When FBI cyber analyst Scarlett Crowe is assigned to the high-profile case of "The Cipher Murders," she finds herself entangled in a deadly game. A series of encrypted messages have been left at gruesome crime scenes, each code more complex and chil...
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The glow of the monitor was all that illuminated the dimly lit office. I leaned forward, eyes bleary from hours of staring at the code on my screen, trying to make sense of the tangled mess of symbols and messages. The case was a mess. I have been trying to decode the messages for days, but my mental block caught the best of me. The killer's twisted puzzle refusing to fit together and I would be lying if I said that doesn't bring me relief— something deep inside me tells me that I won't be the same if I did figure out the answers that lie underneath these codes.
A sharp knock on the doorframe shattered the quiet, followed by the unmistakable sound of boots on tile. Nicholas Kline. He was back.
"Still at it?" His voice was rough, like gravel scraping against metal. I didn't look up as he walked into my space, taking up too much room, his presence as heavy as always.
"Of course," I muttered, trying to focus, but my thoughts were scattered. I wasn't in the mood for him—he was always so damn blunt, always prying when I didn't need it.
He didn't care for my response. "You've been at this for hours, Crowe. You look like you're about to fall off that chair. What's your excuse this time?" His words were sharp, demanding. There was no concern, no understanding—just frustration.
I didn't respond right away. Instead, I clicked through the files, flipping through images of crime scenes, transcripts, and the symbols that kept taunting me.
"C'mon, talk to me," Nicholas pressed. "You're acting like someone who's more interested in running away from this case than solving it. You don't get to pull that 'I'm fine' bullshit on me. You're all over the place. It's like you're distracted... off your game. And I've seen people handle stress, but this? You're not even trying."
His words hit me harder than I cared to admit. But I couldn't let him see it. He had a way of digging under my skin—testing me, seeing how much pressure I could take before I snapped. But I wasn't going to snap. Not now.
"I said I'm fine, Kline," I snapped, my voice sharper than I intended. I was on the edge, and he was pushing me closer to the line with every word.
He didn't back off. Of course, he wouldn't. "No, you're not. You keep saying that, but I don't buy it. You're not focused. You're looking for something in all the wrong places, but you're avoiding whatever the hell is really bothering you."
I finally turned to him, irritation burning behind my gaze. "And you think you have me figured out?"
"I don't need to figure you out to see you're acting like a damn mess," he shot back, his tone growing more impatient, but he wasn't wrong. I felt like a mess. I just didn't need him of all people pointing it out. "If you've got something personal tying you to this case, then stop dragging it out. Deal with it, or get the hell out of the way and let me do my job."
I gritted my teeth, trying to keep the emotions I could feel bubbling up in check. "It's not personal, Kline. I'm just trying to focus. And I don't need you hovering over me to remind me that I'm 'off my game.'"
His gaze didn't waver. "I don't care what you think you need. If you're going to keep pulling this crap, then we're never gonna crack this case. You don't just look like you're distracted. You look like you're hiding something."
I stood up abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor, the sudden motion throwing the room off-kilter. The last thing I needed was him pushing me further. "You don't get to question me. Not like this."
Nicholas' eyes darkened, the frustration in his voice now clear, no longer holding back any pretense. "You think I'm an idiot? You're acting like you've got something to lose—like this case is more than just a job for you. And the longer you drag it out, the more I'm starting to think it's not just about the job for you."
The words stung. Too much. But I couldn't let him see how close he was to hitting the nail on the head.
"You're wasting time," I bit out, my hands gripping the desk. "If you're here to question me, you can leave. If you want to help with the case, then shut up and let me work."
Nicholas didn't say anything, but I could see the frustration bubbling under the surface. He wasn't about to back off, not when he was convinced he had something on me. I could see it in the way he stood there, tense, like he was ready to push until I cracked.
But he wouldn't get that from me. Not tonight.
I grabbed my phone, breaking the silence. "We've got a new lead. Another victim. Westside Park. It's getting worse."
The words hung in the air between us. Nicholas didn't move immediately, but I saw the flicker of something in his eyes.
"I'm going," I said, moving past him and grabbing my jacket.
He followed me out, his footsteps heavy behind mine. I didn't turn to look at him, but I could feel his eyes on me—sharp, accusing.
I wasn't ready to face whatever I was running from. But I had no choice. And I knew that whatever it was—whatever he suspected—it wasn't going away.
