Date: August 2–3, 2005

  Location: Seattle

  On August 2, 2005, Seattle basked in a warm 77°F, a soft breeze carrying the briny scent of Puget Sound into Downtown. Glass skyscrapers gleamed under the sun, while historic buildings stood as silent sentinels, blending into the rhythm of daily life. A few blocks from the Seattle Public Library, Pike Place Market hummed with activity—tourists and locals mingled, buying fresh flowers or salmon, laughing as vendors juggled fish for the crowd. But vigilance was necessary—the Seattle Police Department reported 230 pickpocketing incidents in the area that year, keeping visitors alert.

  James Crowe sat in the 5th-floor reading room of the Seattle Public Library, surrounded by a meticulous arrangement of old documents, spread out like chess pieces before a critical move. The 38-year-old private detective’s workspace reflected his unique order: a notebook filled with scribbled notes, a red marker for highlighting key details, and a steaming cup of coffee. A pack of cookies sat nearby, a few crumpled wrappers indicating the hours he’d spent. The reading room buzzed softly—20-year-old students in T-shirts with local band logos flipped through textbooks, a 60-year-old researcher in a tweed jacket pored over newspapers, and a 30-year-old woman in a business suit typed on her laptop, occasionally glancing at Crowe with curiosity.

  Sarah Wilson, the 45-year-old librarian, approached with a box labeled “London, 1790s,” her dark hair tied back, her thin-framed glasses slightly askew.

  “Mr. Crowe, you’ve been here a full week,” Sarah said, her voice soft but laced with concern. “Do you ever sleep? And you’ve left crumbs on the table again.”

  Crowe looked up, pale from sleepless nights but eyes alight with determination. He grinned, brushing the crumbs aside. “Sorry, Sarah, I got carried away. Cookies are my secret ingredient for cracking mysteries. Sleep’s for when I’ve solved the case.”

  Sarah rolled her eyes, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “You’re hopeless. But if you need more coffee, I can grab some.”

  “Thanks, Sarah,” Crowe said with a wink.

  Sarah shook her head and walked away, leaving Crowe to delve into the records. He untied the box and examined London magistrate reports from the 1790s. After solving several historical cases tied to the Family, Crowe was closing in on their internal structure. One question nagged at him: how did an organization held together by familial ties for centuries avoid genetic degeneration through inbreeding? The answer lay in a 1792 document detailing the “Brotherhood of Starlight” in London.

  The report described 40-year-old Elizabeth Gray, arrested on suspicion of child trafficking. Elizabeth confessed she worked for the Brotherhood, tasked with “finding and evaluating children for the family.” She explained they adopted abandoned infants, but only those meeting strict criteria—assessed for physical and mental health, and “giftedness.” The Brotherhood employed “mind specialists” to determine a child’s potential at a young age, designating them for “future marriages” to “preserve the family’s strength.” The 1792 investigators dismissed her testimony as lunacy and released her, but Crowe saw the key to the Family’s survival.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

  Using his “360 Method,” Crowe mentally reconstructed the scene in 1792 London. He pictured grimy streets, horse-drawn carts clattering, vendors shouting their wares. Elizabeth Gray, in a tattered dress, her gray hair in a bun, stood outside an East End orphanage, watching children play in the mud. Beside her was 35-year-old Henry Wood, a “mind specialist” in a frock coat, his expression cold. Henry jotted in a notebook: “Girl, 2 years, blue eyes, quick reflexes, healthy—suitable.” Elizabeth and Henry selected the child, took her under the guise of “adoption,” and handed her to a “temporary family” for a future marriage.

  Crowe focused on overlooked details: Elizabeth called herself a “heredity planner,” calculating marriage needs, numbers, and timelines, ensuring genetic diversity by adopting healthy infants. Using his “chain of connections,” Crowe linked this to Paris reports from the 1820s, where the Brotherhood adopted five children from a Montmartre orphanage, all described as “healthy, beautiful, and gifted,” evaluated by “mind specialists” using “tests of intellect and character.” Crowe deduced these specialists were Family-trained psychologists, their methods far ahead of their time.

  Applying his “financial trail” method, Crowe examined 1790s financial records from the British Library, finding the Brotherhood paid orphanages for “adoptions”—bribes disguised as “donations.” A 1845 New York report showed three children adopted from a Manhattan orphanage later married into the Family, confirming the practice’s longevity. The Family’s mechanism was clear: adopt healthy, gifted children, raise them in “temporary families,” and marry them into the Family to maintain genetic diversity.

  “Well, looks like I just uncovered their survival secret,” Crowe muttered with a self-deprecating smirk, sipping his now-cold coffee. “They’re not just criminals—they’re genetic engineers.”

  Kyle, the 30-year-old with dreadlocks, entered the reading room, holding a book on London history. “Still here, detective?” he asked warmly. “You look like you’ve dug up something big.”

  “Let’s just say I figured out how this organization has survived for centuries,” Crowe replied with a faint smile. “Want to hear about their ‘genetic planner’?”

  Kyle sat across from him, eyes lighting up. “Absolutely—that sounds like a movie plot.”

  Crowe gave a concise rundown, showing Kyle the report and notes. Kyle shook his head in awe. “That’s incredible. But if they’re so meticulous about selecting children, doesn’t that mean some of them could be here in Seattle?”

  “That’s exactly what I want to find out,” Crowe replied, his tone grave. “If I can track down one of these ‘adopted’ members, I might learn more about their structure.”

  In 2005, Seattle thrived: the Bumbershoot Festival loomed, and Modest Mouse gained popularity with Good News for People Who Love Bad News. But for Crowe, those were background notes—more mysteries awaited.