Chapter 3: Unwelcome Truths

I didn't sleep. How could I, knowing Blake had been in my apartment, had touched my things, had photographed me without my knowledge? Every shadow looked like a threat, every sound made me reach for the gun I kept in my nightstand drawer.

By morning, I'd made a decision. If Blake was involved in the murders, I needed evidence before I accused him. If he was the killer himself, I needed to be very, very careful.

I arrived at the office early, hoping to dig into Blake's background before he showed up. But he was already there, sitting at the desk across from mine with a cup of coffee and what looked like case files.

"Morning, Agent Morrison." His smile was warm, professional. "Rough night?"

"Why do you ask?" I kept my voice steady, casual.

"You look tired. I know yesterday was intense." He gestured to the files spread across his desk. "I've been reviewing similar cases from other cities. There's a pattern we missed."

Despite my suspicions, curiosity won. I moved closer to see what he'd found, careful not to get within arm's reach. "What kind of pattern?"

"The investigators who were killed—they weren't chosen randomly. They all had success rates above ninety percent on missing person cases." Blake pulled out a chart he'd created. "David Chen, ninety-three percent. Mike Torres, ninety-five percent. The others on the list, all exceptional at finding people others couldn't."

My mouth went dry. My own success rate was ninety-seven percent—highest in the Bureau. "What are you saying?"

"I think our killer is specifically targeting investigators who are too good at their jobs. People who might actually find Lisa Park and whoever else has gone missing."

It made sense, but it also meant I was definitely on the killer's list. The question was whether Blake was warning me or threatening me.

"There's something else," Blake continued, his voice dropping. "I ran background checks on all the victims. They all had gaps in their official records—periods where their activities can't be accounted for, unusual career jumps, that sort of thing."

"You think they were hiding something?"

"I think they all had secrets. The question is whether those secrets got them killed."

Before I could respond, Director Wilson appeared at my desk. "Kate, Ryan, we need to talk. My office, now."

Wilson's office was sparse, professional, dominated by commendations and photos of him with various politicians and law enforcement officials. He closed the door behind us and activated a white noise generator—standard procedure for sensitive conversations.

"We have a problem," Wilson said without preamble. "The Park investigation has been classified above your pay grade. You're being reassigned."

"What?" I stared at him in disbelief. "Sir, we just made major progress on the Chen murder. There's a clear connection—"

"There's no connection you need to worry about." Wilson's voice was firm. "Agent Blake will be handling the Park case from here on. You're being transferred to the Morrison trafficking follow-up."

The Morrison case. Named after my family because Wilson had found it amusing that Agent Morrison was investigating people with the same last name. Six months of my life spent tracking a human trafficking ring that moved people with supernatural abilities.

"Director," Blake interjected, "Agent Morrison's insights have been invaluable. I'd prefer to keep working with her."

Wilson's expression didn't change. "Agent Morrison has other priorities. Kate, clean out your files and brief Agent Blake on anything relevant. That's an order."

As we left Wilson's office, my mind raced. Why pull me off the case now, when we were making progress? Why specifically reassign me to the Morrison trafficking case—unless there was a connection I hadn't seen?

"This is bullshit," I muttered as we walked back to our desks.

Blake glanced around to make sure no one was listening. "Wilson's scared. Someone higher up is putting pressure on him."

"How do you know?"

"Because I've seen this before. In other cities, with other cases. The Bureau starts an investigation, makes progress, then suddenly everything gets classified and reassigned." Blake's voice was bitter. "We're not the first agents to stumble onto this pattern."

"What happened to the others?"

Blake was quiet for a long moment. "Some transferred to other departments. Some took early retirement. A few..." He met my eyes. "A few ended up like David Chen."

The implication hit me like a physical blow. The Bureau itself was compromised. Someone inside was protecting the killer, covering up the investigation, eliminating anyone who got too close to the truth.

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked.

"Because you're not going to drop this case, are you? Even if Wilson orders you to?"

He was right. I couldn't let it go—not when people were dying, not when someone with my abilities might be next on the killer's list.

"What do you propose?"

Blake looked around again, then pulled out a burner phone. "We investigate off the books. Nights, weekends, using our own resources. Find Lisa Park before the killer eliminates everyone who's looking for her."

It was dangerous, probably career suicide, and definitely against every regulation in the FBI handbook. It was also the right thing to do.

"I'm in," I said.

Blake smiled—the first genuine expression I'd seen from him. "Good. Because I think I know where Lisa Park is hiding."

That evening, we met at a diner on the outskirts of town. Blake had chosen the location carefully—far from the FBI building, minimal security cameras, lots of exit routes. He was thinking like someone who expected trouble.

"Lisa Park isn't missing," Blake said without preamble, sliding a folder across the table. "She's in hiding."

I opened the folder to find surveillance photos of a young woman entering and leaving a small apartment building. The woman matched Lisa Park's description, but her hair was darker, her clothing style completely different.

"How did you find her?"

"I've been tracking the case longer than I admitted. Lisa Park contacted David Chen because she was being stalked. Someone had been following her for months, learning her routines, trying to get close to her."

"Why didn't she go to the police?"

Blake's expression was grim. "Because her stalker was FBI."

The words hit me like ice water. "What?"

"Lisa Park has precognitive abilities—she can see future events in dreams. She'd been using her gift to help local police solve cases, unofficially. Someone in the Bureau found out and decided she was either an asset to be controlled or a threat to be eliminated."

I stared at the photos, my mind reeling. "How do you know all this?"

"Because I've been investigating FBI corruption for the past two years. The Park case is just the tip of the iceberg." Blake leaned forward, his voice dropping. "There's a group within the Bureau that's been identifying and tracking people with supernatural abilities. Some they recruit, some they eliminate, but all of them disappear from normal life."

"That's insane."

"Is it? Think about it—what would the government do if they knew psychics, telepaths, precognitives actually existed? Would they protect them or use them?"

I thought about my own abilities, the years I'd spent hiding what I could do, the constant fear of discovery. Blake was right—the Bureau wouldn't protect people like us. They'd exploit us.

"Who's running this group?"

Blake was quiet for a long moment. "I don't know yet. But I know they're getting bolder, more desperate. The fact that they're killing investigators suggests they're close to completing their mission."

"What mission?"

"Rounding up everyone with abilities. The question is whether they're building an army or preparing a genocide."

The diner suddenly felt too exposed, too public. I found myself checking exits, watching other customers, looking for signs we were being watched.

"There's something else," Blake said, pulling out another photo. "This was taken yesterday morning."

The photo showed me entering the FBI building, but it had been shot from an unusual angle—high up, from across the street. Someone with access to elevated positions, professional equipment, and a clear view of federal buildings.

"They're watching you, Kate. Have been for weeks, maybe months."

"How do you know my name?" I asked suddenly, the question I'd been avoiding finally surfacing.

Blake met my eyes. "Because I've been watching you too."

The admission should have terrified me. Instead, it filled me with cold, calculating rage. "Why?"

"Because you're like them. Like Lisa Park. And because I think you're the key to stopping this whole thing."

I stood up, my chair scraping loudly against the floor. "You've been investigating me."

"I've been protecting you." Blake stood as well, his voice urgent. "Kate, please. Sit down. Let me explain."

"Explain what? That you've been spying on me? That you broke into my apartment and left me threatening notes?"

Blake's face went white. "What threatening note?"

"The envelope on my kitchen counter. The photo of me at the crime scene with a message telling me to stop investigating."

"Kate, I've never been in your apartment. I've never left you any notes." Blake's voice was deadly serious. "If someone's been in your home, it wasn't me."

I studied his face, looking for deception, for any sign he was lying. But his shock seemed genuine, and something in his expression made me believe him.

"Then who—"

"Someone who wants you to suspect me. Someone who knows we're working together." Blake grabbed my arm, his grip firm but not painful. "Kate, we need to get out of here. Now."

"Why?"

"Because if they know about the note, they know about this meeting."

As if summoned by his words, I caught a glimpse of movement outside the diner's windows. A black sedan with tinted windows, parked where it hadn't been five minutes ago.

Blake followed my gaze and swore softly. "Back exit. Move slow, don't run."

We walked casually toward the rear of the diner, but I could feel eyes on us, watching, calculating. Someone had found us. Someone who didn't want us investigating together.

As we reached the back door, Blake turned to me. "Kate, whatever happens next, whatever you see or hear about me, remember this: I'm on your side. I'm trying to keep you alive."

The back door exploded inward just as his words registered, and suddenly the diner was full of armed figures in tactical gear. Not FBI—their equipment was wrong, their movements too coordinated for federal agents.

"Kate Morrison, you're coming with us," the lead figure announced.

Blake stepped in front of me, his gun already drawn. "Like hell she is."

And as the first shots rang out, I realized that whatever game we'd been playing, the stakes had just become deadly serious.