10. Alex
Chapter ten
Alex
T he numbers on my laptop screen blurred together as I pressed the heels of my hands against my burning eyes. Three in the morning, and I'd entered another web of research topics, with the glow of the screen being the only illumination in my apartment.
I hadn't meant to spend hours digging into Reeves-Halvorsen Technologies. I'd started with a simple search about Lars Reeves that spiraled into corporate filings, press releases, and archived interviews. Now, my coffee had gone cold beside me, and my spine ached from hunching over my keyboard.
A sidebar article had caught my eye—something about military subcontractors. I clicked, and a new world opened up. Reeves-Halvorsen had been expanding aggressively into defense technology, cybersecurity, and something called "preventative threat neutralization."
A transcript from a 2017 technology symposium made me sit up straighter. Lars Reeves had floated the idea of "applying ethics to preemptive safety automation" — a chilling euphemism for developing AI systems capable of identifying "potential threats" and authorizing deadly force before a crime could occur. He called it Project Asphodel.
The Defense Department request for proposals I'd found earlier mentioned "autonomous decision architecture." That was military-speak for machines that could choose their targets.
Marissa and I had stayed up late one night debating the ethics of surveillance technology. She'd been passionate about the topic, insisting that technology could never replace human judgment. I felt her presence near me, hovering over my shoulder, reading faster than me, and connecting dots in patterns I couldn't yet see.
"You'd already have a theory, wouldn't you?" I whispered to the empty room.
My fingers cramped as I continued typing, bookmarking files and clipping excerpts. The apartment settled around me with familiar creaks—the refrigerator's hum, water pipes contracting, and the building's old bones shifting with temperature changes.
My search history grew—queries about defense algorithms, autonomous response systems, and ethical frameworks for preventative security. With each new search, a shape began to form.
It wasn't clear enough to name, but the picture coming into focus kept me going. It was like searching for the remaining pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
I knew that projects like this always left footprints. People talked at some point, and somebody always took notes.
When I stretched my arms overhead, my back popped in protest. Somewhere out there, I knew Michael was awake, too. It was difficult to explain precisely how I knew, but I was certain I was correct.
Was he thinking about me? Or had he already filed our encounter away as a mistake, a moment of weakness in paradise?
That idea hurt, but I pushed it aside. I had work to do.
I opened a new search window and typed: Evelyn Shaw + Reeves-Halvorsen .
My earlier research turned up publications by her before she joined the firm but nothing after. Barely a year into her work with the company, she abruptly left.
"What were you working on, Evelyn?"
A browser tab flickered without warning. The screen went white, then black. My heart leaped into my throat as a single line of text appeared: Stop asking questions you don't want answered.
I read it twice before the screen reset, and everything returned to normal—except my pulse, which thundered in my ears. The message wasn't a glitch. Someone had been watching my search patterns and had access to my machine. Someone had reached through the internet directly into my apartment.
I checked my browser history. Gone. All of it wiped clean as if I'd spent the night staring at a blank screen instead of digging through corporate archives. I tried to take a screenshot, but nothing worked. The laptop fan whirred frantically.
"What the hell?" My voice echoed in the darkness of my empty apartment.
I glanced toward the windows, suddenly aware of my exposure—silhouetted against my screen, a perfect target framed in the glass. I rose from the couch and pulled the blinds closed with a sharp snap.
In the background, T. Rex crooned. Marc Bolan's voice curled out over " Cosmic Dancer " —a glitter-dusted lullaby about growing up too fast. I turned the volume up a notch, letting the crackling guitar and spacey strings try to drown out the hammering of my heart.
I opened a text to my sister, fingers trembling as I typed—nothing about research, warnings, or fear. I needed to change the subject. It was a stupid meme about inane faculty meetings I saved weeks ago.
I wanted it to be ordinary. It needed to be something that said I'm fine, I'm normal, I'm not digging into anything dangerous.
Instead of being rational and ending my digging, I opened a private, encrypted workspace. Marissa had insisted I install it years ago during a phase when she'd become obsessed with digital privacy. I'd teased her then about paranoia. Now, I silently thanked her.
I named the folder "Asphodel Archive – 01" and saved it to an encrypted external drive. It might have been old-school, but it was harder to access remotely.
Outside, the rain intensified, drumming against the windows like impatient fingers. I made fresh coffee, moving through the kitchen with mechanical precision—grind, fill, brew—while my mind raced ahead.
Every researcher knows that resistance often indicates proximity to truth. When archives are suddenly restricted, documents vanish overnight, or sources go silent—you know you are closing in on something significant.
I returned to my laptop with a steaming mug. The screen remained innocuous, with my encrypted workspace showing only folder structures and file names.
My thoughts turned to Michael—his strength, certainty, and protective instinct that had sent him running toward danger while everyone else fled. What would he do in my position?
I already knew the answer. He wouldn't back down.
Neither would I.
Outside, the first hint of dawn breached the horizon. I'd nodded off.
A sudden metallic click jerked me awake. There was another sound—subtle, barely there. It wasn't the building settling or the pipes expanding. It was something else.
I stood and began to examine the apartment. At first, nothing seemed amiss. Then, I noticed it—a tiny smear on the inside doorknob, as if someone had touched it with greasy fingers. Hairline scratches clustered around the deadbolt, fresh enough that metal dust still clung to the surface.
"Fuck," I whispered, the word falling into the silence like a stone into the center of a pond.
I immediately began double-checking all locks and meticulously inspecting each window. They were all closed, but the kitchen window wasn't latched properly. Had I left it that way?
I'd opened it two days ago to let out smoke when I'd burned toast. Had I secured it afterward?
Logic said I was being paranoid. Instinct said otherwise. My mind linked the warning on my screen and the apparent tampering with my door.
I pulled a chef's knife from the kitchen drawer and slid it under the couch cushion. It wasn't rational, but my fears told me it was necessary.
I checked the deadbolt on the front door one more time. Secure. The chain, too. I quietly wedged a chair under the doorknob.
My phone showed 6:25 AM. It was a little early to call anyone but far too late to go back to sleep. Standing at my living room windows, I watched darkness gradually yield to dawn.
The rain was over, and my neighborhood had transformed from shadowy outlines to distinct shapes—parked cars, bare tree branches, and the roof of the building across the street. Everyone else's world continued its normal rotation while mine had tilted on its axis.
I could call the police and report a possible break-in attempt, but what evidence did I have? Scratches that could have been there for months. A window I might have left unlatched myself. They'd take a report and do nothing. Maybe they'd suggest I change my locks.
Another option was calling Michael. When the idea crept into my mind, it came with an ache of longing so intense it took my breath away. What would I say? I think someone tried to break into my apartment because I was researching the man who died in front of you?
The idea sounded unhinged. In my mind, I was researching on his behalf, but he didn't know that.
A final option was stopping. I could delete all of the research and pretend I'd never heard of Project Asphodel or Evelyn Shaw. I'd return to my lectures and committee meetings and the orderly progression of my academic career.
Marissa would never have stopped. She'd always pushed toward truth, especially when others tried to obscure it. Her voice whispered at the edges of my consciousness: What are you afraid of losing, Alex? Without me and without Michael, what's left that they can take?
I opened my encrypted workspace and began typing. By mid-morning, I'd been sitting with my back against the front door for almost an hour, laptop closed beside me. The rain had started again, gentle but persistent against the windows.
My eyes burned from exhaustion. A ring of thoughts circled like vultures inside my head—the warning message, the tampered door, Project Asphodel, Michael.
I tamped them all down except Michael.
My phone felt heavy in my hand as I stared at his contact. Before I could second-guess myself, I pressed call.
The phone rang once, twice, three times. With each unanswered ring, my resolve weakened. What was I doing? He clearly didn't want to hear from me. I was about to hang up when the line connected.
"Alex." His voice sounded clipped and distant.
My words tumbled out. "I know I shouldn't have called, but something's happening. Someone sent me a warning when I was researching Reeves. My apartment—I think someone was here. Someone tampered with the door. I'm not making this up, Michael. I'm not—"
"Alex." His voice was sharper and cut through my rambling comments. "You need to stop. Stay away from this."
He sounded as exhausted as me.
"I just—"
"I can't get involved. I'm not a cop right now. I'm not anything right now."
A sense of defeat filled his words. It wasn't the voice of the man who'd held me on the beach and seen my grief. Something had happened since Tahiti.
I spoke softly. "You don't have to fix it. I only wanted to hear your voice."
I thought I heard his breathing change. For a moment, I let myself believe he might talk to me.
"Don't contact me again. Please."
The line went dead.
The rejection burned inside my chest.
"Damn it, Michael," I whispered to the empty room.
I pushed myself up from the floor, legs stiff from sitting too long. I headed for the bathroom and stared at my reflection in the mirror—hair disheveled and dark shadows under my eyes. I barely recognized myself.
Michael's warning didn't dissuade me. It felt like confirmation. If there were nothing to my suspicions, he would have laughed them off.
He would have called out my paranoia. Instead, he'd told me to stay away—which meant there was something to stay away from .
The apartment felt suddenly too small and exposed. I needed to go somewhere that was neutral ground. It needed to be public enough to feel safe but private enough to work.
As I stepped into the hallway, a neighbor's door opened. Mrs. Petrovich, eighty-three and sharp as a tack, peered out at me.
"Dr. Kessler, you look terrible. Not sleeping again?"
I managed a thin smile. "Only working too hard, Mrs. P. You know how it is with the end of the term approaching."
She frowned, the disbelief apparent in her eyes. "My Albert was a policeman for forty years. I know what trouble looks like on a man's face. Be careful out there."
"Always am."
Outside, I walked quickly, not toward campus where colleagues might ask questions, but toward a small coffee shop I frequented when grading papers. It was anonymous and quiet, with decent Wi-Fi and excellent espresso.
As I waited for the crosswalk signal, my phone buzzed with a text message. I pulled it out of my pocket, hoping that Michael might have had a change of mind.
It was from a number I didn't recognize. Unknown: You should have listened to him.
I nearly dropped the phone. The crosswalk signal changed, but I remained frozen on the corner, staring at the screen. Someone was watching me and heard my conversation with Michael.
The progression made a sickening kind of sense. First, I had the digital warning on my computer, where my research lived. Next, a physical intrusion into my home, where I lived.
Now, they breached my phone, my last private space. They were methodically closing in, each step more intimate than the last.
I thought of the signs I'd missed: my laptop fan running too hot yesterday, the brief static on my call with my department chair, and my laptop's battery draining faster than normal. I'd dismissed each as ordinary technical glitches. Now, they formed a pattern I couldn't unsee.
My throat constricted around a knot of fear. I looked up, scanning the street, storefronts, and parked cars. Nothing was obviously out of place, but I felt exposed as if standing in a spotlight.
I switched the phone off, shoving it deep into my pocket. My pace quickened until I was nearly jogging. The coffee shop appeared ahead, its warmly lit windows a beacon of normalcy in a world suddenly gone sideways.
Inside, the familiar scents of coffee and pastries wrapped around me. The barista—Ella, according to her name tag—greeted me with the casual recognition reserved for regulars.
"The usual, Dr. K? Double espresso and a blueberry scone?"
"Thanks, Ella. And maybe an extra shot today."
"Rough morning?"
I glanced back at the door, half-expecting to see someone following me. "You could say that."