At the diplomatic residence, Sush was on a high stool at the kitchen counter, scrolling through the eastern files that had been opened before the archer massacre for the umpteenth time. She and Greg agreed there wasn’t a pattern when they discussed it, but what if they missed something?

If there wasn’t a pattern, was there something else, something they’d both missed? She lost count of the number of times she tried Ctrl + F and typed in “hyena”, “owl”, and “rat”, and found nothing.

“Eat, please,” Greg urged and left a light kiss on her temple after placing a takeaway box of pasta in front of her as he...