Richard was silent for a moment before he shook his head.

  "No, of course you don’t. Now, it is time for you to go back to your cell, and the next time we speak will be when the experiment begins. I can't tell you how excited I am, Richard. We will do amazing things together."

  ***

  Richard squeezed his eyes shut as the pain came flooding back on waking. It was more manageable because it was now more familiar. He had grown to expect it, and even though it was agonizing, it was what he knew.

  He was back in the chair, but he could immediately sense that something was different. The blindfold wasn’t on this time.

  He was hesitant. He didn't immediately open his eyes fully. He took his time and opened them a sliver to get his bearings. There was light, and something before him. When he opened his eyes, he was flooded with information. There was a lot to take in.

  He was in another room, but that room looked out onto a larger area, and beyond that was a door.

  Four people sat in chairs along a large table, and he knew instinctively he had sat in one of the chairs previously, in conversation with his captor. The four were gagged, eyes wide in fear, their hands below the table, but their arms positioned in such a way that it was a surefire bet they were restrained.

  The beams that Richard has seen on the ceiling of his cell ran the length of the large basement. He then understood that the door he could see beyond the four people was the door to his cell. He didn't have a wide enough field of vision to see any other doors in the basement, but he knew there had to be.

  Then there was the room he was in. It looked like a recording studio. The walls to his left and right and the ceiling were padded with noise-absorbing foam. In front of him was a large, thick glass window, and as he listened, he understood it was soundproof, too.

  A large control panel was spread out before him, which looked like it was designed for manipulating a live recording, but the buttons looked off. The focal point was four sets of four buttons. The columns were labelled: A, B, C, and D. Within each column, the buttons were labeled from top to bottom: 1, 2, 3, and 4.

  He reached out, realizing for the first time that his hands weren’t bound. He was only able to reach so far. His torso was held to the chair with metal clamps, and his ankles were in restraints. He couldn’t turn to either side. He could only see the control panel before him and the four people beyond.

  If they made any noise, he couldn’t hear it, but he didn't need to hear what they were saying to know they were more terrified than he was. He had a responsibility to them. He had to be the face of calm to assure them everything would be fine when it was clear that was not the case.

  All he could do as the minutes ticked by was to look at each of them.

  "Welcome back."

  Richard looked around. He couldn’t see the person, but he could hear them over a speaker positioned somewhere in the room.

  "We are about to begin, and what happens next is entirely up to you. Please nod your head if you can understand me clearly."

  Richard thought about not nodding in an act of defiance, but this wasn’t the time to challenge authority when he was bound and helpless. Something told him that if he didn't do as the voice asked, the four people before him would be punished just as much as he would be.

  So, he nodded.

  "Splendid. Now, I am sure you have worked out that the buttons before you correspond to the four people in the outer room. The buttons in column A correspond to the person on your far left, and the buttons in column D correspond to the person on your far right. Please nod again that you understand that."

  Richard nodded.

  "You are doing ever so well, Richard," the voice told him. "Now, the numbered buttons correspond to levels of correction. One is the lowest, and four is the highest. You must demonstrate your commitment to ethical principles. You must administer corrections to all subjects based on their actions. The first thing they have done is allow themselves to be abducted. What level of correction do you believe that deserves?"

  Richard looked at the buttons before him, but he didn't reach out for any of them.

  "Oh, come on, Richard. You don't want to punish them? Will it be that easy? If you don't correct them, you will be the one punished. Level one is not all that bad. Why don't you give it a shot?"

  Richard was steadfast in his refusal.

  "No? All right. Don't worry, this is only the first test. We will have a lot of opportunities to explore this farther, and you will have another chance to decide between them and yourself. For now, expect to wake up with another sore head. Your dose of carbon monoxide has so far been the lowest needed to knock you out. How about we try a little more this time?"

  Before he had a chance to respond to that, there was a familiar whooshing sound of gas being pumped into the room. Richard took one final look at the four faces before him, glad they wouldn’t face any punishment. He inhaled in regular breaths and waited for the sleepiness to come. He could handle this part—it was the waking up that was the nightmare.

  The only question now was how long he could last being the only one to take the self-inflicted punishment. How long before his body gave out? How long before he was the tenth victim?

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Sam knocked on the door of the modest house. Lucy looked toward the front window, but the curtains were drawn, not allowing her a glimpse of what was inside. When there was no answer at the door, Sam knocked again, louder this time.

  It was only the two of them at the house—they hadn’t called in any backup yet. If no one answered the door, could they get a warrant to go in? Would they wait around if they didn't get a warrant, or would they go in anyway?

  Sam was about to knock for a third time when the door opened inward, and a middle-aged woman stood there with her eyebrows raised, annoyed that her door was being knocked on. She didn't say a word and only glared at them both.

  Sam took out his badge and showed it. "Special Agent Spears."

  "And?" the woman replied with a shrug.

  "We’re looking for Nathan Cross," Sam said.

  "Yeah, well,"—she pointed out of the door and down the street—"go that way for about five minutes, take a right, and you can't miss it."

  Sam frowned. "He doesn’t live here anymore?"

  "He hasn’t lived here for three months, Special Agent Spears. He hasn’t lived anywhere for the past three months."

  "I don't understand," Sam told her.

  The woman rolled her eyes. "He’s six feet under. What do you want with him? I don't have any money."

  That was a better alibi than most. He couldn’t have killed anyone if he were dead himself.

  "We’re sorry to hear that," Lucy said, taking over the conversation. "Do you mind if we come in and talk to you for a few minutes? We’d like to know about the research he was doing at Mass and what happened after that."

  "Sure, sure, come on in," the woman said. "It’s not like I don't have a million other things to do."

  "We won't take up a lot of your time," Lucy said.

  "Don't worry about me," the woman said. "I'm used to having nothing for myself. Stay as long as you want. Why don't you make yourselves at home? I suppose I’ll have to make some drinks and food." She disappeared into the house.

  Sam followed her in. "Just a few questions. Please, come and sit down. We won't intrude."

  Lucy hurried up the steps and into the house.

  It didn't smell good inside. The walls and most of the ceilings were stained with a sickly yellow-brown, suggesting the women, presumably Nathan’s widow, chain-smoked all day. The interior looked mostly clean, but it was messy; she was a hoarder.

  "It’s shocking what they did to him," the woman, still nameless, uttered as she wandered through the living room and sat in a large armchair. "Tossed him out because they…couldn’t deal with his ideas."

  The words sounded rehearsed, as if they were Nathan’s words being spoken beyond the grave by her.

  "What happened?" Lucy asked, interested to hear her side of it. She believed what Dean Simmons had told them, but there were always two sides to every story, even if one side was wrong.

  "He was mistreated from the start," she said. "He was never paid enough, and they didn't respect him there. He really tried. He put in the hours and worked tirelessly, and for what? It destroyed him when they basically fired him with a nice little bow tied around it all—vinegar laced with sugar. All he wanted to do was to help people, but they wouldn’t let him."

  Lucy scanned the living room, finding no place to sit. "Do you know what his research experiments were?" she asked.

  "I don't know." The woman waved a hand dismissively. "I didn't understand that world." She leaned forward in the chair. "I know he did things in his own way. I understand there can be some risks associated with the work he did."

  "What sort of risks?" Sam asked.

  The woman waved her hand in the air again as if it were nothing. "You have to break a few eggs to make an omelet."

  "Did Nathan break some eggs?" Sam asked.

  "How am I supposed to know?" she asked.

  "Did he continue the work after he was made to leave the university?" Lucy asked.

  "Kicked out," the woman corrected. "He was kicked out. Let's not muddle our words here. If Nathan could have fought it, he would have, but they would have eradicated him. He was brilliant; I know that much."

  "Did he continue the experiments?" Sam repeated.

  "He continued his work, of course," she snapped. "What was he supposed to do. When someone tries to stop you from doing something, there’s often a reason for that. The more people fought against him, the more he fought back. That was just his way."

  "Do you know what he was working on before he died?" Sam asked.

  Another dismissive hand wave through the air. "I have no idea. He spent all of his time in his study. It was something for the greater good, I understood that part. He was going to change the world."

  "Are his things still in his study?" Sam asked.

  "How am I supposed to know?" the woman asked. "I don't know."

  "Do you mind if we have a look?" Sam asked.

  "Sure, sure, go through my dead husband’s things, why don't you? What do I care about any of that? You come into my home and do as you please, but what am I supposed to do?"

  "I won't move anything," Sam said. "I just want to know what he was working on before he died."

  "I don't care," she said with a wave of her hand.

  Sam smiled at her politely, but she was looking the other way, ignoring him. Sam took the chance. Neither of them wanted to be rooting around in his belongings, but it was the connection between at least three of the victims. Lucy let him go alone; she felt that she needed to be with the woman.

  "I am sorry about your husband," Lucy said. "I can't imagine how hard it must have been to lose him."

  The woman continued to look away and shook her head. "You have no idea. Have you ever been married?"

  "Once," Lucy said. "I’m not anymore."

  "Be careful." The woman sighed. "Don’t ever marry a man who is overly committed to his job. Nathan was trying to make the world a better place; he really was, but that was at the expense of my relationship with him. Men like him can't ever be in a fully committed relationship."

  "I don’t know what to say," Lucy said. There was nothing to say in most situations, but especially not in the one she found herself in. Lucy didn't want to bother the woman any more than necessary, and she really hoped that Sam would find something in the study.

  "Do you want something to drink?" the woman asked. "Some gin?"

  "I can’t," Lucy said. "I’m working, but I appreciate the offer."

  "Suit yourself." She smiled as she got up from her chair. "More for me, then." She went to a small drinks cabinet to the left of the chair, taking both a glass and the bottle back to her chair. She poured a heavy measurement into the glass, then, when she found that the bottle was almost empty, she decanted the rest.

  Lucy felt sorry for the woman. It felt like she was getting a glimpse into the woman’s life, an endless cycle of sadness, hating, and gin.

  Her husband had passed three months ago, and that was when the blonde woman had visited Philip Hartley. Was Nathan’s death what kick-started the madness?

  "Do you know if your husband was working with anyone up until his death?" Lucy asked.

  The woman took a large swig of gin. She shook her head again, looking a little calmer with the taste of gin in her mouth. "I don't know. He worked with a lot of people."

  "A woman in her thirties?" Lucy suggested. "Blonde hair and blue eyes?"

  The woman stopped drinking and glared at Lucy. "What are you trying to say?"

  Lucy put her hands up in surrender. "No, nothing," she replied softly. "We’re looking for someone, and I thought she might have worked with Nathan."

  The woman pointed a finger at Lucy. "Let me tell you one thing, okay? My husband didn’t cheat on me. I know I said some things about him, but he was a good man, okay? He was good to me. That’s the truth."

  "I believe you," Lucy said. "And I haven’t heard anything to the contrary. He was faithful to you. I’m only talking about a working relationship. Maybe an assistant or research partner?"

  The woman seemed to calm a little, and she took another drink from the glass that was being drained far too quickly. "Yeah, I don't know. I don't know what to tell you. Are you sure you don't want a drink?"

  "No, thank you," Lucy said.

  "Hey, we have to go," Sam said from the doorway to the living room. He held something behind his back.

  "You found something?" Lucy asked.

  The wife also turned to pay attention.

  "I just got a call from Dean Simmons at Mass Research."

  The woman spat on the floor in front of her.

  "The Assistant Dean is missing and apparently has been for some time," Sam said. "They just found his wife in their home."

  "Dead?" Lucy mouthed.

  "No, thankfully not, but someone was in their home. They took him two days ago. We need to go now."

  "Two days," Lucy repeated.

  I hope we still have enough time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  Sam sped toward the address Dean Simmons had given him.

  "Do we know what happened?" Lucy asked as she clung to her chair. It was not so much that Sam was driving fast as the fact that the killer had already begun their next experiment.

  "The Dean got a call a couple of days ago from Richard Marshall, the Assistant Dean, basically calling in sick. The Dean said he sounded awful, and he told him to take as much time as needed. The call was absolutely normal, and Dean Simmons didn't think anything of it. Apparently, after our visit earlier, he called Richard to ask about Nathan Cross. There was no answer, not on his cell phone or at his house. Dean Simmons had his assistant go around and check on him, see if he needed anything, but there was no answer at the door, which was suspicious, as Richard’s wife has multiple sclerosis. They called the police, the police went in, and they found the wife barely alive. They got there just in time."

  "Okay, then we have to assume that the Nathan Cross connection is the connection, right?" Lucy asked. She held on tighter to her chair as Sam took them sharply around a corner.

  "I spoke to the Dean about that, and he confirmed that Richard was the one who officially shut down the program. It was decided by committee, but Richard was overseeing multiple research projects, so he would have been the one to talk to Nathan to end his projects and then begin the procedure to move him out of the university."

  "So, if Nathan Cross were looking for someone to blame, then he would blame Richard Marshall."

  Sam nodded. "Mmm-hmm."

  "But seeing as Nathan Cross is dead, we might be looking for someone who worked with him. When I spoke with Philip Hartley, he talked about deifying Dr. Parades. If someone has done the same with Cross, they might be trying to continue his work and punish the one who shut everything down. When Cross died, it might have affected them psychologically, and they broke from reality. It might have affected her."

  "Her?" Sam asked.

  "I think we’re looking for someone who worked with Cross. Someone in their thirties, female, with blonde hair and blue eyes. If we find someone by that description, I think we find who’s behind this. You didn't find anything in the files?"

  "I didn’t," Sam admitted, "but I was hoping you would." He gestured behind with his head as he drove. "I didn't really know what I was looking for, but I did find some files that looked interesting, and the folders are all Mass Research branded. I thought there might be something in there that you could find."

  "Brilliant," Lucy said. She wanted to lean across the car and kiss him, but he didn't need the distraction. Instead, she reached back and grabbed the stack, bringing it forward into her lap. She opened the top file and started flipping through it, looking for any experiments that violated university policy or were morally or ethically questionable, along with the names of anyone who helped him with his research.

  She had only made it through a couple of files when they pulled up at Richard Marshall’s house. Lucy remained in the car while Sam got out to talk with Detective Brennan, who was already on the scene.

  Lucy kept one eye on Sam and the detective, watching for any expressions that told her she needed to be out there to hear it, while continuing through the files. There was a lot that was questionable in the research, methods, and experiments, but Lucy didn't think she was getting to the stuff that got him fired. Still, it didn't take a leap of the imagination to imagine him moving onto experiments that would definitely violate policy.

  There were many instances within the records that could fall into psychological manipulation and coercion, just as the Dean had described. As she was going through the research documentation, she wrote down the names of people assisting with the research, especially the female names.