m sure the kids love it.”

“They really do,” she says. “We try to make each one a little different so that it’s not the same event every month. This month we’re going for a beach theme.” She looks across the room and waves. I follow her gaze and see a woman coming toward us. “There are a couple of people I’d like you to meet.”

The woman comes up to us and extends her hand to me. “Connie Stinson,” she says.

“This is Agent Emma Griffin,” Mary says, gesturing toward me. “She’s the agent handling the Terrence Brooks case.”

The words seem to have an impact on Connie, who nods. “That whole situation is horrible.”

“It is,” I agree.

“Connie is part of the Hearts of the Community Foundation, the charitable organization that makes so much of what we do for the children here possible. They sponsor the birthday parties as well as holiday events and activities throughout the year and help with supporting the families of patients when they need it,” Mary says.

“That’s a wonderful cause,” I tell her.

“Thank you,” she says. “The foundation is involved in a lot throughout the community, but our work with the children’s hospital is my favorite.” She looks to the side as the door opens and gestures toward a man who slipped in with an armful of grocery bags. “That’s the head of the foundation, Mike Morris.”

“Connie and Mike also sit on the board,” Mary explains. “They know about…”—she hesitates, her eyes sliding over to the other volunteers getting the party ready—“what we talked about earlier.”

I nod my understanding. “I’ll be adding that into my investigation.”

Mike walks over, and Mary introduces us.

“Nice to meet you,” he says. “I’m glad to hear things are being taken seriously.”

“It’s time to start the party,” another volunteer says.

“Go ahead and open the doors,” Mary tells her.

Opening the doors releases a deluge of children into the room, all excitedly ooh ing and ahh ing as they take in the sights gleefully. I can almost see the gears churning in their little heads as they try to decide what they want to do first.

“Everybody, take a seat,” Mary instructs them.

The children who are able flop down to sit on the floor while those in wheelchairs are brought up close beside them. I step back to watch as Mary introduces the party and describes what the children will be doing. She gives the usual gentle admonishments to make sure that they all behave and give everyone a chance to enjoy everything, then throws her arms up in the air.

“Go have fun!”

I can’t help but smile at the sight of the children running to the games and giggling over the decorations. Mike steps up beside me to organize some extra snacks and treats on one of the tables, and I smile at him.

“This is really amazing,” I say. “They look like they’re having a blast.”

“I look forward to the party every month,” he says. “The hospital has a really special place in my heart. My brother spent a lot of time here when it was still the old facility. They took really good care of him, and they tried to do as many special things as they could for all the kids. I knew I wanted to help make being here easier and more fun for them.”

“Agent Griffin?”

Mary is coming toward me with her hand on the back of a boy I’d place at nine or ten years old. He’s wearing cotton lounge pants and a baggy T-shirt with socks, and I notice a port in his arm.

“Hi,” I say.

“This is Lucas Potter. He’s really excited to meet you.”

Mike smiles at me and moves away to join in the fun of the party while I talk to Lucas. We chat for a while, his enthusiasm glowing in big brown eyes that defy his surroundings and circumstances. By the time he rejoins the party, I am filled with emotion and even more dedicated to finding out who is at once targeting the hospital with horrifying threats and forcing Terrence Brooks to make a large donation with the mark of the Game Master.