The moment my father answered,

out, my voice ragged.

by a sharp, strangled gasp from my mother in the background. T

ossible, Ashley. My sys

unt. From high school. I

sound that ripped through me. My father was trying to b

ll trace it. I' ll find the source. This is ju

hour, I could hear him typing furiously, muttering to himself.

is masked, routed through a dozen countries, then bounced of

. My mother' s cries turned into a low, mournful hum. T

I was an analyst. I dealt in logic, in data. Ghosts and curses weren' t rea

s to certain federal databases, a perk of the job. I ran a search on myself, a routine diagnostic I did every few mon

er. Status: Deceased. Cause of Death: Sui

ition participants, the very list we had tried so hard to ge

as a note I had never seen before

idacy accepted.

ving a trace. But there it was. Someone was in the system. Someone was marking me for death, right insi

n I could call. The only person who had ever belie

answered on t

he said, his

hley. Ashl

"I know who you

h. "The Blackwood letter. And something else. Someone altered my file

cluttered study, the gears turning in his sharp, cynical mind. When he

re about tha

t at it! Someone is mani

nvinced. "And send me the letter. I need to see the r

wn theories about a conspiracy, he didn' t believe me. T