I’m stunned in the library, unable to take my eyes off the message.

Nix. Logan’s name for me. Even without the added “It’s your brother” as confirmation, there’s only one person who calls me Nix. It started when I was a kid, complaining that I was “un-nickname-able.” “What are people gonna call me, Feeny? Fifi?” I’d said. Logan laughed, “Nah, man. Nix,” punctuating it by landing a basket in the over-the-door hoop. The nickname didn’t stick with anyone else.

After a moment, my stupor passes, and I become hyper-aware of the pulse pounding in my hands and feet. My initial ridiculous thought is to scan the library for my brother. He’s alive. Except, of course, he’s alive; I just dropped him off at home. Dammit, what a mess.

I’m too drained from the events of the day to engage in any more rational thinking. I place the note back in the book, then tuck all the books under my arm and take long strides back to the entrance, eager to be home.

And then I hear beeping.

In my haste, I had forgotten to check out the books, and the scanner at the exit of the building is now proclaiming my perfidy to all the patrons. This final inconvenience is the last straw. “Damn it!” I blurt, loud enough to turn heads. My cheeks flush with embarrassment as I look up to see Front Desk Guy, his eyebrows furrowed in mild concern.

“My bad,” I mutter, thumping my chest with my palm in an awkward attempt to claim responsibility. I make the walk of shame back to the self-checkout machine next to Front Desk Guy.

“Uh, everything ok?” he asks good-naturedly. Maybe two years of visits have earned me some goodwill, even if we haven’t spoken.

“Just one of those days!” I attempt to sound cheerful. No longer interested in checking the books out, I place the stack on the desk and push them toward Front Desk Guy—all except the one holding the note—and turn to leave as quickly as possible. “I’ll, uh, take care of these later,” I add hastily, noticing Front Desk Guy’s puzzled look. I tuck the remaining book back under my arm and hustle out the door, hoping no one notices. It doesn’t occur to me until later that I could have kept the note and left the book.

It’s a short walk home. Once I feel the cool air inside the apartment and see the newest of my plants dying on the messy hutch in the hall, I have an overwhelming gratitude that I have a space to myself. All the more meaningful now that the tranquility of my library ‘holds’ section has been desecrated. I ignore the half dozen mostly empty energy drink cans strewn about, then settle into the small, gray loveseat in the living room, worn over the years by my hours spent reading in it, and reflect on what this note means.

It crosses my mind that someone might be playing a prank, but who? Front Desk Guy? No, no one knows me well enough to know my baggage. Did Logan somehow find a way to leave the message before… what happened this morning? No, he’s been in prison and wouldn’t know my routines anyway. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation, but it eludes me.

If Logan were, here I’d ask him if this was the sort of secret spy stuff he dealt with at work. He would insist that “I’m not a spy. My job is quite boring. You should stop reading so many books.” Still, he evaded my questions whenever I asked specifics about what he did.

What do I gain by following where the note leads? Doing so won’t bring my brother back. In fact, ignoring it might be cathartic. It would feel like letting my Logan go and moving on—a painful but clean break—but is that what I want? Memories of Logan pass quickly through my mind, too quick to hold onto any single one. I can’t shake the feeling of isolation that hangs over me like I’m a shadow without a source—belonging to no one, tethered to nothing.

The thing is, in my gut, I still know that something was off about Logan and what he was accused of. Murder. After his arrest, I told myself it had to be a mistake, a lie, a frame-up tied to his work. But then the evidence piled up. And Logan didn’t defend himself. At first, it seemed like he might go to trial—they spent a year building a case—and I was convinced the truth would come out. But then I learned he had taken a plea deal. Taryn had even supported it. “It’s his choice,” she had said, tired and resigned. He would escape death and instead suffer… a different kind of death. Why didn’t he defend himself? Why didn’t he say anything? His silence left a void that only amplified my loneliness.

After that, he cut me off, and eventually, I cut him off too. And then I cut off his family—both to spite Logan and to spite Taryn for giving up on him so easily. It destroyed me and I still haven’t healed. Maybe I’m not ready to heal. Maybe that’s why I find myself staring at the note without realizing it, burning an afterimage into my vision, tunneling out the gray-blue walls of the room. In a weird way, this strange quest is my last link to him. Abandoning it would feel like losing him forever.

I’m going to figure out what it means.

There’s no question about the “birthday bridge” mentioned in the note, but if I leave now, it might be too dark once I get there to do what I need to do. I close my dry eyes, wincing at the sting of my eyelids. The ringing in my ears has faded, but there’s a dull pounding in my temple to take its place. My body craves water, but the effort of hydrating myself, in my exhaustion, feels just as arduous as watering the plant in the hallway. Instead, I turn down the thermostat and strip down to my underwear, welcoming the discomfort of the goosebumps that form across my body. Then I wrap myself in a blanket, crash on the living room loveseat—too tired to make it to the bedroom—and try to block out memories of the bridge until morning.

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After a night of sleep so deep I struggle to wake up again, I’m feeling groggy and disoriented, and my back aches after curling up all night on the loveseat. I come to my senses and wonder how high the water will be under the Chain Bridge that crosses the Potomac into Virginia.

I can’t recall the first time Logan and I wrote under the bridge or whose birthday it was. Every year afterward it changed between his birthday and mine, both at the beginning of October, or later on when we forgot. The idea of the game was simple: write on one of the pebbles forming the stone support under the bridge while the water level was low. The challenge was to write on the stone closest to the ground—and the water—without it being washed clean over the coming year. Whoever’s writing lasted and was closest to the bottom of the support would win. It was a silly ritual, and “winning” didn’t mean much. We just kept doing it because we always had.

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I see the bridge from the Metro and the area surrounding it is as picturesque as ever. The leaves wear their fall colors like a tapestry of rust and gold. The river below meanders lazily, reflecting the autumn light, while hikers on the Heritage Trail pass by. I scramble over the large rocks surrounding the bridge to reach the stone support beneath, the familiar crunch and scrape under my feet grounding me. I pick up a small stone and run my thumb over its cool, smooth surface. I glance around, taking in the tranquility, half-expecting to catch a glimpse of whoever left the note in my book, though I can’t imagine anyone would be staking out indefinitely.

I search the pillar for any sign of our past messages—sometimes lasting years depending on the writing materials we could find at the time—but I find nothing on our usual section. My fingers trace the familiar roughness of the stones as I round the pillar, examining each side closely. I stop short when I notice a crude drawing on one of the stones just below eye level: a phoenix, rendered in black marker, with wings raised high and long tail feathers stretching below.

A little farther down the pillar, I see a street address, written small enough to fit on a single stone, with a number circled underneath: 115. Hard to tell, but it looks like it could be the same handwriting from the note on the hold slip. Neither of which looks like Logan’s. The marker is still there, nestled in a flat groove between stones. I use my phone to take a picture of the address and the number, then, because my spy novel conditioning obliges me to cover my tracks, I use the marker to color over the writing, obscuring what was there.

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The address leads me to a part of town I’ve never been to before. It’s an older area, but not a sketchy one, with aging apartment buildings, small businesses, and a strip mall. I’m on edge as I make my way there, searching the faces I pass on the Metro, paranoid that I’m being watched. I try to remain vigilant, but I’m distracted by the question of whose guidance it is I’m following. Whoever it is knows intimate details about my life—the places I go, Logan’s nickname for me, and about our history of writing under the bridge.

It could be Taryn. She’s familiar with all the terms of endearment Logan and I had for each other: Nix, Gan, shithead, fuckface. We even brought her to the bridge one year when the two of them were just dating. At the time, she played along, giggling and pretending to enjoy herself, but later admitted she was terrified of being caught and arrested for vandalism. She never came again. Why contact me now, though, and why like this? It wouldn’t be a leap for her to assume I’d spend time at the library, but have we even talked recently enough for her to know which one?

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

It can only be Logan or Taryn, but Logan has had no opportunity, and Taryn has no reason. It also seems unlikely that this person wishes to do me harm. These messages don’t feel like threats—they’re more like breadcrumbs. I’m at a loss, but I’m following blindly.

Finally, I come to a small self-storage facility wedged between a music repair shop and a Mexican restaurant. It’s nondescript, with an off-white, paint-chipped exterior and a faded sign. As soon as I touch the door handle to pull it open, I hear the sizzle of a fajita next door and panic for a split-second, sure that the handle has been electrified. Immediately after, from the other direction, the moan of what must be a tuba makes a mocking noise that sounds suspiciously like a whomp-whomp. Get a grip, man, I command myself.

Leaving behind the scent of garlic and cumin, I open the door, heart still pounding from my imagined electrocution. I take stock of the few other people inside, carrying on with their business, oblivious to my brush with death. The walls are lined with 10x10 units, and straight ahead, there are rows and rows of smaller lockers. I find number 115 in the second row from the front door, protected by a combination lock. I had been expecting this. The original note from the library is seared behind my eyelids after staring at it for so long: Remember the worst day of your life. With clammy hands, I spin to the month, day, and year of Logan’s arrest, not even stopping to consider that it might mean something else.

The silence of the area is compounded by the click of the lock as it opens, and I am compelled to look one way, then the other before peering inside. On the floor of the locker is a small safe deposit box. But instead of a key or combination lock it has a fingerprint scanner. I stare at it for a moment, nonplussed, then impulsively press my thumb to the scanner and watch it blink red. I’m equally disappointed and relieved. That would have been too weird. I try my opposite thumb with the same result. Then, just to be thorough, I place my index finger to it, expecting it to blink red again.

Then the tiny light flashes green and the door unlatches. What the fuck. Up until now, the chase has been unsettling but intriguing. This shit just got weird as hell.

If someone has gone to the lengths of obtaining my biometric data, undetected, there’s no use in trying to back out. I’m in it now. I resolve to postpone the panic I’m vaguely aware is setting in, and peer inside the box to find a single unmarked USB drive. Fuck covering my tracks; I leave the safe deposit box right there in the storage locker. Then I clutch the USB in my hand, imagining a weight I know it doesn’t hold, and keep it there all the way home like a grenade that might go off if I let go.

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Back in the safety of my cluttered apartment, surrounded by the familiar mess that makes it feel like home, plugging the USB drive into my laptop feels like a violation of this sacred space. The library is out-of-bounds after yesterday’s debacle, and I can’t trust the use of public computers to be secure or private, given how personal this has become. I can always wipe my laptop and start fresh if it’s compromised, right?

The screen lights up, revealing an icon labeled ‘V’ on the desktop. Double-clicking it brings up a series of folders:

-Start_Here.txt.

-Reports/

-Evidence/

-Additional_Notes/

My heart races. Someone stole my thumbprint to show this to me. Feeling out of my depth, I’m glad to have some direction. I click on Start_Here.txt.

From: SA Logan Waite

To: SSA Van Nguyen

Re: Urgent Review

Contents:

-Operation Ironclad: Status Update

-Unknown Agency Infiltration

-Vandal Savage Incident Analysis

The first line grips me immediately—Logan’s name in bold.

The report details an eight-month undercover FBI assignment called Operation Ironclad. There are meticulous notes about his time infiltrating a neo-Nazi faction called Saxon Warband, meticulously documenting its structure, planned violence, and financial backers.

The violence and brutality Logan was immersed in are made all the more horrifying by his clinical, detached approach to delineating his observations. Among the entries:

* Participated in armed robbery to fund faction’s activities. Target: pawn shop suspected of being owned by minorities. Noted the psychological and physical impact on the victims.

* Observed faction leaders conducting a ‘training’ session with firearms on stolen land. Target practice involved effigies of political figures and ethnic minorities.

* Witnessed punishment of a member suspected of cooperation with law enforcement. Subject was confined, beaten, and ultimately executed by the group. Body disposed of in a river.

I knew Logan worked for the FBI, but I had no idea he was an undercover special agent. He never shared that part of his life. Eight months away from home. “Sort of like a deployment,” was how he explained it at the time. He framed it as routine fieldwork, something administrative. He never gave any indication that he would be in danger, and I’m ashamed that it never crossed my mind that he might be.

The report reveals information about an unknown agency that Logan believed was manipulating Saxon Warband’s leader, Vandal Savage, towards extremism. Logan believed the agency’s goal was to cultivate Savage as a figurehead to incite unrest that could justify the use of Erasure in a high-profile case. I remember the media circus surrounding Vandal Savage well. His was one of the earliest, most prominent instances of a criminal being sentenced to Erasure. The media had a field day when he was “restored to factory settings” and reverted to mild-mannered Alan Jensen.

After absorbing the contents of Start_Here.txt, I move to the next folder:

Reports/

- Incident_Analysis_10-14.pdf

- Tactical_Support_Request_10-19.docx

The incident analysis details a tense confrontation between Vandal Savage and a member of the unknown organization who called Savage a “pussy,” goading him into showing off a major display of power. The Tactical Support Request flags a planned Saxon Warband rally that Logan suspected may escalate into violence.

I continue my exploration:

Evidence/

- Audio_Log_10-15.mp3

- Video_Surveillance_10-12.mp4

- Financial_Records_Summary_09-28.xlsx

The audio log captures a tense negotiation between Savage and a representative of the organization, which he identifies as The Awakening. The video shows a clandestine warehouse meeting, capturing key members of both groups. The financial records summarize transactions linking The Awakening to Saxon Warband.

Finally, I open the last folder, Additional_Notes, which contains a single message in a text file:

Van: Logan, we have reason to believe your cover may have been compromised. Stay alert and proceed with caution. Report back with any signs of exposure.

The entire body of evidence, particularly concerning The Awakening, sends chills down my spine. But it’s that last message that stops me dead. We have reason to believe your cover may have been compromised. What does that mean? Compromised by whom? Could his blown cover have led to his arrest and Erasure? There’s no specific evidence, but there’s enough of a connection that the implication is there.

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I can’t help but wonder, why contact me and not, perhaps, his wife? A journalist? Someone who would know what to do with this information? “What am I supposed to do with this information?” I emphasize aloud to myself, offering my own validation. I’m an unemployed loser with a useless psychology degree, I think, the irony not lost on me.

The closest thing I ever had to an investigative journalism qualification was what Logan dubbed my Dateline Degree. After “solving” a particularly twisty episode of Dateline together, I once told Logan that I missed my true calling working for the FBI, to which he replied that he didn’t recall ever seeing Keith Morrison at the Bureau. Pretending not to hear him, I conceded that having a second Agent Waite could be confusing, so I’d relinquish the title to him out of respect. That earned a thumbs-up and a reassurance that he was Special Agent Waite, so I could keep “Agent” for myself.

For a long while, I binged true crime the way some people devour Agatha Christie novels. Those victims and their tragedies may as well have been fiction to me. I cheered and jeered appropriately when justice was served, or wasn’t, as if it hadn’t already happened, years or decades earlier. I consumed women’s Me Toos and families’ grief for my enjoyment, found comfort in them, even, in a perverse way. Their stories unfolded neatly through interviews and organized evidence over the course of an hour.

Then Logan hit the headlines and the “fiction” of true crime hit too close to home.

I guess I’m getting my chance to play detective. Because whether there’s a mystery surrounding Logan’s crimes or not, there’s now a mystery about whether there’s a mystery. And I’m going to solve the hell out of it.