Time marched on, indifferent to the chaos it left in its wake. Four months since Barry Cox vanished into the eastern sky, and the world of PPI had transformed beyond recognition. The once-shadowy organization now presented itself as nothing more than a photographer's networking site—its covert operations dissolved, its operatives scattered or reassigned. Pro4uM.com's hidden channels were stripped clean, the cryptic messages and coded assignments replaced by mundane discussions about camera gear and lighting techniques. Even the regional offices had been quietly shuttered, leaving only the New York headquarters to maintain the facade of normalcy.

  The firestorm of Barry's capture had dwindled into silence, fading from headlines and conversations. No cryptic messages, no dead drops, no coded warnings flashed across secure channels. Not even a whisper of Barry's name echoed through the dark corners where operatives once traded secrets. It was as if PPI's shadow operations had never existed—scrubbed clean from history, leaving only the pristine surface of a professional photography organization behind.

  Reed leaned back in his chair, his gaze wandered around his small studio in New Orleans. The afternoon sun streamed through the window, its warmth a stark contrast to the cold knot of unease in his chest. On his desk sat his camera, a tool that had once been his sanctuary, now reduced to a reminder of times gone by. The framed photograph of a moonlit lake caught his eye. He had taken it months ago during a rare moment of peace, hoping to capture a sense of tranquility. Now, it felt like a taunt, its stillness mocking his restless thoughts.

  PPI had gone silent, too. No assignments. No covert missions. Not even a routine photography gig. It was as if Reed no longer existed in their system. He had always thought the photography cover was a brilliant facade—PPI’s way of blending operatives seamlessly into the world. But now, with the absence of missions, the line between facade and reality had blurred. Was PPI really just a photography organization now? Had the covert side dissolved, or was he being frozen out? The questions gnawed at him, feeding his growing frustration.

  And then there was Secretary Kessler. After all Reed had done—risking his life, unraveling Barry’s web, protecting Kessler from an assassin’s bullet—there had been no acknowledgment, no updates. Every time Reed reached out for information about Barry’s location or situation, he was met with the same empty platitudes: “Classified,” “Above your pay grade,” “Trust the process.” Kessler’s reassurances, once steadying, now felt hollow. Reed had given everything for the mission, and in return, he was left with a void.

  Reed pushed away from his desk and started pacing the room. His footsteps echoed in the quiet studio, the rhythm as erratic as his thoughts. Barry’s empire had crumbled. His operatives were scattered, arrested, or dead. And yet, the silence didn’t feel like victory. Barry Cox was calculated, manipulative, always a step ahead. Reed couldn’t shake the feeling that the quiet was part of Barry’s design—a way to lull his enemies into complacency.

  He stopped at the window, staring out at the street below. A delivery truck rumbled by, its engine drowning out the faint hum of the city. Life moved on, as if Barry Cox and PPI’s shadows had never existed. Reed, however, felt trapped. His purpose, once so clear, now felt like smoke slipping through his fingers. He had spent years living in the margins, walking the line between photographer and operative, light and shadow. But now, without missions to anchor him, he was adrift.

  The studio felt stifling. He grabbed his jacket and stepped outside, the cool breeze brushing against his face. As he walked aimlessly through the streets, his thoughts kept circling back to the same questions. Why hadn’t Barry surfaced? Where was the trial Kessler had promised? Why was PPI treating him like a ghost?

  He passed a café and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window. The man staring back at him looked older, wearier. The once-bright red in his beard had dulled to a muted gray, and his eyes carried the weight of too many sleepless nights. He thought of his team—Kranch, Carter, Grimes. They had scattered, each trying to rebuild their lives.

  Reed envied their ability to move on. He wanted to believe it was over, that Barry was truly gone, that PPI’s covert side was dismantled. But the questions, the silence—they wouldn’t let him rest. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, scrolling aimlessly through old photos. Each image felt like a snapshot of a different life—a life where missions had purpose, where the shadows held answers.

  His thumb hovered over Kessler’s contact. He wanted to call, to demand the truth, to force the Secretary to give him something—anything—that would bring closure. But he knew the answer would be the same. Reed sighed, slipping the phone back into his pocket.

  As he turned toward home, the breeze carried a faint whisper of hope—a reminder that, even in the silence, there was light to be found. Reed wasn’t sure he believed it, but for now, it was enough to keep him moving.

  Back at his studio, Reed tried to bury himself in the familiar. The sunlit space was a refuge, its tall windows casting golden light over the shelves of camera equipment and the worn wooden floors. Framed prints adorned the walls—landscapes, candid portraits, and moments frozen in time that once represented the purest form of his craft. The faint, comforting aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the metallic tang of camera gear, grounding him in a world far removed from the chaos he’d left behind.

  Sitting at his desk, Reed adjusted the contrast on a set of images from a recent shoot. The rhythmic click of his mouse and the hum of his computer filled the silence. Each adjustment brought the photo closer to perfection, the act of editing a therapeutic escape. For a brief moment, it was just him, the light, and the frame—a reminder of why he’d fallen in love with photography in the first place.

  But even as he focused on the images, his mind wandered. His hands moved automatically, sharpening edges and softening shadows, while the nagging unease gnawed at the edges of his thoughts. Was PPI really dismantled, or had it retreated further into the shadows, waiting for the dust to settle?

  The buzz of his phone broke the quiet, vibrating against the desk. Reed reached for it without thinking, expecting a notification from Pro4uM.com, though the site had been eerily silent for months. Instead, the screen lit up with a message from Secretary Kessler.

  Reed hesitated. Messages from Kessler were rare these days. His thumb hovered over the notification before tapping to open it. The message was brief, just a few words, but it hit like a hammer:

  “Barry Cox is dead. Officially confirmed. This image has been declassified. Case closed.”

  Below the text was a single attachment. Reed tapped it, and the screen filled with an image that sent a chill down his spine. It was a photo of a helicopter, partially submerged, floating lifelessly in open waters off the coast of Puerto Rico. The once-pristine black paint was scorched and peeling, the tail section bent at an unnatural angle. The water around it was calm, deceptively serene, reflecting the broken machine like a mirror.

  Reed stared at the image, his brow furrowed. The accompanying message was definitive—too definitive. There was no room for ambiguity, no mention of further investigation, no details about the circumstances of the crash. Just a blanket statement: Barry Cox is dead.

  He leaned back in his chair, holding the phone at arm’s length, as if putting distance between himself and the news would make it easier to process. A part of him wanted to believe it—to accept that the nightmare was over, that Barry’s death marked the end of his manipulation, his schemes, his empire. But another part of him, the part honed by years of deception and shadow work, bristled at the finality of it. If anyone could fake a death convincingly, it was Barry Cox.

  Reed zoomed in on the image, his photographer’s eye scanning every detail. The markings on the helicopter were faint but still legible. There were no visible bodies, no debris field. Just the helicopter, floating in eerie isolation. The longer he stared, the more questions formed. How had this image been taken? Who had captured it? Why had it taken four months for this to surface?

  He dropped the phone onto the desk, running a hand through his hair. The words “Case closed” echoed in his mind, but they felt hollow. He glanced at the photo he’d been editing on his monitor—a serene lakeside at dawn. It was a scene of calm, but in his chest, the storm raged on.

  Reed grabbed his coffee cup, now lukewarm, and walked to the window. The street outside bustled with ordinary life, oblivious to the doubts and questions consuming him. The world moved on, as it always did, but Reed couldn’t shake the feeling that he was having.

  Reed couldn’t let it go. Transferring the image from his phone to his computer, he stared at it on the larger screen. The wreckage seemed to taunt him, each pixel a whisper of something unresolved. Leaning forward, elbows resting on the desk, and fingers tapping against his lips, he scrutinized every detail. The image was haunting—the charred helicopter floating eerily on calm waters, its shattered frame a stark contrast against the placid surface. The shadow of the wreckage rippled faintly beneath the waves, almost ghostlike. But something didn’t sit right.

  “Four months of silence,” Reed muttered under his breath. “Why hasn’t this information shown up in the media?” He shook his head. Four months. That’s how long the world had gone without hearing a whisper about Barry Cox. No sightings. No coded messages. No trails of influence left behind.

  Reed leaned back, his chair creaking. “If Barry really died in that crash,” he said aloud to no one, “why does this feel like a loose thread waiting to unravel?”

  The thought circled in his mind like a vulture. Reed let his fingers fly across the keyboard with precision. He pulled the declassified image into his advanced forensic photo-enhancement software, the same tool he had used countless times during his covert missions to decode PPI's visual intelligence—hummed to life. The software was a gift and a curse—its capabilities were unparalleled, but it often fed his obsessive need to seek answers, even when none existed.

  The helicopter image filled his screen as he began his methodical examination. It’s glossy black paint was scarred and peeling, its tail section twisted at an unnatural angle.

  First, he adjusted the chromatic values, isolating specific color channels. The software parsed through layers of digital information, breaking down the image's composite structure. Something about the water's reflection caught his eye—a subtle inconsistency in the light diffraction patterns.

  "Level adjustment first," he muttered, fingers dancing across the keys. "Then wavelength isolation." The image shifted, its colors separating into distinct spectrums. Reed's eyes narrowed as he studied the histograms. The peaks weren't quite right—there were micro-variations in the shadow gradients that shouldn't be there.

  He switched to dimensional analysis, examining the helicopter's position relative to the water line. The angle of the wreckage, the way it sat in the water—something felt off. Reed pulled up a reference diagram of the helicopter model, overlaying it against the crash photo. The proportions matched, but the distribution of weight suggested by the wreckage's position didn't align with the aircraft's center of gravity.

  "Show me what you're hiding," Reed whispered, initiating a deep-scan pixel analysis. The software began isolating individual sections of the image, hunting for artifacts, compression abnormalities, or signs of digital manipulation. That's when he spotted it—a faint distortion pattern around the tail section, barely visible to the untrained eye.

  His pulse quickened as he zoomed in, enhancing the resolution. There, almost lost in the pixelation, a faint logo, almost imperceptible was what appeared to be a military insignia. It flickered in and out of focus as he adjusted the contrast, like a ghost refusing to fully materialize. But why? And was it even real?

  Reed’s mind raced. “Was it there originally, or is it just a trick of the light?” He couldn’t tell. He toggled different filters, sharpening edges and isolating colors, but the result was the same—a faint, almost ghostly mark that could mean everything or nothing.

  He leaned closer, staring so intently that the screen seemed to blur. His mind, trained to question and analyze, couldn’t help but run wild. Was this proof of a deeper conspiracy? A clue that Barry had connections to military operatives? Or was this just the last echoes of paranoia clinging to his thoughts after years of living in the shadows?

  Reed sighed, his frustration mounting. “I’m chasing ghosts,” he muttered, rubbing his temples. But even as he tried to dismiss the thought, the questions lingered. Why had it taken four months for this image to surface? Why was it released as “declassified” instead of announced publicly? And most of all, why did this feel so incomplete—so far from the definitive ending it was supposed to be?

  He stared at the screen for hours, toggling the same adjustments, rechecking the same angles. His coffee had long since gone cold, the sun outside sinking behind the buildings. The faint glow of his monitor illuminated his tired face as his thoughts waged war between logic and instinct.

  Finally, Reed exhaled deeply. “No!” he said emphatically. “I’m just being paranoid. Years of PPI training… it’s got me questioning everything. Seeing patterns where none exist.”

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  He stared at the image one last time before closing the program. “This loose end needs to be closed,” he told himself. “It’s over. Barry’s dead. I’m walking away.”

  Reed switched off his monitor, plunging the room into darkness except for the faint light spilling through the windows. He stood and stretched, the weight of his decision settling on his shoulders—relief, finality, done. It wasn’t peace—not truly—but it was the closest he’d come to it in months.

  As he walked toward the window, gazing out at the quiet street below, a thought gnawed at the edge of his mind. He pushed it away, determined not to let it take root. “It’s done,” he whispered to himself, as if saying it enough times would make it true.

  But deep down, in a part of him he couldn’t silence, a single question remained, whispering just loud enough to be heard: Is it over?

  A few months later, as Reed was sifting through his mail, he could hardly believe it when he opened the official looking envelope and found an Investigation and Legal Consultation document to appear at PPI Headquarters in New York. For a fleeting moment, he considered crumpling it up and tossing it in the trash. Let them come and get me, he thought bitterly. All I ever did was follow orders. But the more he stared at the summons, the more curiosity gnawed at him. What could they possibly want to discuss with him now? Could it be about Barry? Was there finally some closure to be found? Or was this just another game, another layer of bewilderment from an organization built on shadows?

  The flight to New York felt surreal. Reed watched the landscape blur beneath him, each mile bringing him closer to a confrontation he'd been avoiding. He'd walked these halls before, but always as an operative, always with purpose. Now he was returning as... what? A loose end to be tied up? A liability to be managed?

  Security was tighter than he remembered. The lobby of PPI headquarters gleamed with the same corporate sterility, but the guards' gazes lingered longer, their scrutiny more obvious. They escorted him through a maze of corridors he knew all too well.

  Finally, they led him to a conference room deep within the building. The door clicked shut behind him with an ominous finality. Reed stood for a moment, taking in the sterile space.

  As Reed settled into the chair facing the door, he couldn't help but appreciate the irony. He'd spent years living in PPI's shadows, and now here he was, about to face them in the cold light of day.

  The air conditioning was set too cold, making the room feel more like an interrogation chamber than a corporate office. The walls were an uninspired shade of gray, stripped of any warmth or personality, while the fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting an unflattering, clinical glow on everything in the room. The polished table stretched long and vast before him like a void, a chasm he knew better than to underestimate. Every detail in the room seemed designed to unsettle, to keep him on edge. It was working.

  As Reed sat there, he couldn’t help but remember how different this place had felt just a few months ago. Back then, he and Kranch had roamed these very halls, slipping past unsuspecting staff and accessing hidden corridors as they planted devices designed to expose PPI’s darkest secrets. The adrenaline of those moments lingered in his memory—the sound of their hurried footsteps, the muffled beeps of their covert tech syncing with PPI’s systems, and the faint tension in Kranch’s voice as he muttered warnings about incoming patrols. They had turned this seemingly non dangerous corporate facade into a battlefield, unraveling the web of deceit that Barry Cox had spun so meticulously.

  Even the faint hum of the fluorescent lights now reminded Reed of that night at SYNC, when everything came crashing down. The image of Barry’s empire collapsing, piece by piece, flashed in his mind. The carefully planted devices, the encrypted files they’d pulled, the codes they’d deciphered—all of it had led to this moment. And yet, sitting here, anticipating the interrogation he thought would be coming, it felt like nothing had changed. The walls that had once hidden corruption now felt impenetrable, and the organization that claimed to have rebranded itself as a harmless professional network seemed as elusive and manipulative as ever.

  Just then, they entered and sat across from him, three PPI lawyers, their tailored suits impeccable, their polished shoes gleaming. Two men and a lady. They radiated a quiet menace, their expressions unreadable, yet their eyes sharp and unyielding. It seemed to Reed, but he wasn’t positive, that the lady appeared to be the lead lawyer. One of the lawyers, a silver-haired man with a voice as smooth as velvet, began. “Mr. Sawyer, let’s begin by addressing the obvious: there is no Private Protection Initiative. Officially, it doesn’t exist. It never existed.”

  Reed tilted his head slightly, letting the words hang in the air like an echo refusing to fade. His gaze moved slowly from one lawyer to the next, studying their faces. Each one sat with a practiced stillness, their expressions carefully neutral—professionals in the art of concealing intent. Their eyes were sharp, calculating, like—lawyers.

  “Is that so?” Reed’s tone was calm, but there was a quiet edge to his voice, the kind that suggested a storm might follow. He leaned back in his chair, his fingers loosely interlaced, an air of deliberate nonchalance masking his simmering frustration. “Because I’d say my experiences tell a very different story.”

  One of the lawyers, the youngest of the trio, shifted ever so slightly in his seat, his polished fa?ade wavering for a fraction of a second. Reed caught the movement, filing it away as if he’d won a small but significant point in an unseen game.

  “Do they?” the lady lead lawyer asked, her tone smooth, almost too casual. The faintest hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of her lips, as if she were daring him to say more. Reed met her gaze head-on, the memory of SYNC and the chaos he’d helped unleash flashing in his mind. All of the encrypted messages, Pro4uM.com, Vienna, etc. For a moment, the sterile conference room seemed to fade.

  He shook off the memory’s, focusing on the present. “Oh, they do,” he replied, his words deliberate. “And I’d wager if we compared notes, your version of reality would look pretty thin next to mine.”

  The room fell silent, the hum of the overhead lights filling the void. Reed didn’t break eye contact, refusing to surrender any ground to the lawyers who thought they could rewrite the truth.

  One of the lawyers, the silver-haired one with the smooth, oily voice, leaned forward slightly. His tone was steady, almost rehearsed, and his expression betrayed no hint of doubt. “We’re not here to debate your experiences, Mr. Sawyer. We’re here to clarify your involvement—or, rather, your lack thereof—with an organization that does not, and has never, existed.”

  Reed leaned forward, resting his arms on the table, his fingers laced together. “Right. Because an organization that doesn’t exist somehow managed to recruit me, send me to Vienna, and nearly get me killed. But sure, let’s pretend it’s all a figment of my imagination.”

  The second lawyer, the younger man with horn-rimmed glasses and an unnervingly calm demeanor, cut in. “You’re mistaken, Mr. Sawyer. What you’re describing are merely coincidences. Misunderstandings. Professional Photographers Institute has always been, and will always remain, a legitimate organization supporting the craft of photography.”

  Reed’s lips curled into a faint smirk. “Coincidences? You’re telling me encrypted messages, covert assignments, and international chases were just me misinterpreting things?”

  The horn-rimmed lawyer barely blinked, his tone laced with condescension. “What we’re saying, Mr. Sawyer, is that you’ve tragically overestimated the importance of your little assignments. Any so-called connections to, oh, I don’t know, espionage, are clearly the byproduct of your vivid and wildly overactive imagination. But hey, points for creativity.”

  Reed’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you say that? Oh, I know, because I’m just a photographer. A man with a camera and nothing else.” His tone was heavy with sarcasm, but the lawyers didn’t bite. Instead, they exchanged glances, their silence louder than any argument.

  The tension in the room thickened. Reed’s pulse quickened, but he kept his breathing steady, his expression neutral. He needed to stay sharp. These weren’t ordinary lawyers—they were trained for this. Deflect, deny, dismiss. That was their game. He leaned back in his chair again, forcing himself to appear relaxed. “So, let me get this straight,” he said, his voice cutting through the quiet. “PPI never existed, and yet here I am, sitting across from three lawyers who seem very invested in convincing me otherwise.”

  The lead lawyer folded her hands on the table, her expression unyielding. “Mr. Sawyer, we’re here to ensure that your... misconceptions don’t create unnecessary complications. That’s all.”

  “Right,” Reed muttered, his fingers drumming against the table. “Typical lawyering.”

  The silver-haired lawyer, a sharp-eyed man spoke again. His voice was calm, almost disarmingly so. “Mr. Sawyer, let’s not make this adversarial. You’ve had an exceptional career as a photographer. That’s all this ever was—a career. Let’s not complicate it with wild allegations.”

  Reed tilted his head, watching him carefully. He was good—too good. Every word he said was calculated, designed to disarm him. “Wild allegations?” he repeated. “Let me guess—next, you’ll tell me I’ve imagined all the encrypted messages, the assignments, the near-death experiences?”

  The man seamed like he was trying to smile, but it was very faint. “We’re not saying you’ve imagined anything, Mr. Sawyer. We’re simply saying that your interpretation of events may not align with reality.”

  Reed exhaled slowly. The room felt colder now, the air heavy with tension. Finally, he made his decision. “You know what? I’m done. I’m out. No more missions. No more encrypted messages. I’m walking away from all of it.”

  The lawyers exchanged brief glances. The lead lawyer broke the silence. “Walking away, Mr. Sawyer? From what, exactly?”

  Reed met her gaze evenly. “From PPI. Or whatever you want to call it. I want to officially resign. I’m going back to photography. Real photography. No agendas. No shadows.”

  The lawyers exchanged another set of looks, and this time, faint smirks appeared on all their faces. The lead lawyer spoke, her tone dripping with condescension. “Mr. Sawyer, that’s all PPI ever was—a tool for photographers. You’re always welcome at the Professional Photographers Institute.”

  The words hit Reed like a gut punch, their double meaning hanging heavy in the air. He stood slowly, his gaze moving over each of them. “Right,” he said quietly. “Well, you’ll forgive me if I don’t stick around for small talk.”

  The lead lawyer’s smirk widened ever so slightly. “Of course. We wish you the best in your future endeavors, Mr. Sawyer.”

  Reed turned and got out of there as fast as he could, his footsteps echoing in the sterile corridor. The conversation replayed in his mind, every word a calculated move in a game he was no longer willing to play. As he stepped outside into the crisp New York air, he exhaled deeply, the weight of the encounter both pressing down and a relief at the same time. The lawyers had won the verbal sparring match, but Reed knew one thing for certain—he was done being their pawn.

  Reed pushed open the massive glass doors of PPI Headquarters, stepping out into freedom at last. The heavy doors closed behind him with a muted thud, and for a moment, he stood still on the steps, staring ahead. This was it. The last time he would ever cross through these doors. The towering building loomed behind him, its sharp lines and mirrored glass catching the reflection of the city’s ceaseless motion. But for Reed, this was a moment of stillness—a moment to sever himself from the life he’d lived within those walls.

  Without hesitation, he started walking. His footsteps felt purposeful, even as his mind swirled with conflicting thoughts. The river. He didn’t know why, but that’s where his feet were carrying him. There was something final, something cleansing about the idea of standing by the water’s edge, leaving everything behind, and letting it all drift away.

  The city buzzed around him—taxis honking, pedestrians rushing past, snippets of conversations floating in the air. But Reed moved through it all like a ghost, detached and unaffected. The sound of the river grew louder as he approached, a low, steady hum that drowned out the city’s chaos.

  Reaching the edge of the water, Reed stopped. The river stretched before him, calm on the surface but full of hidden currents below—like his own life, he thought ironically. He pulled his phone from his pocket, holding it in his hand as if weighing its significance. This wasn’t just a device; it was the lifeline that had tethered him to a world of secrets, lies, and shadows.

  For a moment, Reed hesitated. He had to urge to hurl it into the river. Was this the right thing to do? Could he really walk away? His thumb hovered over the screen, and then, with a decisive breath, he began the process. Methodically, he wiped every trace, every log, every connection. Cryptic messaging apps were deleted one by one. He scrolled through the encrypted chats that had once buzzed with activity—silent now for months. Nothing. So he deleted all of them as well.

  Finally, he opened Pro4uM.com, his fingers moving instinctively through the familiar interface. He half-expected something to be there—some subtle hint, some last breadcrumb left behind. But the site looked normal. Innocent. Photography threads, lighting tips, lens reviews. No cryptic codes. No hidden messages. Just a thriving community of photographers sharing their passion. It was almost… jarring. Reed stared at the screen, his mind racing. Could it all have been real?

  “I know it was real!” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. He knew what he knew. He’d lived it. He’d survived it. Barry’s empire, PPI’s covert operations—it was all too real to dismiss. But now, standing here, it felt like it had all dissolved into smoke. The shadows that once haunted every corner of his life seemed to have vanished.

  The phone screen dimmed in his hand, pulling him back to the present. Reed gripped the device tightly, then flipped it over, staring at its black surface. This was it. The final act. The symbolic severing of his ties to the shadow world. With both hands on his phone, he decided he would crack it in half and then fling it into the river. The river’s edge lapped gently against the stones, as if urging him, do it, let go.

  But before he did, Reed allowed himself one last thought: Was it really over? He stood there, the phone gripped tightly in his hands, its weight feeling far heavier than the sum of its parts. He whispered to no one, “No shadows. No whispers. Just light.” His voice was quiet, almost swallowed by the gentle lapping of the water below. “Maybe it really is over.”

  Reed took a breath, his fingers gripping ever tighter. He could already picture the faint ripple spreading across the water, as the phone would sink to the bottom of the river. Broken, useless, destroy, sinking and taking everything it represented with it. This was it—the final severance. His breath hitched. “Let’s do it.” He said to himself.

  Then—ping.

  The sound pierced the quiet like a gunshot. Reed froze. His eyes darted to the phone’s screen, now glowing faintly in the dim light. One single notification. His pulse quickened as he brought the device closer. There, in bold letters, was an encrypted message. Familiar. Too familiar.

  Reed’s stomach churned. It was the exact same message he had received months ago on the flight to Vienna, sent in the same cryptic way. The message that had set everything in motion: “Reed, we need to talk. Now.”

  But this time, something was different. The message wasn’t unsigned, anonymous, shrouded in mystery.

  It bore a name. A signature.

  Tammy Stark.

  Reed stared at the screen, the glowing letters searing into his mind. His hand tightened around the phone, pulling it back from the edge. The shadows he had just convinced himself were gone? They were back. His thoughts raced, colliding with the memory of Tammy—the Pro4uM.com administrator, his brief romance, her quiet brilliance. She had always been in the background, part of the machinery of PPI, but never directly involved—or so he thought.

  The river was forgotten. Reed’s breath came shallow as a wave of questions swelled in his chest. Why now? Why her? How much did Tammy know?

  The words on the screen pulled him back in: “We need to talk. Now.”