Fei Hargreeves Novels & Stories

The meeting with Detective Harris felt heavy from the start. Jason and Bella laid everything out; the mysterious Seraphina Dubois, the hacked systems, the anonymous file, and that strange countdown date. Harris listened closely, flipping through the file Bella had built. His face grew more serious with each page.

Beethoven’s Ninth filled the room. One of the detectives approached the TV to turn it off. “Don’t,” she said. The detective stopped in mid-stride. “I want to hear it.” She stood there, staring at Sergei, as his voice filled the room. His voice that had been alive only hours before. It was eerie. Grace circled the room once more. This time she kneeled. “We’ve already been over this room, detective,” the FBI agent said, impatient. She spotted something out of the corner of her eye. She reached down, far beneath one of the slick armchairs. She craned her neck and twisted her arm, and reached all the way under.

It was the clinical, predatory stare of a hunter. I looked toward the bar. Standing there, holding a club soda, was a woman in a sharp, grey suit. She wasn't wearing jewelry. Her hair was pulled back into a tight, severe bun. She didn't seem to belong at a gala. She looked like she belonged in a courtroom. "Who is that?" I whispered to Dante. Dante didn't look, but I felt his arm stiffen beneath my hand. "That is Special Agent Sarah Vance. FBI. Organized Crime Division."

“Repeat that.” “She’s right,” Harvey repeats without backing down. “Evie is the only element Lang isn’t actively monitoring. To him, she is Beatrice Prescott, dead to the criminal world. None of his intelligence systems list her as a threat.” “That makes her invisible,” Luka concludes. “That makes her the only person who can get close without triggering alarms,” Harvey confirms. I look at Evie. At the ring on her finger. At the marks covered by the collar of her sweater. At the woman who went to meet monsters alone because she couldn’t let her friend die.

For the next twenty minutes I felt it like a hand pressed flat against the back of my neck. It was Eleanor Hargrove who eventually broke the orbit Collins and I had been holding — a small, sharp-eyed woman in her sixties who wore her silver hair like an accessory and her intelligence like a second dress. She found us near the window alcoves and fastened herself to the conversation with the pleasant tenacity of a woman who had spent decades extracting information from people who thought they were simply making small talk. She was warm. She was clever. She wanted to know everything about me without appearing to ask anything directly.

"Huh, should it seem as if they were killed by a serial killers? No too dark." Even though it wasn't her first kill, it felt different. The sensation that rushed through her spine when his blood splattered on her left cheek was exhilarating. The unrelated lives she took in her previous line of work never made her feel anything, no remorse, no closure, nothing. But she was now different, sort of reborn, driven by a vengeful thirst for blood. She was now Qiao Mo, the secretary to the President of of the Wushi Cooperation, and she was running late for work.

Across campus, in the Owl’s Perch common room, Mira Solene had her laptop open and her coffee going cold beside it and her eyes on the girl sitting across from her. She was new, not a Saint Aurelius student, not anyone Mira had seen on campus before, she had arrived twenty minutes ago with a name Mira hadn’t heard yet and a folder she hadn’t opened yet and the specific composure of someone who had rehearsed this meeting several times before walking through the door. “You said you had documentation,” Mira said “I do.” “On Hargreaves.” “On Hargreaves,” the girl confirmed. “And on someone else.” She paused. “Someone you’ve been covering for months.”Mira looked at her.

“So you go from Marlowe Geary to Gray Powers. From killer to cop, or whatever he is. Actually, they’re not so different, are they? They just kill for different reasons, kill different kinds of people. I wonder what this says about you.” But I’m not listening to him. I’m watching a young girl approach us. She is emaciated and pale as death today. Her hair is dirty and hanging limply. Her arms are covered with bruises. She walks slowly, almost dazed, but she’s looking right at me. Detective Harrison turns to follow my gaze, puts his hand inside his jacket.

In the interest of creating a flawless first impression, he’d opted for the latter, but now was keenly aware of his upscale selection as her striking golden hazel eyes swept him from head to toe and an unreadable smile pulled the corners of her achingly kissable lips. She’d mastered the skill of an impeccable poker face—something that eluded Marcus entirely. “Here’s your man, Miria.” Jim gestured between them in introduction. “Miria Munro, Agent Marcus Leigh of the FBI. Marcus, this is Teri’s older sister, Miria. This is the man who kept me, your sister and your future niece or nephew out of the hands of a killer.” Miria extended her hand, shaking Marcus’ with a firm but polite grip when he

I wasn’t sure how long I had been sitting here, but it felt like hours. My pulse had yet to settle, and it beat a relentless rhythm against my ribs. The door creaked open, and a man stepped inside, carrying a folder under his arm. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with sharp features and calculating eyes. His badge gleamed under the harsh fluorescent light: FBI. He pulled out the chair across from me and sat down, flipping open the folder. “Giselle Rae.” His voice was calm butfirm, as if he already knew every answer I could give him. “I’m Special Agent Mark Fetcher.”