ONE
Talia
STATISTICAL PROBABILITY
Victor Lawson istwenty-three minutes late, and in my world, that means he’s probably dead.
The café’s ambient noise—clinking cups, muted conversations, the hiss of the espresso machine—should provide perfect acoustic cover. Instead, each sound sharpens into a threat variable. The ceramic strike of a saucer hitting a table mimics the click of a hammer locking back. A sudden burst of steam masks the scuff of approaching footsteps.
My fingers trace the edge of my phone, tapping a silent, nervous rhythm against the case. I’m ready to call the FBI contact who might be our only hope. If Victor’s still alive. If they haven’t found him. If my calculations about corporate assassination aren’t about to become deadly accurate.
Last night’s conversation replays on a loop, a corrupted file I can’t close.
“They know, Talia. They’re watching me.”Victor’s voice crackled through the phone in panicked bursts, the frequenciesclipped by poor reception.“I was followed from the lab. They’ve been parked outside my apartment all night.”
My throat tightened—the familiar constriction that arrives when variables shift too fast.
“Are you certain? Coincidences happen, and in a city this size?—”
“It’s not a coincidence.”The certainty in his voice makes the hair on my arms stand up, even in memory.“Black sedan. Tinted windows. Same one from yesterday and the day before.”
“Where are you now?”
“I’m at my sister’s place across town. She’s out of the country, but I have a key.”
“Here’s what we’re going to do.”I kept my voice steady, professional, forcing the tremor in my hand to still. Probability calculations spiraled through my mind, assessing risk vectors.“Meet me at the Westlake Coffee Shop on Third. I have a contact at the FBI—James Morrison. He can help with protection.”
“You think this is really that serious?”
The fear in his voice was a physical weight, transmitted through cellular towers into my apartment, where my very recent ex-boyfriend’s boxes still lined the hallway like tombstones.
“Seventy-three deaths and a pharmaceutical company willing to cover them up? Yes, Victor. It’s that serious. Bring the drive.”
“Okay.”
Eight months ago, Meridian began human trials for ML-273—their “miracle” cancer drug. Initial results were promising, the kind that make stockholders salivate and executives order champagne.
According to Victor, kidney and liver damage appeared in the first trial phase, but management pressured the research team to exclude the data points.Statistical outliers, they called them.By the third phase, the outliers became the norm. Patients were dying. Organ failure. Massive internal bleeding. Hearts simply stopping.
Victor documented everything. Seventy-three fatalities that Meridian buried in paperwork, falsified results, and pushed for FDA approval anyway.
“I’ve created a database tracking every death,” Victor told me three weeks ago. “Names, dates, autopsy results. The evidence is irrefutable.”
“The families—do they know?”
“Meridian paid them off. NDAs so thick you’d need a forklift. But the patterns …”His voice cracked.“You can’t hide patterns from someone trained to see them.”
My hand tightens around my teacup until the ceramic bites into my palm. Mint steam curls into my face, sharp and grounding, but it can’t mask the underlying scent of the café: burnt coffee. Bitter, acrid, institutional. Someone ordered a dark roast and left it too long on the warming plate. It smells like a mistake.
A mother at the next table wrestles twin toddlers while texting someone who isn’t responding fast enough—the frustrated thumb jabs give it away. Her engagement ring catches the light, but a paler band of skin rings her finger beside it. Recent removal of the wedding band. The way she touches that spot creates a somatic loop of guilt. Affair, probably.
Or abandonment.
The businessman in the corner reeks of cologne—something expensive and recently applied. Too much for a regular workday. Job interview. His hand gestures are rehearsed, his pulse visible in his neck as he checks his watch. High anxiety.
The barista has dark circles under her eyes and keeps checking her phone between orders. The pattern—quick glance,forced smile for customers, back to phone—reads personal crisis, not professional negligence.
I process these details automatically, cataloging patterns and anomalies. It’s not a choice. It’s an operating system.
