“There isn’t much of a nightlife in town,” I reply. “This is the only place still open. I’m almost finished…” I toggle between documents on my tablet.

In an effort to condense the overabundance of information in my report, I presented my quickly hatched profile in bullet points to Agent Alister’s team:

• Suspect will display fixation with ancient Greek philosophy. Will feel strongly connected to the three master philosophers, but especially the philosopher Socrates. Will show disdain toward his teachings i.e. preaching mediocrity, but covertly believes Socrates passed down a hidden wisdom to worthy scholars to ascend to a celestial plane within the mind.

• Fredrick Nietzsche: German philosopher / Übermensch - rough German translation: overman. Suspect harbors delusional belief in a supreme, god-like being. Believes the philosopher Nietzsche constructed secret instructions within his doctrine that document his discovery of the masters’ hidden wisdom to ascend into an enlightened being he dubbed the overman. Nietzsche’s hidden wisdom cited as the Philosopher’s Stone (fabled alchemic substance to convert base metals into gold): a psychological alchemy concealed in the depths of the subconscious which one reaches to ascend to a higher, enlightened state of consciousness.

• Dionysian Mysteries / ritual / ascension. Nietzsche’s later doctrines centered around the Greek god Dionysus (god of madness and frenzy) and metaphors of invoking the god himself. Dionysian Mysteries were a secret rite of the Maenads (followers). Not much is known about the rituals other than cryptically written dogmas that cite a ritual of animal and/or human sacrifice, orgiastic sex, wine, death, and rebirth in order to invoke Dionysus into one’s “spirit”. The suspect will display extensive knowledge of the Dionysian Mysteries, along with knowledge of Nietzsche’s philosophy incorporating Dionysus.

• Hemlock / Suspected use of poisonous plant to either mimic Socrates and take own life in event suspect is discovered before goal is realized (ascending into overman) and/or overman philosophy is rejected by society (i.e. Socrates’ introduction of new deity).

My finger hovers over the remark about the hemlock. An ill feeling coats my stomach, and I feel as if my assessment is still off. I’m tempted to delete it. I’m tempted to delete the whole profile.

There are other descriptors such as likely age, gender, education level, behavioral traits—but those are vague and pale in comparison to the extreme belief system of the suspect. Which is the main reason Agent Alister dismissed my first profile to begin with.

I hit Send on the email to Alister with the revised profile attached. Then, with a resigned sigh, I tuck the tablet away in my bag. I’ll either wake up tomorrow with a suspect list, or jobless. Most likely the latter.

Turning toward Dr. Verlice, I hold out my bag. “Can you please put this away in your room for now?” I ask. At his perplexed expression, I lift the hem of my dress to reveal the bandage around my ankle. “I injured myself in the field. I’d really appreciate the help.”

He pushes his wireframe glasses up the bridge of his nose and glances at the hotel across Main Street. “That’s why I didn’t go gallivanting in the dark last night.”

When he accepts my bag, I thank him. “A wise choice. We’ll wait here for you.”

As I watch Dr. Verlice cross the street, I feel Kallum’s consuming presence pushing against me. I finally meet his narrowed gaze, and a flash of something primal and starved registers there.

“You lie so pretty,” he says with a crooked grin.

Choosing to ignore the comment, I turn toward the bar entrance. “Let’s go.”

We had agreed that, in order to infiltrate the house party without drawing negative attention, we’d have to ditch Dr. Verlice, and find a way to keep the two special agents out of sight.

But that was before last night. Before his unhinged episode. Before he said what he said…and before I was even more wary of being alone with him.

Despite my rational reservations, the temptation to unravel the mystery of this case is too dangerously strong.

I want to locate the missing residents before something extremely bad happens, yes—but beneath my desire to do good is the dark and seductive lure to unravel the mystery of Kallum.

I need the answers only he can give me.

As we enter the dimly lit interior of the bar, we’re engulfed in a smoky pit where a few pool tables crowd the center. The twang of folk music drifts through the sullen atmosphere. We pass the small bar top with a handful of patrons and too many feds to count. Apparently, this really is the only nightlife.

Moving quickly, we make our way toward the back exit. Once we hit the street, I pull up the GPS on my phone for the party location the waitress gave Kallum.

I toss a purposeful glance at his ankle. Without my need to point out the obvious, he says, “Don’t worry. The house is safely within bounds of the monitor.”

We veer off the road toward the destination, and I send a quick text to one of the tailing agents: Please hang back. I’ll alert you if needed.

I have no authority to give this directive. I’m hoping the please stresses this scene is not FBI friendly, because no one will talk if the agents are spotted anywhere near us.

The GPS leads us to an aged Gothic revival home with a steeply pitched gable roof and castle-like tower. The arched dormer windows have a touch of classic tracery, utilizing a swirled black, ornate design. It’s gaudy and elaborate, denoting old money.

Like every other house in town, the siding is chipped and peeling. The worn appearance reflects the sad tone of the people that inhabit these houses regardless of status.

The heavy thump of bass escapes the open windows as we draw near. Before I approach the slender columns of the wrapped porch, I bend down to remove the bandage from my leg.

“We should start by locating Tabitha the waitress.” I toss the bandage in a shrub and start toward the house. “Since you have a rapport with her, we can ask her—”

“Wait.”

Kallum’s stark command is delivered in a deep baritone that resounds in my chest. I linger near the concrete steps as he advances, the sliver of moon cast in the pale hue of his eyes. I brace myself for some mention of last night…

“This is what you decided to wear to a party?” he asks, his gaze absorbing me. “The plan was to blend.”

Relieved, I glance over my black maxi dress. It’s the only semi-formal outfit I ever pack, yet this is the first time I’ve worn it. I also put my hair in a high ponytail and sported dangly silver earrings.

“Let me guess,” he says, “you googled current fashion trends and found out funeral-chic was all the gen-z rage.”

His words summon a blistering ache to my chest, snatching the breath from my lungs. An image of a funeral dress rises up from the trenches of my mind to try to drag me under.

I force my voice steady. “As opposed to your choice of goth chic?” I say, refusing to let him see his effect on me. “Were you going for nineties emo-kid, or Anne Rice vampire groupie?”

Kallum runs his tongue along the ridge of his teeth. “Vampires prefer to see a little skin.”

I shake my head and turn away. “No one will care—”

I make it a single step before his hand wraps my arm, drawing me to a stop. My gaze drops to where he touches me. My heart flips inside my chest as he grazes his hand down to the tapered hem of the sleeve.

“What are you doing…?” A shock of fear strangles my breath as he rolls the sleeve to reveal an inch of skin.

“Your part of the deal is to trust my methods,” he says, tone casual, as if he’s not causing my heart to tear through my chest wall.

“No… Please.” I manage to free my wrist and shove the sleeve down.

“Do you even know what you’re pleading for?” His question leaves me speechless, but he doesn’t wait for the answer. “Either you hold up your end, or—”