Chapter 2 (Part 3)
The Box, the Letter, and the Man in the Photograph
Ethan shut the door and bolted it.
Then, for good measure, slid a chair under the knob.
Paranoia? Maybe. But the card in his hand, with its veiled threat and that creepy triangle symbol, was real enough.
He grabbed the box, the photo, the reports—everything—and stuffed them into his backpack. He didn't know what his next move was, but staying here, in plain sight, felt like playing Russian roulette with someone else's finger on the trigger.
He went to the window, peeking between the blinds.
The street below was quiet, mostly empty except for a black sedan parked across the street. Nothing unusual—except it had been there yesterday, too. He remembered because it was parked directly in front of a fire hydrant. No ticket.
It hadn't moved.
Ethan's stomach twisted.
Had they been watching him since the funeral?
---
He slipped out the back staircase, the one only tenants used when the front elevator was busted. Hood up, head down, he moved fast and quiet, ducking into shadows, avoiding traffic cams.
His destination wasn't clear at first.
But then it clicked.
Uncle Mike.
His mom's older brother—retired cop, lived on the edge of the city in a fenced-in property with a gun cabinet and a German Shepherd that hated strangers. Ethan hadn't spoken to him in months, not since the falling out after his dad's cancer diagnosis, but if anyone could help him figure out what this mess meant… it was Mike Ryland.
It took him nearly an hour to get there, zig-zagging through side streets and even hopping off the bus early when he spotted a gray van in the rearview mirror that looked too much like the one that passed his apartment twice that week.
When he rang the bell at the Ryland house, a familiar bark exploded on the other side.
Ethan braced himself.
Then came the voice.
"Who the hell—"
The door opened halfway.
"Ethan?"
Uncle Mike's gray hair was sticking out in all directions. He was in a white tank top and flannel pants, with a pistol in his waistband. His eyes narrowed.
"You okay, kid? You look like you saw a ghost."
Ethan opened his mouth. Closed it. Then just said:
"I need to show you something."
---
Thirty minutes later, the two sat in the cluttered kitchen. The photo, the letter, and both vials lay in front of them.
Mike stared in silence for a long time, eyes flicking between the items and Ethan's pale face.
He finally spoke.
"This is from '77?"
"Yeah," Ethan nodded. "You ever hear of a guy named Halrick?"
Mike's expression shifted—subtle, but not nothing.
"Where'd you hear that name?"
Ethan pointed to the photo. "That's him, isn't it?"
Mike didn't answer. Instead, he reached into the cabinet above the fridge and pulled out a battered shoebox. From it, he removed a thick manila folder marked CONFIDENTIAL in red letters.
He slid it over.
Ethan opened it.
Clippings. FBI case notes. Blacked-out pages. Photos of people lying dead in what looked like everyday settings—coffee shops, subway stations, a courtroom.
Then a name.
Dr. Alan Halrick.
Classified as "person of interest" in seven unexplained deaths tied to a now-defunct covert task force codenamed "PURITY."
Ethan blinked.
"This is real?"
Mike nodded.
"Halrick was a behavioral chemist working for an off-books federal program back in the 70s and 80s. They were experimenting with chemical compounds that could induce fatal responses under the radar—no trace, no sign. Think James Bond, but real. Your dad…"
Mike sighed.
"…was one of the scientists brought in late. Probably to clean things up."
Ethan clenched his fists.
"He was in it," he said quietly. "He helped."
Mike didn't deny it.
"I tried to warn your mom. She didn't believe it. Thought it was Cold War paranoia. But Thomas… he pulled away from all of us after that program dissolved. Changed jobs. Became obsessed with hiding everything. Guess now we know why."
Ethan pointed to the formula. "So this stuff… it kills people?"
"Yes," Mike said flatly. "But not like cyanide or arsenic. From what I know, it targets specific neurological patterns—heart rhythms, pain response thresholds, adrenaline spikes. Makes death look natural or stress-induced. You give it to someone, and within 15 minutes… boom. Stroke. Aneurysm. Cardiac arrest."
Ethan stared at the vial in his hand.
"Jesus."
Mike leaned forward, voice low.
"If that group—the one behind the envelope—is still active? Then they've been killing for decades. Silently. Efficiently. And your father was probably the last person with a clean version of the formula."
Ethan nodded.
"They want it back."
---
Outside the house, a car engine idled.
Across the street, a man sat behind the wheel of a nondescript sedan, phone to his ear.
"He went to Ryland's," the voice said.
A pause.
"No. No move yet. But we'll have to act soon."
The man glanced at the house, eyes narrowing.
"He's not like his
father."
Another pause.
"No. That's the problem."
He hung up, then adjusted the pistol under his coat.
---
To be continued in Part 4...