Chapter Text
Darkness. Then light, blooming above her like a flower. Heat. Copper.
What was that?
Oh my god.
No. Please, no.
Skye woke with a gasp. She lay as still as she could for a moment, catching her breath. She could feel her shirt sticking to her sweat-soaked skin. Tangled strands of hair lay over her face. She groaned and rubbed her face, feeling sticky and gross but reluctant to leave the warmth of the bed. Waking suddenly from a nightmare was not how she wanted to begin the day.
After a minute, she finally peeled herself off of the fitted sheet and slouched into the bathroom. In the shower, the hot water relaxed her, fully bringing her to wakefulness and pushing the nightmare mostly out of her mind. She dressed in the clothes she had picked out the night before, nicer than her normal jeans and loose shirts. In the kitchen, Skye poured herself a bowl of cereal, not bothering to look at the box. She knew Miles wasn’t much of a cereal-eater and only stocked the brands she liked. As she ate, she packed her laptop and charger cord back in her trusty laptop bag, getting ready to begin the day’s work.
Her targets: Mark and Anne Telesca. On the surface, they were financial advisors to a big-name bank. Beneath the table, however, they were tied to a small cabal of financiers who illegally manipulated the markets using regular people’s money. They were good at hiding their activities and paper trails from the law – but not good enough to escape the sight of the Rising Tide.
Skye had already crashed the Telescas’ firewall, but their encryption was good enough that she needed to be on-site to retrieve their data. When they reached out online for IT help, Skye made sure she was the one who answered their call. She had a meeting with them this morning to reset their VPN and firewall, all the while copying their files right from under their noses. Easy peasy.
Shoveling the last of the cereal into her mouth, Skye dumped her bowl in the sink, grabbed her bag, and headed out the door. In the driveway sat her trusty old van. She settled into the front seat with a small sigh. She’d come to be comfortable in Miles’ place, but the van was her home. It had been her home for almost five years now. This was her world – everything she owned was here in this van. If she needed to, she could take off from Los Angeles at a word’s notice and never look back.
It was a short drive to the Telescas’ house. The tree-lined street featured the elegant medium-sized houses of rich people who didn’t want to flaunt their wealth. They weren’t new houses by any means, but it was clear they were well-maintained. Amongst the convertibles and sparkly new vehicles, Skye’s old van was very much out of place. No matter – she was used to not fitting in.
Slipping the strap of her laptop bag over her shoulder, Skye exited her van and made her way to the front door. It was already promising to be a hot July day, the sky completely free of clouds. She was grateful to step into the shaded doorway.
Ding-dong. As she waited, Skye mentally rehearsed the steps in her head. Get the VPN set up quickly, to show the Telescas that she was capable and get them to trust her. That would give her more leeway to start copying their files while setting up the firewall. When she’d talked with them over the phone the day previous, she’d gotten the sense that they were not as knowledgeable about computer security as they’d made themselves out to be.
Skye was about to ring the doorbell again when the door slowly drifted open, as if the wind had pushed it in. Standing there was a man in his 30s, dark-haired with defined cheekbones, wearing a casual sweater and jeans. Called it: a conventionally-attractive WASP. This will be a piece of cake.
“I’m Skye, your one-stop IT solution!” Skye said, forcing a fake cheerfulness into her voice. She held out her hand. “You must be Mark.”
The man stayed still and silent. Skye’s smile dimmed, and she slowly lowered her hand. His gaze was vacant, not focused on her. He looked like a sleepwalker, almost insubstantial.
His eyes finally caught her own. “Can you help me?”
“That’s what I’m here for,” Skye replied glibly. She looked past him into the hallway. The space was empty, save for a few boxes, and Skye remembered the Telescas saying they had just moved into the place earlier in the week. No lights were on, the only illumination coming from daylight peeking around heavy curtains.
“Where’s your wife?” The complete silence and lack of movement inside the house bothered Skye. Something was wrong.
“She’s in here.” The man moved back from the doorway, as silent as the house. “She needs help.”
Now truly alarmed, Skye followed, right hand grasping for her phone. “What kind of help? Medical help?”
Despite the warmth outside, the house was cold. Yet the air felt heavy, hanging with an oddly sharp scent that Skye couldn’t place. She moved from the bare entryway to a large living room, separated from the nearby kitchen by a fireplace jutting out from the wall. Boxes and tubs were stacked in multiple piles across the large room. A computer monitor was set up on the kitchen counter. The walls were empty, with the exception of a large painting covering the wall above the fireplace. All of the furniture was shoved into one corner, leaving lots of open floor space.
That made it easy to see the bodies.
Skye backed up until she hit the front door with a mild thump. Her hands flew up to cover her mouth, muffling the scream threatening to burst from her throat.
Two bodies lay on the floor in front of the fireplace. As her vision adjusted to the low level of light, she could see patches of discoloration across boxes, walls, floor, fireplace. Blood. The copper scent instantly identified itself. Blood was soaked into the clothing of the bodies, seeming to originate from a dark glistening mass below their heads. It took a moment for Skye to identify the mangled area as their necks.
The man who had opened the door for her stood by the bodies, in front of a window. The light seemed to blur the edges of his frame; he appeared almost transparent. Nothing changed in his voice or facial expression as he stared at the scene of carnage.
“We need help,” he said. “Can you help us?”
Skye didn’t answer. One of the figures was a woman, wearing a lacey nightdress, with shards of glass from a broken wine glass embedded in her face. The other figure was a man in his 30s, dark-haired with defined cheekbones, dressed in a casual sweater and jeans.
She looked back at the man by the window. There was no doubt about it; it was the same man.
“We need help,” the ghost repeated. “Can you help us?”
“No,” Skye whispered. “You’re – you’re dead.”
Once more the silent figure met Skye’s gaze. “Please, help us.”
And he was gone.
There were no sounds, no warnings, nothing to indicate that he was leaving. He was just suddenly not there. Skye stood alone in a strange house with two dead bodies. The only sound she could hear was a rapid panting noise, which she suddenly realized was coming from herself.
Skye closed her eyes, trying to calm her breathing. Words from a random YouTube video she’d watched about how to center oneself during a panic attack came to mind. Name five things you can see. Her shoulders shook with a crazed laugh. Probably not the best advice for this situation.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Just breathe.
She didn’t know how long she repeated that mantra in her head until she felt steady enough to open her eyes. The horror of the scene in front of her was still there, but muted.
She hadn’t simply stumbled upon someone who had died of a heart attack, or who’d fallen off a ladder and hit their head. The Telescas had been brutally killed. Was it a burglary gone wrong? Did it have something to do with their shady financial dealings?
It didn’t matter. Someone had murdered these people. And Skye was at the scene of the crime.
With trembling hands, she pulled out her phone and dialed 911.
*****
Her name was Corey Sutter. She was an independent technological security consultant, hired by the Telescas to help with their private technological security needs. She had a meeting with them this morning. They didn’t answer the door, and when she peeked through one of their windows, she saw the blood. Last contact she had with them was the previous evening, setting up their meeting for today. She’d never met them in person and didn’t know much about them.
Skye never liked talking to the police. The way they scrutinized and casually threatened, just waiting for the suspect to make a mistake. In her early days of hacking, before she’d been recruited and mentored by the Rising Tide, oversights and slip-ups had caused her to lie her way through more than one police visit. She’d only been arrested once, but thanks to Miles and some “misplaced evidence” they’d had to let her go.
But this time was different. Violent crimes were a far cry from illegal downloading and electronic warfare. Skye didn’t want there to be any doubt that she had nothing to do with the murders. She did her best to cooperate with the inquiring detective, sticking to the truth as much as possible.
As cops swarmed the scene, searching for evidence and keeping curious neighbors away, the detective gave Skye a business card. “If you think of any more details, anything you’ve forgotten, let me know,” she said curtly. Everything about the detective was sharp, from her voice to the folds in her gray suit. It made the obviously dyed streaks of red in her brown hair look incredibly out of place.
Skye nodded and slipped the card in her pocket. “Am I free to go?” she asked.
“You are. Have a good day.” The words were clipped and professional, devoid of any emotion. Skye wondered if that kind of apathy came with the job, or if the detective was just like that normally.
Skye stood up from the curb and brushed dirt from her pants. All she wanted to do was head back to Miles’ house, put on a chick flick, and try to forget about this morning. She could try to access the Telescas’ files tomorrow. As she shouldered her laptop bag, the rumble of an approaching vehicle caught her attention. She watched with some surprise as a bright red convertible smoothly parked just behind one of the cop cars. Up close, she could see it was a classic car, well polished and obviously taken care of. It looked like it belonged in one of the nearby driveways, not at a crime scene.
Two figures stepped out of the convertible. The driver was a man, his balding head and partially lined face indicating he was in his 50s. Everything about him – the simple black sunglasses, nondescript black suit with a white shirt, shiny black shoes – screamed “Big Brother” to Skye. The woman, on the other hand, was harder to read. She had similarly professional slacks and basic sunglasses, but was wearing a glossy black leather jacket instead of a blazer. Somehow, it didn’t make her seem any more casual than her partner. She was . . . the word Skye kept coming back to was “cool.”
In a smooth motion that almost seemed practiced, the newcomers swept their shades off their faces and neatly pocketed them. As they entered the crime scene, the sharp detective strode over to intercept.
Something churned in Skye’s gut as she watched the conversation. The detective seemed unwilling to let them pass, the newcomers unwilling to back down. If they weren’t the local cops, but federal agents of some sort, then this incident must be worse than Skye had imagined. It was time to make her exit.
“Miss Sutter?”
She stopped, silently cursing. She turned back towards the scene and saw the two newcomers approaching her. Up close, she could see the man had nice blue eyes and a gentle smile. The woman looked as closed-off as the previous detective, but her dark hair and golden skin tone made Skye feel slightly more at ease.
“Miss Sutter, we’d like to ask you some questions about what happened here.” The man’s voice was calm and even, yet filled with a subtle warmth. He felt approachable and unassuming; Skye was immediately on guard.
“I already talked to Detective Hand and told her everything I know,” Skye said. Who were these guys? What more could she give them?
As if reading her mind, the man replied, “We’re not with the local police force. I’m Agent Doughty, and this is my partner Agent Cronin.” The woman gave a slight nod, dark eyes focused on Skye. “We’re with the FBI. We just want to make sure we don’t miss anything.”
Skye raised her eyebrows. “FBI? That’s . . . that’s impressive. Truly. Can I see your badges?”
It came out snarkier than she intended, and she winced internally. Thankfully, neither of the agents seemed to mind. They both pulled thin leather cases out of their pockets and flipped them open, as in unison as they had been with the sunglasses earlier.
The words “FBI” stared at Skye. She parsed through the pictures, matching the agents holding them, and the information within. Neil Doughty and Karen Cronin. To most people, they would look like the real thing.
But Skye had seen plenty of FBI badges. In addition to his hacking skills, Miles was also an accomplished forger. She’d watched him copy the tiniest details from a real badge to a fake one. She knew most of the tells, the seemingly insignificant marks that were used to signify a real FBI badge.
The two badges in front of her were fake.
Skye struggled to keep her face impassive. The “agents” certainly looked and acted the part. They hadn’t hesitated at all in bringing out the badges. All good liars and con artists knew that fifty percent of the job was confidence; these guys weren’t amateurs. Any skeptics would be comforted by the “legitimacy” of the badges and tell them whatever they wanted to know, unaware that they had a hidden agenda.
Until she could figure out what that agenda was, it seemed safest to play along.
She gave them a big smile. “Fire away. I mean, not literally.” She didn’t see any guns on them, but the woman’s jacket was bulky enough that one could easily be hidden on her hip.
The man smiled back – whether in response to her smile, or to her half-hearted joke, Skye couldn’t say. The woman’s face remained impassive.
“How well did you know the Telescas?” Doughty asked.
“Not well,” Skye replied. “We talked last night about the issues they were having in their home, and agreed that I would come over today at nine a.m. to take a look.”
“What issues?”
“I’m an independent IT consultant. I mostly deal with software, though I have some hardware knowledge as well.”
“That didn’t answer his question.” The woman, Cronin, spoke up. “What issues were they having?”
Damn, she’s good. Thankfully, Skye had a prepared response. “I prefer not to disclose my private conversations with my clients.”
Doughty’s smile twitched. “Not even if we said pretty please?”
That threw Skye off guard. “Uh, no, sorry.”
The man shrugged. “It was worth a shot.”
“The detective told us that you saw the bodies through the window, correct?” When Skye nodded, Cronin continued, “So you never actually went inside the house?”
“Nope,” Skye said, making the p pop. She was careful to hold eye contact with the female agent, not wanting to give away her lie. Until now, she’d managed to put off thinking about the ghost. Despite her troubled sleep, she couldn’t wave it away as a hallucination; she knew what she saw. A man had opened the door for her, a man who looked exactly like Mark Telesca’s corpse, and he had vanished into thin air.
There was no way she was telling that to the police. They’d think she was crazy or a liar; either way, they’d be interested in her, and she didn’t want any special attention from them. She just wanted to leave, to get this terrible day over with as soon as possible.
After a moment, Skye sneaked a glance over at Doughty. He almost looked disappointed.
“One more thing,” Doughty said. “I respect that you don’t want to give away your clients’ private details, but did they mention anything . . . unusual happening in their house? Electrical problems, temperature fluctuations, strange noises?”
Skye frowned. “What does that have to do with anything?” she asked.
“These people were murdered.” Cronin’s voice was hard, almost accusatory. “It’s our job to figure out how, and by whom. We need to know what happened in the hours leading up to their deaths. We can’t save the Telescas, but we can stop this from happening again.”
Skye’s stomach churned. From happening again? Was this a serial killer? Again Skye wondered if it had to do with her investigation into them. And again, she told herself it didn’t matter. She wasn’t dealing with everyday cops asking why she was parked where she was, or where her boyfriend was, or why she was being so nosy. She was at the scene of a murder. This was a matter for the cops.
But these guys weren’t real cops. She didn’t have to tell them shit.
“I can’t think of anything,” she said, as casually as she could manage. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful."
Cronin nodded. “Thank you.”
“I think that’s all.” Doughty’s smile was still there, but it was subtly different – smaller, sadder. “I’m sorry you had to experience this. I imagine it came as quite a shock.” He extended a hand, a business card between his fingers. “If you remember anything else, or just need to talk, I’m always available.”
Skye nodded and took the card, surprised by how genuine his words felt. The woman gave Skye a sharp nod, then both fake agents turned and walked away. Skye watched them for a moment before making her way to the safety of her van. The hula girl on her dash shimmied as she threw herself into the front seat and slammed the door shut.
For a moment she closed her eyes. Too many thoughts were crowding her head: her early-morning nightmare, the morning’s horror show, and the conversation with the fake agents all competing for attention.
Skye opened her eyes and tried to center herself. Name five things you can see. Steering wheel. Dashboard hula girl figure. Small garbage can that needed to be emptied. Laptop bag. Home.
Her thoughts calmed, but her mind kept returning to the same question: who are those fake agents? Glancing out the windshield, she saw the two figures approaching the front door of the house, again showing their fake badges. If they were going to thoroughly check out the crime scene, that could take a while.
Skye started the engine of her van. Carefully she pulled out of the driveway, avoiding all of the police vehicles that had filled the space around her. Making her way to the four-way stop at the end of the street, she turned right. In the nearest driveway she turned around so she was facing the intersection. Skye hugged the curb and turned her van off.
The Telescas’ house was in a cul de sac. When the fake agents left, Skye would see them passing through the intersection in front of her. From there, she could follow them, maybe find out where they came from.
For now, though, she had time to kill, and an internet to explore.
*****
“The balls on these guys,” Skye muttered. She was sitting with her back propped against the door, legs in the passenger seat, laptop warming her thighs.
Most of the past hour had been spent hacking the FBI, confirming what she already knew: Agents Neil Doughty and Karen Cronin didn’t exist, and had never existed. Furthermore, a little digging turned up an interesting fact: there happened to be a Neal Doughty and a Kevin Cronin that did work together – as members of the band REO Speedwagon.
She absently flicked her hula doll, watching it wobble, as she thought. So, these guys had a sense of humor. But other than the names they were serious and dedicated. Impersonating a federal agent came with a lot of risk – making a fake badge was a felony, using one was worse. The end goal had to be worth it.
For example, if you were a secretive cabal that moved millions of dollars between shady accounts, committing a whole host of fraud-related charges, and you learned that two members low on the totem pole were lax in their security, potentially exposing all of you to financial and reputational ruin – well, that might be worth it.
People trusted badges, opened doors to badges. Similar to what Skye had done, it was a way to get strangers into the Telescas’ house. And perhaps they were back to make sure they couldn’t be tied to the crime.
Skye leaned forward, resting her head on the top edge of her laptop. This was why she should never go into the field; things were bound to get complicated. She was good with people, sociable and charming, but computers were where she thrived. The smart thing to do would be to hide out at some coffee shop for a few hours and hope they forgot her face.
A flash of red caught her eye. The bright red convertible pulled to a stop at the intersection. Skye slammed her laptop shut and awkwardly scrambled into a normal sitting position. She fumbled her key into the ignition as they coasted through the intersection. Slowly she pulled up to the intersection, checking the streets before turning after them.
Skye had never followed someone before. The closest experience she had was how often she parked in nearby alleys instead of convenient parking lots where her van would stick out. Her van was bulky and awkward, but she had gotten good at knowing when it would be out of place, possibly leading to questions. She hoped that knowledge would come in handy.
The convertible smoothly danced through the Los Angeles suburb. Whenever they got on a busier street Skye tried to keep a few cars between them. However, after almost losing them several times, she changed her strategy to only having one car between them. She had never tailed someone before, maybe they had never been tailed before.
After a little bit, they entered the more industrial area of town, and traffic grew lighter. Skye kept her distance and hoped they didn’t keep track of the vehicles behind them.
Her hope promptly faded when she turned a corner after them, only to find herself in a dead-end lane. Bland gray warehouses walled off either side of the street, while a metal gate some 100 feet ahead blocked further passage. The red convertible was parked not far down the street, both fake agents standing outside the car waiting for her.
Skye gulped as she braked. They began slowly walking towards her side of the van. Quickly she pulled out her phone and got 911 ready to dial. Calling the police twice in one day? What kind of hacktivist are you?
She rolled down her window as they approached, putting on a quick smile. Might as well try playing dumb. “What are the chances of running into you two again?”
“Doughty” raised an eyebrow. “When you’re following someone, pretty high.”
Well, so much for that strategy.
“I kinda got the feeling you were holding out on us back there,” he continued pleasantly. “So why don’t we cut the bullshit and get to the facts.”
“Yeah, why don’t we,” Skye said sweetly. “For example, I bet the police would love to hear the fact that your badges are fake.” Her heart pounded; her finger was poised over the dial button. She hoped she hadn’t made the worst mistake of her life.
“Told you she made us,” the woman said, looking at the man. Her lips twitched into what could have been a small smile.
The man sighed. “I really have gotten rusty, haven’t I? Fine, dinner’s on me.” To Skye he said, “You have a good eye. I think we got off on the wrong foot.” He extended a hand. “I’m Coulson, and this is May.”
Skye hesitated. Their shift in tone made her think that she had been all wrong about their motive. But if she was right, relaxing her guard now would spell doom. She shifted her phone to her left hand and reached her right arm out to shake. “Skye.” In some ways, Skye was just as real of a name as Corey Sutter.
“We might not be the police, but we do care about what happened at that house,” Coulson said. “And May was speaking the truth when she said that she can stop this from happening again. Any detail you know could help us.”
“Why do you think this will happen again?” Skye challenged. “And why do you go to the trouble of faking being police instead of letting the actual police take care of it?”
“They won’t find the killer.” May folded her arms, all traces of humor gone. “We know what did it, and we know how to stop it.”
“What did it?” Skye shifted her gaze between the two of them, incredulous. “The hell does that mean?” This conversation had taken a surreal turn. Skye prided herself on being a good judge of character, and they felt sincere. But that opened up a whole new set of problems. They were implying that something not human had killed the Telescas, and that was impos-
The ghost. There was a ghost there. It was the victim’s ghost, and clearly didn’t cause its own murder. But she had seen something that classified as a what rather than a who. If that was real . . .
The couple exchanged a look. Skye got the sense that they were speaking wordlessly, coming to a decision about how to answer her questions. After a moment, Coulson turned to her and said, “You probably wouldn’t believe us if we told you.”
“Try me,” Skye said, more boldly than she felt.
Coulson nodded. “There’s two ways this can go. First, we can just pretend this little conversation never happened. I’m hoping that a person who can spot a fake badge isn’t a fan of filing police reports. You go your way, we go ours, we never see each other again.
“Option two, we go somewhere a little more private. You tell us as much as you know about the circumstances surrounding the murder of Mark and Anne Telesca. We tell you what we plan to do about it. What do you say?”
This conversation was crazy. She was crazy, for listening to them, for following them in the first place. And yet . . . she had seen something impossible today. Maybe they were full of bullshit, maybe not. The only thing she was sure of now was that they weren’t hired corporate killers. She was used to following leads, digging into the unknown until she had the big picture. If they had answers for her, she couldn’t give that up.
Skye shrugged. “What the hell. This day is weird enough already.”