Dr. Kaplan enjoys a bit of bondage, it seems.

“Who’d have thought it would be a fish guy.”

I notice drawers along the base of the bed and open each one. There’s a drawer for bedding. Boring. There’s one for restraints. Slightly more interesting. The dildo drawer doesn’t disappoint with its selection of sizes and shapes. There’s a whole separate drawer for strap-ons and anal toys. One small drawer for lubes. The last one I check is long and narrow.

My heart doubles its pace.

Whips. Spanking paddles. Floggers. I lift a coiled leather belt with my gloved hand. Acid churns in my stomach and climbs my throat. The scars on my back seem to heat and crawl within my skin. They whisper memories from the desert. Memories that have nothing to do with games.

I replace the belt and slam the door shut, folding my hands into fists as I steady my breathing, trying to recapture my self-control. My eyes press closed and I focus on releasing my tension. There is no one to punish me now. I am the one who punishes. I control my destiny. Whatever I wish to give or take, the power is mine to decide.

I rise from the floor and turn off my light as I leave the room, drifting further down the hall. There’s a guest room on the left side, the bed pushed against the wall, some weights and workout equipment waiting in the open space. On the other side of the hall is Kaplan’s home office.

I close the blinds of the window before turning on the desk lamp, checking my watch before I sit. Twenty minutes before Kaplan’s match finishes, another ten at least for him to get home. Maybe more if there are post-game beers, which is never a guarantee.

I open his laptop and pick up a photo on his desk as I wait for the computer to start up. His parents, I assume. Young Elijah Kaplan in the front, maybe twelve or thirteen, lean and gawky, but with a smile like he’s tempting a dare. And an older brother, their father’s hand on his shoulder. He’s angelic. Light brown hair, blue eyes, and pillowy lips in a faint smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. The boys look so different in some ways, Eli’s features darker and more intense than his brother’s, where there’s a certain kind of tortured reserve in the other Kaplan child. But I can see some similarities too. Strong jaws and high cheekbones. Expressive eyes. Dimples. A sharp intelligence that permeates a static moment captured from the grip of time.

I place the photo back on the desk and examine another. Kaplan smiling wide and with Dr. Fletcher, her blonde hair flowing in a strong wind, a younger Duke sitting between them with his tongue lolling to the side. Another more recent photo with his dad, the two men shirtless at a beach house, his father looking a lot older than in the other photo. His eyes seem dimmer somehow, the lines of his face harsher. There’s an exhaustion buried deep beneath the skin, dragging it down.

My attention snaps back to the screen as the laptop finishes booting up and prompts me for a password. I pull out my phone and open my most recent text from Samuel, which would look like gibberish to anyone else. But to me, it’s a well-rehearsed code of scrambled letters. Our own pseudo-language. He’s listed Kaplan’s potential passwords, generated by keylogger software that was embedded in the file of my dissertation proposal. Like most people, Kaplan doesn’t use a vast array of passwords to secure his private life. The second option works.

DukeKaboom@Kap! 

For a man who is already a tenured professor at thirty-one, he really does some dumb shit.

“Did you think you were untouchable from the shadows in life, Dr. Kaplan? You entitled prick,” I whisper, opening his Outlook. “Well it’s touching you now, isn’t it. I’ll shove my finger so far up your asshole I’ll be working your mouth like a puppet.”

Kaplan’s email is rife with ass-kissing messages from students wanting to get the jump on class syllabi and assignments. I see my read message halfway down his inbox and scowl at the screen, the rage from his dismissal pulling my veins tight beneath my skin. But the one that catches my eye is a new email, one from Marta Espinoza. I open the thread and read from the bottom.

From: Marta Espinoza

To: Elijah Kaplan

Subject: Interview Confirmation

Hi Dr. Kaplan,

Please follow the encrypted link for the files you requested on Legio Agni and use your login ID. We have approval for the first two interviews to take place in Ogden, so please confirm your availability for October and I will arrange the details on our end. We need to secure further dates from the last witness. I’ll keep you posted.

Has Berkshire approved your sabbatical? I’ll let Robert know if so. We’re eager to move the timeline faster, if possible.

Let me know if you need anything else.

Best regards,

Marta Espinoza

Special Agent, FBI

From: Elijah Kaplan

To: Marta Espinoza

Subject: RE: Interview Confirmation

Hi Marta,

Thanks for sending. Second or third weekend in October is fine, whichever works better for the interview subjects.

Berkshire has approved, start date effective December 20th.

Do you have further details on Caron Berger that you’re able to share? Robert mentioned some early online activity on Discord before he pulled back from public platforms. Would you be able to send if so? I want to ensure I have all available information before we move to Phase 2.

Thank you,

Dr. Kaplan

And then today’s new message:

From: Marta Espinoza

To: Elijah Kaplan

Subject: RE: Interview Confirmation

Hi Dr. Kaplan,

Understood. When I speak to Robert next week, I’ll see if there’s anything further on Berger, and I’ll ask him about the interview support we discussed. I’ll send once received.

I’ve added the files regarding McCoy and Hutchinson to the link, in case you need them. I’ll keep you posted about any project accelerations. If Berger is cleaning house, we’ll need to move quickly.

Best regards,

Marta Espinoza

Special Agent, FBI

I sit back in the chair, placing my fingers to my temples.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit. 

My instincts about his evasions related to his sabbatical were correct. There was something he didn’t want to share. Something big. Something very secret.

Kaplan is coming after my target. He’s coming for Caron Berger, and he has the FBI behind him.

A heavy darkness settles into my chest. A cult like Legio Agni was always going to garner the attention of authorities, but I wasn’t prepared for an active operation from an organization that also enjoys hunting individuals like me. Ones with my proclivity for killing. And the fact that Tristan has already shown up on their radar is somewhat disturbing, though the one silver lining is that they seem to believe his disappearance was Caron’s doing. The measures Samuel has put into place to cover our tracks must be working.

I don’t click on the encrypted link. As tempting as it is, I can’t be sure it won’t set off some kind of alert. And I highly doubt his login for super-secure FBI files is “Duke Kaboom.” I mark the message as unread and then start rifling through his OneNote and saved documents, transferring anything that looks potentially useful to my phone.

And then I find an interesting folder.

It’s entitled “Past Tax Records,” and I open it intending to snoop through Kaplan’s annual earnings from Berkshire.

But that is not what I find.

At all. 

Most of the files are still shots of a woman in black lingerie on Kaplan’s bed. In some, she’s chained by cuffs on her wrists and ankles, in others she’s free. She’s beautiful and sexy with hunger or pleasure or power or even desperation in her eyes. A few of the files are videos. I click on the first one.

The woman starts the recording and slinks away from the camera with a playful smirk. Music is playing at a low volume. Kaplan is naked in the background on his knees, adjusting a DSLR camera. The woman crawls toward him. “Take my picture, Eli,” she says in a husky voice.