Lisa was last, just ten days ago. Her linguistic analysis revealed that someone was actively using our research project as a cover for encrypted communications. “We need to be careful,” she warned in her final email. “This feels like something we weren’t supposed to find.”
Now I’m staring at the same discovery. Modern encryption hidden in ancient texts. Someone is using our academic research as a pipeline for codedmessages.
“Oh shit. Oh shit, shit, shit.”
My blood chills—actually, that’s not accurate. Blood doesn’t change temperature from fear. The sympathetic nervous system triggers vasoconstriction, reducing blood flow to the extremities, which creates the sensation of coldness while maintaining core temperature. I’m babbling in my own head—that’s never good.
I pull up our shared research folder. Sarah’s last login: fifteen days ago. David’s: nine days ago. Lisa’s: five days ago.
I shouldn’t pull up the news reports, but I can’t stop myself. It still doesn’t feel real.
Stanford Professor Dies in Apparent Suicide.
The article is from two days ago. She jumped from her apartment building. Survived by her husband and two daughters. Eight and ten years old. Lisa showed me pictures at the last conference, talked about their college funds, their piano lessons, their?—
MIT Researcher Dies in Car Accident.
The article is dated five days ago. Dr. David Kim, 34, a brilliant mathematician who could calculate probabilities faster than most computers. His car went off a bridge. No skid marks.
My hands shake as I pull up Sarah’s name.
Yale Professor Dies in Apartment Fire.
Yesterday. Oh God, yesterday. While I was sitting here playing with patterns, Sarah was burning to death in a fire that started from “faulty wiring” in a building that was renovated last year.
The pattern in my data isn’t historical. It’s current. Active. Someone is using our academic research as cover for modern communications, and everyone who discovers it dies in a different type of accident.
Three accidents. Three different methods. Statistical probability of three researchers in the same collaborative group dying within a week? I don’t need to calculate it. It’s murder. Murderdisguised as accidents, which means whoever’s doing this has resources, planning, and the ability to make deaths look natural.
My secure phone—the one from my DoD days—sits in my desk drawer. Dr. James Morrison, my former handler when I did encryption work for the Defense Department. He’s FBI now—wouldn’t give details about what division—but said to call if I ever stumbled onto something dangerous.
Three dead colleagues qualify as dangerous.
“Morrison.” His voice sounds tired, like it always does.
“James, it’s Eliza Wren. I need— God, I don’t even know how to explain this. Do you know about the linguistic pattern analysis grant I’m working on?”
“The historical cipher project, right? What about it?”
“Three of my co-researchers are dead. All within the last week. Different types of accidents, but James, I found something in the data. Modern encryption hidden in historical frameworks. Someone’s using our research as cover for current communications, and everyone who finds it…” My voice cracks. Sarah had a cat named Schrödinger. She made physics jokes about him being simultaneously fed and unfed until observed.
“Where are you right now?”
“My office. Georgetown. Healy Hall, third floor.”
“Pack everything related to this research. Hard drives, papers, everything. Then get out. Do you have somewhere safe to go?”
“My apartment? It’s just a few blocks?—”
“No. Somewhere unexpected. Somewhere you’ve never mentioned at work.” A pause, heavy with meaning. “If what you’re saying is true, they’re probably already watching you.”
They. Notsomeone. They.
“James, who arethey?”
“I don’t know, but three dead academics aren’t a coincidence. Pack your research, leave campus, but stay public. Crowds. Witnesses. Don’t go anywhereisolated.”
“Should I call the police?”
