“Yes,” I agree. “Anna told me all the details already and has brought her evidence. But today we can all here it at the same time, and listen to her story in her own words, which will make this move quicker and easier.”
There are many grunts and nods of agreement.
Rogan looks at Anna with gentle eyes. “Take your time. We’re listening.”
All eyes turn to my female, both in the room and on the screen.
She takes a deep breath and begins, “Three years ago, I was a literature professor at a prestigious university in Southern California. Victorian literature was my specialty. I worked closely with Dr. Jonas Webb, the head of our Special Collections department—our rare books archive.” Her voice is steady, professional, like she’s giving a lecture, but I can hear the tremor underneath. “Jonas showed me a Brontë manuscript one day. He wanted my opinion because something felt off about it. The paper and ink were different from when I’d examined it previously.” She pauses. “I confirmed his suspicions. It was a forgery. A very good one, but still a fake.”
I watch the room as she continues. Everyone is focused, intent on her words. “Jonas started investigating and found more forgeries, learning that valuable manuscripts had been replaced with fakes. The originals, priceless pieces of literary history, were stolen and sold to private collectors.” Her hands clench around the water glass. “But it was bigger than just theft. The sales were connected to the university’s endowment fund. Donors were getting tax deductions for contributions they never actually made. It was a money laundering scheme involving millions of dollars and the worst part was that university administrators were taking kickbacks. This left us no one on campus to trust.” The room is silent except for her voice.
“We found three people at the center of this conspiracy. Senator Bree Vance, who chairs the Senate Finance Committee. Larry Aldridge, a real estate billionaire who’s chairman of the university’s board. And David Klein, a tech CEO, also on the board. Jonas wanted to go to the FBI. I agreed that this was the best route. We spent months secretly compiling the evidence, gathering financial records, emails, proof of the forgeries, sales receipts showing where the originals went. Everything we’d need to expose the whole conspiracy.” She swallows hard. “We had an appointment scheduled for a Friday. We were going to turn everything over together.”
Her voice wavers and I find her hand under the table, squeezing gently. “On Wednesday night, two days before that appointment, campus police called me.” Tears slide down her cheeks now. “Jonas was dead. They found him in his office. Hanging. They ruled it suicide immediately.”
The words land like stones in the quiet room.
“But Jonas wasn’t suicidal. He was excited, energized, ready to fight. He had a wife—Sarah—and twin daughters, Emma and Sophie. They’re ten now. He had a sabbatical planned in Greece for that summer and talked about it constantly.” Her voicebreaks. “He would never abandon his family. He would never kill himself.”
“Someone murdered him,” I say quietly.
Anna nods. “Someone knew about that FBI appointment. They had to. The timing was too perfect. They killed him two days before we could turn over the evidence, and they made it look like suicide.”
“Inside information,” Dane says from the screen, his expression dark.
“Either the FBI is compromised, or someone at the university tipped them off, or our phones were tapped. I don’t know which.” Anna wipes at her eyes. “But someone knew. And they killed Jonas to stop him.”
Rage builds in my chest—hot and fierce and barely contained. These humans murdered an innocent man. A father. A scholar. Made his family think he abandoned them. His daughters will grow up believing their father chose death over them. And now they’re hunting Anna.
My female.
My Bride.
Not while I draw breath.
“I’m certain it was my warning. If I’d still gone to that appointment alone, I’d be dead too,” Anna continues. “I was certain of it. I couldn’t trust the FBI anymore. Senator Vance has oversight over federal law enforcement budgets. What if she has someone on her payroll? What if I turned over the evidence and it just disappeared? What if I ended up like Jonas—another convenient suicide?”
“So you ran,” Rogan says gently.
“That night. I drained my bank accounts, grabbed what I could, created a fake ID, and disappeared.” She’s trembling now. “For three years, I’ve been running. Different cities, different names. Fake IDs, burner phones, cash only. Never stayinganywhere more than a few months. No friends, no relationships, no stability. Always looking over my shoulder. Always waiting for them to find me.”
The loneliness in her voice cuts through me.
“I was completely alone,” she whispers. “Every holiday. Every birthday. Watching other people live normal lives while I hid in shadows. It was awful.”
“But you found Truckee,” Jonus prompts.
Anna nods. “For the first time in three years, I felt safe. It was a quiet mountain town. I got a teaching job I genuinely loved. I got soft and allowed myself the luxury of being there for the opening of a new school, getting close with my students again and making real friends.” A small smile crosses her face before fading. “I started to believe maybe I could actually have a life. Maybe I’d escaped.”
“And then the photos arrived,” I say, knowing where this is going.
“On my doorstep.” Her voice cracks completely. “Surveillance photos showing they’d been watching me for weeks, maybe months. Pictures of me at school, at the grocery store, with Ellie and Zoe at the park.” She looks at me. “One of us at the wedding. And this was when I realized I’d stayed much too long and exposed my new friends to my danger.”
She exhales and continues, “There was a note. Typed, impersonal. ‘You have 24 hours. Give us what we want or everyone you care about dies.’” I’d been so careful, so paranoid and it wasn’t enough. They found me anyway. And now everyone I care about is in danger because of me.”
“No,” I cut in, my voice firm. “You have nothing to apologize for. These people are criminals. Murderers. You survived. That took courage and intelligence. You kept the evidence safe for three years. Now we help you finish this.”
Anna looks at me—grateful, exhausted, relieved. Then she reaches into her pocket and pulls out three small flash drives. She sets them on the table with a soft click.
