Whisper (Cerberus Personal Security #3)

Chapter 1 Eliza

ONE

Eliza

PATTERNS IN THE NOISE

Three of my colleagues are dead, and I just figured out why someone murdered them.

The pattern on my computer screen shouldn’t exist. Roman military ciphers from 47 BC shouldn’t share mathematical frequencies with modern encryption protocols.

The correlation is too precise for coincidence—actually, the probability of coincidence is 0.

000034%, which rounds to impossible in any practical application.

“This can’t be right,” I tell the empty office, because talking through problems helps me think, even when no one’s listening. “Unless someone’s using historical analysis as a cover for— Oh. Oh no.”

The fluorescent lights hum above me, that steady electrical buzz most people find annoying, but has become my companion. It’s consistent. Predictable. Unlike the data glowing on my three monitors, which refuses to make sense.

My office in Georgetown’s Healy Hall feels like a medieval tower tonight—stone walls, Gothic windows, shadows that seem to move when I’m not looking directly at them.

The building impresses visitors during daylight, but at night, with most windows dark, it transforms into something from a horror story.

My fingers fly across the keyboard, pulling up recent papers from my collaborative research group. Professor Sarah Williams at Yale, researching Byzantine cryptography. Dr. David Kim at MIT, analyzing medieval cipher patterns. Dr. Lisa Parker at Stanford, studying Renaissance encryption methods.

All of us funded by the same grant. All of us finding similar anomalies in our respective historical periods.

The phone buzzes. My sister’s text from Portland: Still at the office? Get a life, El.

Quick fingers tap back: Have a life. It involves fascinating dead Romans.

Her response arrives instantly: Dead being the operative word. When’s the last time you went on a date?

The phone returns to its spot beside scattered research notes because we both know the answer.

Eight months since Dr. Stefan Whitfield from the History Department—brilliant on paper, accomplished in reality, passionate about ancient civilizations—right up until he announced that my “verbal processing” exhausted him and suggested I learn to “enjoy comfortable silence.”

Before Stefan, there was James, the investigative journalist who initially found my expertise captivating until he discovered that my analysis extends to everything, including relationships.

And before James, there was Thomas, the software engineer who appreciated my intelligence but couldn’t tolerate what he termed my “need to narrate every thought.”

The pattern repeats itself: initial attraction, growing irritation, eventual abandonment. Men drawn to intelligence who flee from its verbal expression. Academic types with weak handshakes and tentative kisses that felt more like research than passion.

None of them sparked anything beyond intellectual curiosity. When physical intimacy became awkward fumbling between sheets, ending the relationships felt more like relief than loss.

Not that my fantasy life suffers from such limitations. Late nights studying Roman military campaigns have produced far more interesting companions than Georgetown’s academic dating pool.

A gladiator wouldn’t ask permission before claiming what he wanted.

No hesitant touches or apologetic fumbling—just powerful hands pinning me against stone walls, demanding submission with actions rather than words.

Bronze skin gleaming with arena sweat, muscles earned through combat rather than university gyms. He’d drop me to my knees without explanation, take what pleased him, make me beg for more with guttural sounds instead of words.

Heat floods my cheeks as the fantasy dissolves back into fluorescent-lit reality. Apparently, two thousand years of civilization haven’t improved on certain masculine qualities. Give me a warrior over a weakling any day.

Too bad modern men seem threatened by women who use their voices.

Stefan actually suggested meditation to “learn the beauty of silence.” James recommended I “listen more, talk less” to improve our relationship dynamic.

Thomas bought me a journal, claiming I could “process thoughts privately instead of constantly verbalizing.”

All three missed the fundamental point: verbal processing defines who I am. Fighting it would be like holding my breath until unconsciousness. Not that it mattered—they were all too weak to force me to do either.

Now, a Roman gladiator—he wouldn’t waste time with suggestions.

He’d be strong enough to shut me up, kissing me senseless until words became impossible, or putting my mouth to far better uses than talking.

Heat spirals through my core at the thought of being rendered speechless by pleasure instead of politeness.

Get a grip, Eliza. Roman gladiators are two thousand years dead, and fantasies about impossible men don’t solve real problems.

My focus returns to the puzzle. “So if this frequency distribution matches modern patterns, then either the Romans achieved sophistication we’ve never suspected, or—”

The computer completes its analysis, and words die in my throat.

Embedded within what should be two-thousand-year-old Roman military dispatches, my pattern recognition software—created during my DoD years—has detected modern encryption. Not similar to modern. Actually modern. Created within the last year.

“What the hell?”

This is exactly what Sarah found three weeks ago. She called at midnight, excited and confused. “Eliza, you need to see this. I’m finding modern crypto signatures in Byzantine texts. That’s impossible, right?”

David confirmed it a week later. His mathematical analysis showed contemporary encryption algorithms hidden within historical documents from our shared research database.

“It’s like someone is using ancient texts as camouflage for modern communications,” he said during our last video call.

“But who would do that? And why hide it in our research?”

Lisa was last, just ten days ago. Her linguistic analysis revealed that someone was actively using our research project as a cover for encrypted communications. “We need to be careful,” she warned in her final email. “This feels like something we weren’t supposed to find.”

Now I’m staring at the same discovery. Modern encryption hidden in ancient texts. Someone is using our academic research as a pipeline for coded messages.

“Oh shit. Oh shit, shit, shit.”

My blood chills—actually, that’s not accurate.

Blood doesn’t change temperature from fear.

The sympathetic nervous system triggers vasoconstriction, reducing blood flow to the extremities, which creates the sensation of coldness while maintaining core temperature.

I’m babbling in my own head—that’s never good.

I pull up our shared research folder. Sarah’s last login: fifteen days ago. David’s: nine days ago. Lisa’s: five days ago.

I shouldn’t pull up the news reports, but I can’t stop myself. It still doesn’t feel real.

Stanford Professor Dies in Apparent Suicide.

The article is from two days ago. She jumped from her apartment building. Survived by her husband and two daughters. Eight and ten years old. Lisa showed me pictures at the last conference, talked about their college funds, their piano lessons, their—

MIT Researcher Dies in Car Accident.

The article is dated five days ago. Dr. David Kim, 34, a brilliant mathematician who could calculate probabilities faster than most computers. His car went off a bridge. No skid marks.

My hands shake as I pull up Sarah’s name.

Yale Professor Dies in Apartment Fire.

Yesterday. Oh God, yesterday. While I was sitting here playing with patterns, Sarah was burning to death in a fire that started from “faulty wiring” in a building that was renovated last year.

The pattern in my data isn’t historical. It’s current. Active. Someone is using our academic research as cover for modern communications, and everyone who discovers it dies in a different type of accident.

Three accidents. Three different methods.

Statistical probability of three researchers in the same collaborative group dying within a week?

I don’t need to calculate it. It’s murder.

Murder disguised as accidents, which means whoever’s doing this has resources, planning, and the ability to make deaths look natural.

My secure phone—the one from my DoD days—sits in my desk drawer. Dr. James Morrison, my former handler when I did encryption work for the Defense Department. He’s FBI now—wouldn’t give details about what division—but said to call if I ever stumbled onto something dangerous.

Three dead colleagues qualify as dangerous.

“Morrison.” His voice sounds tired, like it always does.

“James, it’s Eliza Wren. I need— God, I don’t even know how to explain this. Do you know about the linguistic pattern analysis grant I’m working on?”

“The historical cipher project, right? What about it?”

“Three of my co-researchers are dead. All within the last week. Different types of accidents, but James, I found something in the data. Modern encryption hidden in historical frameworks. Someone’s using our research as cover for current communications, and everyone who finds it…

” My voice cracks. Sarah had a cat named Schrodinger.

She made physics jokes about him being simultaneously fed and unfed until observed.

“Where are you right now?”

“My office. Georgetown. Healy Hall, third floor.”

“Pack everything related to this research. Hard drives, papers, everything. Then get out. Do you have somewhere safe to go?”

“My apartment? It’s just a few blocks—”

“No. Somewhere unexpected. Somewhere you’ve never mentioned at work.” A pause, heavy with meaning. “If what you’re saying is true, they’re probably already watching you.”

They. Not someone. They.

“James, who are they?”