CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
The small room had no windows, just beige walls and a small table with two plastic chairs.
A box of tissues sat in the center of the table, placed there by someone who understood that this room was where people said goodbye to the most important parts of their lives.
Miles had been crying on and off for the past hour as he worked through the stack of papers.
About every ten minutes or so, someone would come in to check on him.
He knew this was a grief counselor disguised as a basic employee.
He knew the behind-the-scenes tricks and though he had always found the subterfuge rather silly, he now appreciated it.
“Relationship to deceased,” Miles read aloud, his voice cracking. He wrote “Fiancée” in the blank space, then stared at the word until his vision blurred with fresh tears.
This was all his fault. Elena was dead because of him, because he'd gotten involved in hunting a killer who operated on a national scale.
If there really was someone in charge of these elemental murders across the country, they would know that Miles had helped stop Diana Hartwell in San Francisco.
They would know he was now trying to stop the fluorine murders in DC.
The killer had researched Elena's life and work, had studied her pharmaceutical research and decided she was “molecularly corrupt.” But they wouldn't have known about her at all if she hadn’t been engaged to the FBI agent hunting them.
Miles had painted a target on the woman he loved, and now she was lying on a metal table in the next room.
It did feel like a coincidence, but it felt like a huge one. Would the mastermind behind it all really come after the agents who were chasing down the people doing his bidding? It seemed like at least a possibility, given the killer’s apparently wide reach.
Honestly, for now, Miles wasn’t sure what to believe.
Miles signed another form and moved to the next one, tears dripping onto the paper.
“Personal effects inventory.” He would have to go through Elena's belongings, decide what to keep and what to donate.
Her clothes, her books, her research notes, all the small possessions that had made up her daily life.
A soft knock on the door interrupted his spiral of grief and self-blame.
He looked up, fully expecting to see the grief counselor again; she’d ask if he needed a water, anyone to talk to, any help with the forms. Instead, Vic entered quietly, her expression carefully neutral as she assessed his emotional state. She looked quite shaken herself.
“How are you holding up?” she asked, settling into the chair across from him.
“It's my fault,” Miles said without looking up from the paperwork. “Elena is dead because of me.”
“Miles, that's not true.”
“Yes, it is.” Miles set down his pen and looked at Vic through angry tears.
“If there's someone directing these elemental murders across the country as I believe there is, then they know I helped catch Diana Hartwell in San Francisco. They know I’ve been working the fluorine case here. So, they went after Elena to hurt me.”
Vic leaned forward, but took the time to consider this.
“Miles, listen to me. The letter the killer left behind suggests Elena was targeted for the same reasons as the other victims. Her work in pharmaceuticals, her research into synthetic compounds. The connection to you specifically might be coincidence.”
He knew this was true (he had just thought the same thing himself, after all) and hearing it spoken out loud made it even clearer. So why was he struggling to believe it?
“Coincidence?” Miles's voice rose. “They put one of those devices in my house, Vic. They studied Elena's work and decided she was chemically corrupt. That's not coincidence.”
“Yes, but the killer has been targeting people involved in what they see as chemical contamination,” Vic reminded him. “A pharmaceutical researcher developing synthetic medications would fit their profile, whether she was connected to you or not.”
Miles stared at the forms scattered across the table and realized Vic might be right.
The killer's obsession with chemical purification had led them to target a teacher using recalled art supplies, a florist working with pesticides, and a bus driver exposed to vehicle emissions.
Elena's pharmaceutical research would make her a natural target for someone with that twisted worldview.
But it still felt personal. The killer had been inside his home, had walked through the rooms where he and Elena lived together. They had chosen Elena specifically, had written about her toxic influence on Miles's life. Whether it was coincidence or targeting, the result was the same.
“Even if you're right about the motivation,” Miles said, “they still knew about her work. They researched her job, her pharmaceutical projects. That means they have access to detailed information about potential victims, like I thought.” He shuddered and said, “I looked back through the security app when I was waiting for them to bring me all these papers. The person, whoever they were… they knew to go around back. They knew we didn’t have a camera there. And they also knew how to pick a lock.”
“Which is why we need to analyze Elena's work environment and colleagues for potential connections to the killer,” Vic agreed. “Someone with that level of knowledge might work in the industry themselves. And maybe they also know where you do and don’t have security cameras.”
Miles felt his grief pushing aside rational thought, but he forced himself to engage with the logical part of his brain.
If they were going to catch Elena's killer, he needed to think like an investigator, not a grieving fiancé.
But it was impossible for him to consider the idea that someone who worked with Elena could have killed her, or assisted in her murder.
“Elena worked for Morrison Pharmaceuticals,” Miles said. “They specialize in neurodegenerative disease research. Alzheimer's, Parkinson's, ALS. Her team was developing new compounds to slow cognitive decline.”
“Who would have access to information about her specific projects?”
“Her research team, department heads, anyone with access to the company database. But also competitors, suppliers, regulatory agencies. Pharmaceutical research involves a lot of documentation and oversight.”
Vic pulled out her phone and opened up her notes. “We need a list of Elena's colleagues, anyone she might have discussed her work with, any recent conferences or presentations where she shared research findings.”
Miles nodded, then felt the weight of exhaustion settling over him. The adrenaline that had carried him through the past few hours was fading, leaving behind crushing grief and mental fatigue. He felt exhausted, and he was pretty sure he’d never felt this worn-out in his life.
“Miles,” Vic said gently, “I need you to sit the rest of this out.”
“What do you mean?”
“You're too close to this case now. Even if you could keep your analytical abilities sharp, which I doubt given the circumstances, you can't investigate your fiancée's murder objectively.”
Miles started to argue, but he knew it was pointless. What she was saying made sense. And if he did argue it, Vic would only have to make one call to Hayes. Then Hayes would make it official.
“But I know Elena's work better than anyone. I can help identify connections that you might miss.”
“And you could also miss crucial evidence because you're emotionally compromised,” Vic argued. “Or you could contaminate the investigation by making assumptions based on grief rather than facts.”
Miles felt anger flaring alongside his grief.
He hated being angry at Vic, but he just couldn’t sort it all out.
He still felt overwhelmed, as if not only this little room but the entire world was shrinking in on him “So I'm supposed to just sit at home while Elena's killer walks free?” he asked bitterly.
“You're supposed to let the rest of us do our jobs while you process the worst thing that's ever happened to you. And it’s not specific to you. The same would be true of any federal employee involved in an active violent crimes case.”
Vic's tone was firm but compassionate. Miles could see the logic in what she was saying, even as every instinct told him to stay involved in hunting the killer down.
“I can't just do nothing,” Miles said.
“You're not doing nothing. You'd be taking care of yourself so that when you're thinking clearly again, you can eventually help catch this killer. If this goes as widely as you think it does—that is, if your elemental theory is really what’s going on here—you’re going to be very important sooner rather than later. You need to rest up at home, Miles.”
Miles looked around the sterile room where he'd been filling out paperwork about Elena's death. The thought of going home to their empty house, of sleeping in their bed without her, felt impossible. But Vic was right. He was in no condition to conduct an objective investigation.
Miles nodded, feeling completely washed out and gutted. The grief was like a physical weight pressing down on his chest, making it hard to breathe or think clearly. The idea of letting someone else take over the investigation felt like both relief and betrayal.
“There's one thing I can give you,” Miles said. “Elena's work laptop. She brought it home sometimes to review research notes and update project files. It might have contact information for her colleagues, details about her current projects.”
“That would be helpful.”
“She also kept a notebook with pharmaceutical industry contacts. People at other companies, researchers at universities, regulatory officials. If the killer has connections to the pharmaceutical world, those contacts might provide leads.”
Vic closed her notes app and stood up. “I'll pick up the laptop and notebook when I take you home to get some clothes. Then I'll start going through Elena's professional connections while you try to get some sleep.”
He nodded and gave her a raspy, dry “Thank you.”
Miles gathered the completed paperwork and signed the final forms. Elena's death was now officially documented, processed through the bureaucratic machinery that reduced human tragedy to case numbers and filing systems. In a few days, he would receive copies of everything for his records, permanent reminders of the worst day of his life.
“Ready?” Vic asked.
Miles took one last look around the room where he'd spent the evening filling out forms relating to Elena's death.
Tomorrow, the medical examiner would begin the autopsy that would provide the official cause of death and forensic evidence for the investigation.
Elena would become data points and lab results, another victim in a case that seemed to grow more complex with each new death. How in the hell was any of this real?
“Yeah,” Miles said quietly. “Let's go.”
As they left the medical examiner's office, Miles wondered if he would ever feel ready for anything again.
Elena was gone, their future together was destroyed, and somewhere in the city, her killer was planning their next attack.
The fluorine murders had become personal in the most devastating way possible, and Miles wasn't sure he had the strength to face whatever came next. Even as he left the ME’s office, he felt as if he was being pushed by some unseen hand, rather than walking ahead under his own steam.
But as they walked toward Vic's car, Miles felt a cold determination growing alongside his grief.
The killer had taken Elena away from him, but they had also made a crucial mistake.
They had revealed that they could research specific targets, access detailed personal information, and plan sophisticated attacks.
It went beyond basic Bureau research; now it was personal, and he could attest to all of it.
There would be interviews where things would be confirmed, ending all guessing. It had hit Miles directly; by doing so, the killer and the mastermind had made a mistake… and neither of them even realized it.