I ignored the first three pings—the annoying sound of emails hitting my inbox.

My computer was across the room, I was still on my first cup of coffee, and it was only eight o’clock in the morning—way too early to deal with whatever was coming in. Sinking further into an oversized leather armchair, I pulled my grandmother’s quilt up around my neck with one hand and took a sip of creamy, perfectly sweetened, French vanilla coffee with the other. As I watched the hosts of the morning newsertainment show taste some disgusting-looking fruity dessert with shaved coconut, my computer pinged again.

While I preferred this kind of “news”—the kind that involved the latest recipes for getting through the remaining cooler weather days—over the “real” news that favored the latest doom and gloom, I couldn’t help but keep one eye on the ticker scrolling across the bottom of the television with “Breaking News.” Out of habit, mostly.

Once upon a time, my job had required that I stay on top of all breaking news items. Both the ones that made the national and world headlines, and the ones that were a little more… classified.

My computer pinged again. I flinched a little this time.

I took another sip of coffee, then reached for my phone on the side table. Nothing there, no texts. Just my wallpaper—a photograph of one of my last happy memories before my life went to shit. I switched the phone out of silent mode, but mentally reassured myself that the pings were just evidence that my email’s spam filter had stopped working. Or my mother had finally resorted to hassling me via email rather than her normal incessant phone calling.

The newsertainment team moved on to a segment on fashion—something about transitioning from winter to spring and how to layer without downgrading your fashion sense. The ticker continued to run headlines.

Ping.

Growing increasingly uneasy, I swallowed another sip of coffee. That’s when I saw it. His name stood out from the news ticker.

Truman Spencer.

I sat up a little; the quilt slid down my arms. Dressed in only a thin camisole and silk pajama shorts, I felt my goose bumps swell as air hit my skin. I set my mug aside and shifted in the chair to dig for the remote control that had fallen down beside the seat cushion. I rewound the news by sixty seconds and read the ticker again. This time out loud.

“Lt. Governor of Kentucky Melissa Centers is dead. Kentucky State Police speculate Truman Spencer was target. Spencer will give live news conference shortly.”

Ping.

I pushed up from the chair, let the quilt pool at my feet, and stared across the room at both the computer and the TV. A cold sweat formed across my neck.

Ping. Ping. Ping.

I padded barefoot across the hardwood floor until I stood in front of the computer, the screen black. My heart sped up at what might be lurking behind the darkness.

Draped over the back of the desk chair was Teddy’s cashmere sweater. I let the soft fabric slide through my fingers before I slid it over my head to envelop me in familiar warmth.

I brushed my fingers across the mouse pad, waking my computer screen. My hands trembled as I typed my password, one keystroke at a time. Slowly and deliberately. Then there they were: the words behind the pings. Subject line after subject line. Every one the same, and in all caps.

BROOKE, TIME TO GET BACK TO WORK!

I crossed my arms, hugging the softness of Teddy’s sweater around me, and swallowed.

Ping.

Each of the emails had an attachment. My first instinct was to open one of the emails and the corresponding attachment, but I hesitated.

I knew the drill. I’d been through this many times before. The attachment could disappear after I opened it, and I’d be the only one to have seen it.

Or the attachment could give my computer a deadly virus and destroy more than just the accompanying attachment.

I pressed my fingers into my forehead and closed my eyes. “Think, Brooke. Think.” The sender of the emails obviously intended for me to have the information. “Just like all the other times,” I whispered.

But I was out of the game. I had left the FBI over a year ago, unable to continue in my role as an analyst. Or as a special agent, the job I’d held before that. Life had broken me, and I’d left. So why was someone sending me information now?

It didn’t matter. I had it, and I knew I couldn’t ignore it. I opened my eyes and stared at the repeated subject lines. And as if a gun had fired to signal the start of a race, I sprang into action and let instinct take over. I dug an external drive from my desk drawer, plugged it into my computer, and made a backup of everything on my hard drive. Then I started recording my keystrokes and everything that appeared on my screen, preserving whatever I saw next.

When I was ready, I returned to the email.

It was empty except for the file. I double-clicked the attachment, and a video popped up.

It was a dim room. People laughed. Men were dressed in suits. Flashes of color indicated women in dresses. It looked to be a ritzy cocktail party.

The video was shaky, probably taken from someone’s phone based on the low quality, and the image went in and out of focus. Then the camera zoomed in on one person in particular. A woman. “Melissa Centers,” I whispered. The lieutenant governor. I’d seen her on television before, at an event with Truman.

The people in the video raised their glasses in some sort of toast, then tipped back their beverages. Everyone cheered.

Several seconds passed.

The person filming the video moved closer to the lieutenant governor. The image became clearer. That’s when everything went south.

The smile on the lieutenant governor’s face faded. Her eyes widened. She stumbled, dropped her glass, and struggled to catch a breath. Her hands clawed at her throat, then stretched out to her side, grasping for something—anything—as she collapsed to the floor.

People screamed. Others rushed to her side.

The video zoomed in on her face, her wide, terror-stricken eyes. She was no longer moving. A trail of foamy liquid slid from the corners of her lips.

I slapped my hand over my mouth.

More screams erupted, and the video went black. At least it didn’t wipe my hard drive, as I had feared.

I grabbed my phone on my way to the kitchen. A single wine glass, stained with last night’s merlot, sat on the counter next to an empty wine bottle. I removed a clean juice glass from one cabinet and a bottle of bourbon from another. After pouring two fingers of bourbon, I turned the glass up and swallowed the amber liquid, closing my eyes and cringing through the burn. When I opened my eyes again, I eyed the glass warily, considering the image of the lieutenant governor doing exactly the same thing moments ago.

I picked up my phone and dialed.

“Donaldson.” Special Agent Mike Donaldson answered on the first ring.

“I need you.”

That was all it took. Three little words, and I was back in the game—a game I had no desire to play.

After asking Mike to come to my house—without offering any specifics as to why—I ended the call.

In front of me, sitting on top of a stack of mail, was a fancy piece of cream cardstock, embossed with curly script. I’d almost discarded it several times over the last week. It was an invitation to a party hosted by Kentucky’s Governor Truman Spencer, and it was scheduled for tonight.

I let well-trained muscles click into action. I raced through my quaint Virginia house, gathering laundry, both clean and dirty, and throwing it all on my bed. I removed Teddy’s sweater and stripped off my pajama shorts. I found a pair of jeans, slid them on, and pulled a black cardigan over my camisole. I slid some short ankle boots on my feet.

From the top of the closet, I got my suitcase and began stuffing it haphazardly with clothes from my bed, from dresser drawers, and from the closet. I darted to the bathroom and gathered an armload of toiletries.

When I’d filled one suitcase, I carried it to my car and stuck it in the back seat of my Mini Cooper. Then I returned to my bedroom closet, tossed boots, high heels, flip-flops, and anything else I thought I might need into a canvas bag, grabbed more clothes in my arms, carried them out, and stuffed the bag and the loose clothes into the car’s tiny trunk.

The last thing I did was grab the unopened box holding a new laptop from the top of my closet. I packed it into a computer bag, along with the drive I’d just used to back up my old computer. I loaded this into the car as well.

Back in the living room, I flinched at the sound of a car door.

The FBI had arrived.