The taxi driver refused to go any further. He gestured expressively at the narrow mountain track that wound upward through the red rocks, his Arabic rapid and emphatic. Priya Sharma understood enough to know he was saying something about goats having more sense than tourists.
She paid him, shouldered her backpack, and began the final kilometer on foot. The October sun was already fierce despite the early hour, and she was grateful for the baseball cap she'd bought in Marrakech. The "Serenity Sanctuary" wellness retreat had seemed like exactly what she needed when she'd booked it from her London flat six weeks ago—seven days of digital detox, meditation, and yoga in the Atlas Mountains. Now, trudging up the dusty path in her inappropriate trainers, she wondered if she hadn't simply exchanged one form of discomfort for another.
The retreat appeared around a bend like something from a travel blogger's fever dream. Traditional Berber architecture had been given a contemporary makeover—smooth adobe walls in dusty rose, infinity pools that seemed to drop off the mountain edge, and geometric patterns in crisp white against terracotta. It was undeniably beautiful, and Priya felt the cynical armor she'd worn since her breakdown beginning to crack, just slightly.
"Welcome, welcome!" Dr. Hassan Benali emerged from an arched doorway, his arms spread wide. He was a handsome man in his fifties, with silver threading through his black beard and the kind of deep tan that suggested a life lived outdoors. "You must be Ms. Sharma. You're the last to arrive. Come, let me show you to your room. The others are already at morning practice."
Priya followed him through a courtyard where a fountain tinkled pleasantly and jasmine scented the air. Through an open doorway, she glimpsed a yoga studio where several figures moved through sun salutations.
"You'll meet everyone at breakfast," Dr. Benali said, leading her up stone stairs worn smooth by centuries of feet. "We have a wonderful group this week. Very international. There's Dmitri from Russia, Amara from Nigeria, Ingrid from Sweden, Carlos from Mexico, and of course, our instructor Yuki from Japan. Plus yourself from England."
"Sounds like the United Nations," Priya said, attempting lightness.
Dr. Benali's laugh seemed forced. "Yes, yes. Though hopefully with less conflict." He opened a heavy wooden door. "Here we are. Please, freshen up, and join us on the main terrace when you're ready."
The room was simple but elegant—whitewashed walls, a bed with crisp linen, a writing desk, and a window that framed the mountains like a painting. Priya set down her bag and checked her phone out of habit. No signal, as advertised. For someone who'd spent the last fifteen years analyzing data streams, the silence felt both liberating and terrifying.
Twenty minutes later, she found her way to the terrace where breakfast was being served. The other guests were already seated around a long table laden with fresh fruit, flatbreads, honey, and mint tea. The conversation stopped as she approached.
"Everyone, this is Priya," Dr. Benali announced. "Priya, please sit wherever you like."
She chose a seat between a striking Black woman with elaborately braided hair and a pale, sharp-featured blonde. The Black woman extended a manicured hand.
"Amara Okonkwo," she said, her British-Nigerian accent cultured and warm. "I follow your work, actually. Your paper on predictive analytics in healthcare was brilliant."
Priya blinked in surprise. "You're in tech?"
"Oh no," Amara laughed, a musical sound that seemed practiced. "I'm in wellness. But I like to stay informed about all aspects of health. I run the Instagram account @MindfulWarrior."
"Two point three million followers," added the man across from them. He was massive, with the kind of muscles that suggested expensive personal trainers and possibly something more pharmaceutical. His accent was unmistakably Russian. "I know because I studied you all before coming. Old habits from my previous life."
"Dmitri believes everyone is data to be analyzed," said the blonde woman coolly. She had the kind of bone structure that belonged on magazine covers and eyes like winter ice. "I'm Ingrid, by the way."
"What previous life?" asked Carlos, a compact man with watchful eyes and hands that never stopped moving—adjusting his napkin, straightening his cutlery, drumming softly on the table.
Dmitri smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I made my fortune in tech. Social media platforms, actually. But now I've seen the light. Or rather, I've seen the darkness. These platforms, this whole wellness industry—it's all manipulation. Beautiful lies sold to desperate people."
The temperature at the table seemed to drop several degrees.
"That's rather cynical," Amara said, her tone still pleasant but with an edge underneath. "Some of us are genuinely trying to help people."
"Are you?" Dmitri leaned back in his chair. "Tell me, how much do you make from your affiliate links? Twenty percent commission on those meditation apps? Thirty percent on the supplements?"
"Dmitri, please," Dr. Benali interjected. "We're here to find peace, not conflict."
"Peace built on truth, I hope," Dmitri said. "Not peace built on delusion."
Yuki, the yoga instructor, stood abruptly. She was petite, with her hair in a severe bun and the kind of flexibility that made her movements seem liquid. "I should prepare for the morning session," she said, though Priya noticed her glance at Dr. Benali before leaving.
"Don't mind Dmitri," Ingrid said to Priya, though her eyes remained on the Russian. "He's on a crusade. Aren't you? Your new YouTube channel, exposing what you call 'wellness fraud.' How many people have you destroyed so far?"
"Only the ones who deserved it," Dmitri replied. "The fake gurus, the MLM schemes disguised as spiritual awakening, the—"
"Enough." Dr. Benali's voice carried surprising authority. "This is a place of healing. Whatever conflicts you've brought with you, I ask that you leave them at the door. We have a full week ahead of us. Let's not poison it on the first day."
An uncomfortable silence settled over the table. Priya sipped her mint tea and observed. It was habit from her work—watching patterns, noting anomalies. And there were plenty here. The way Amara's hands trembled slightly when she reached for her phone, only to remember it wouldn't work. The tattoo partially visible under Carlos's sleeve that looked suspiciously like gang ink. The way Ingrid studied everyone with the calculating gaze of someone gathering intelligence.
"So, Priya," Amara said, clearly trying to lighten the mood. "What brings you to our little retreat?"
"Burnout," Priya answered honestly. "Too many years of looking at screens, finding patterns in chaos. My therapist suggested I needed to disconnect."
"Patterns in chaos," Dmitri mused. "That's what I used to do too. Build algorithms to predict behavior, to manipulate engagement. Do you know what I learned? People are disappointingly predictable. Give them what they want to hear, validate their biases, and they'll give you everything—their time, their money, their souls."
"You're a cheerful fellow," Carlos said dryly. "Perhaps you need this retreat more than any of us."
"Perhaps," Dmitri agreed. "Or perhaps I'm here for other reasons entirely." He stood, tossing his napkin on the table. "If you'll excuse me, I think I'll skip yoga and go for a walk. The mountains at least are honest."
After he left, the atmosphere lightened marginally. Dr. Benali suggested they all attend the morning session, and Priya found herself following the group to the yoga studio. She was terrible at yoga—her mind too busy, her body too rigid—but she tried to focus on Yuki's soft instructions, the sound of breathing, the mountain air flowing through the open windows.
It was during shavasana, the final resting pose, that she heard it. A sound that didn't belong—a harsh, electronic beep. Her eyes snapped open. The others remained still, deep in their meditation. The sound came again, from somewhere outside. Then silence.
That evening, dinner was a livelier affair. Dmitri had returned from his walk in better spirits, or at least better at pretending. Carlos told stories of his travels through South America that carefully avoided any mention of what he'd been doing there. Ingrid revealed she worked in "pharmaceuticals" but was vague about the details. Amara live-streamed parts of the meal to her Instagram stories using the retreat's limited satellite internet, carefully curating every shot.
"No phones at dinner, please," Dr. Benali said gently.
"Just a quick story," Amara protested. "My followers expect—"
"Your followers can wait," Dmitri interrupted. "Unless, of course, this whole retreat is just content to you. Another experience to monetize."
Amara's face flushed. "Not everyone can afford to throw away their career like you did. Some of us have responsibilities."
"Responsibilities to whom? To the people you're lying to?"
"I don't lie!"
"No? What about the eating disorder you never mention? The anxiety medication you hide? The fact that your 'natural glow' comes from extremely expensive chemical peels?"
The table went silent. Amara stood slowly, her dignity intact despite the tears threatening to spill. "How dare you."
"Public information," Dmitri said with a shrug. "Your former assistant has been quite talkative online. Amazing what people will reveal when they feel betrayed."
Amara left without another word. Yuki started to follow, but Dr. Benali caught her arm, whispering something in Arabic. She sat back down, but her expression was troubled.
"You're a bastard," Ingrid told Dmitri conversationally, as if commenting on the weather.
"I'm honest," he replied. "That's what makes me dangerous."
"Dangerous men often end up dead," Carlos said quietly, and something in his tone made everyone look at him. He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "In my experience."
Priya excused herself early, claiming jet lag. But instead of going to her room, she walked the retreat's perimeter, trying to understand the geography. The main building was built into the mountainside, with terraces and rooms at different levels. The yoga studio was on the east side, the dining area on the west. Guest rooms were scattered throughout, connected by narrow passages and stone stairs. It would be easy to move around unseen, especially at night.
She found Amara on a lower terrace, face illuminated by her phone screen.
"No signal," Amara said without looking up. "But I'm writing posts for when we get back. Have to maintain the illusion, don't I?"
"He was cruel," Priya offered.
"He was right." Amara's voice was bitter. "That's the worst part. Everything he said was true. I've built my entire life on a lie, and now I can't stop. Do you know what happens to influencers who admit they're human? They disappear. Two million followers, gone overnight."
"Is that really the worst thing?"
Amara looked at her then, and Priya saw the desperation underneath the perfect makeup. "When it's all you have? Yes."
That night, Priya couldn't sleep. The retreat was too quiet after London's constant hum. She lay in bed, watching shadows move across the ceiling, thinking about patterns. Everyone here was running from something or toward something. But what?
She must have dozed eventually because she woke to the sound of the morning call to prayer echoing across the mountains. Five AM. She dressed quickly and made her way to the yoga studio for the sunrise session.
Yuki was already there, adjusting mats. "You're early," she said, surprised.
"Couldn't sleep. New place."
"I understand. It takes time to adjust." Yuki's English was precise, carefully articulated. "The others will arrive soon."
They came in one by one. Dr. Benali first, then Carlos, then Ingrid. Amara appeared, having repaired her makeup to perfection. They waited for Dmitri.
"We should begin," Yuki said after ten minutes. "He probably went for another walk."
They moved through the poses, the morning light gradually filling the studio. It was during tree pose, everyone balanced on one leg, that Ingrid suddenly gasped and pointed to the window.
There, on a ledge about twenty feet below, was a body. Even from this distance, the Russian's distinctive bulk was unmistakable.
Dr. Benali was the first to move, rushing from the studio. The others followed, a confused cluster descending the stone steps to the lower terrace. They found Dmitri sprawled on the rocks, his neck at an unnatural angle. Dead.
"Don't touch anything," Priya said automatically, her analytical mind taking over. "This is a crime scene."
"Crime scene?" Dr. Benali looked shocked. "He fell. The paths can be treacherous in the dark—"
"Look at his hands," Priya interrupted. There were defensive wounds, scratches and bruising. "And his room is up there." She pointed to a window two levels above. "That's not a fall. That's a fight."
"We need to call the police," Ingrid said, already pulling out her phone.
"No signal," Dr. Benali reminded them. "The satellite phone is in my office, but—" He paused, looking stricken. "The sandstorm. It's coming today. The weather report said it would last at least forty-eight hours. No one can get in or out."
They stood in a circle around Dmitri's body, the reality sinking in. Someone among them was a murderer. And they were trapped together.
"We should move him," Carlos said. "The sun will—"
"No," Priya said firmly. "We photograph everything first. Document the scene. Then we move him somewhere cool. And then we find out who did this."
"You?" Amara's voice was shaky. "You're going to investigate?"
"Unless someone else has experience with murder investigations?" Priya looked around the circle. No one met her eyes. "I didn't think so. I analyze patterns for a living. This is just another dataset."
But as she looked down at Dmitri's body, she knew this was far more than data. This was a human being who'd been silenced, permanently. And somewhere in their group, hiding behind a mask of shock and innocence, was a killer.
The wind was already picking up, sending small spirals of dust across the terrace. In the distance, the sky was turning an ominous orange. The sandstorm was coming, and with it, a reckoning.
They used phones to photograph the scene from every angle before carefully moving Dmitri's body to a cool storage room. Dr. Benali provided sheets to wrap him in, his hands shaking as he helped Carlos lift the dead man.
"We should search his room," Priya said once they'd finished. "Before anyone has a chance to remove evidence."
"This is insane," Dr. Benali protested. "We're not detectives. We should wait for the authorities—"
"In two days?" Ingrid interrupted. "While we all pretend everything is normal? While the killer walks among us?" She turned to Priya. "I'll help you search."
Dmitri's room was on the third level, accessible by a narrow external staircase. The door was unlocked. Inside, the bed was unmade, showing signs of a struggle. A laptop sat open on the desk, its screen dark.
"Battery's dead," Ingrid observed, trying to power it on. "But look at this."
She held up a notebook filled with Dmitri's handwriting. Names, dates, financial figures. It appeared to be research on various wellness influencers and retreat centers. Amara's name appeared frequently, with notes about "fraudulent claims" and "undisclosed sponsorships." But Dr. Benali's name was there too, with question marks next to "funding sources" and "connection to H.L.?"
"Who's H.L.?" Priya wondered aloud.
"We should ask him," Ingrid said grimly.
They gathered everyone in the main hall. The windows were already being shuttered against the approaching storm, casting the room in twilight despite the early hour.
"Dmitri was investigating all of us," Priya announced, showing them the notebook. "But some names appear more than others. Dr. Benali, who is H.L.?"
The retreat owner's composure cracked slightly. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Hassan," Yuki said softly. "Tell them."
He sighed deeply. "Henrik Larsson. He's a Swedish pharmaceutical executive who's been offering to buy the retreat. I've refused, but—"
"Larsson?" Ingrid's voice was sharp. "Henrik Larsson is my ex-husband."
Everyone turned to stare at her.
"You're here to spy for him?" Dr. Benali accused.
"I'm here to stop him," Ingrid corrected. "He's planning to turn places like this into medical testing facilities. Alternative medicine trials that wouldn't be approved in Europe. I came to warn you, but—" She paused. "But Dmitri figured out who I was. He confronted me yesterday during his walk."
"And you killed him for it?" Amara's voice was high with fear.
"No! We argued, yes. He threatened to expose me online, to ruin my career like he'd ruined others. But I didn't kill him."
"Someone did," Carlos said quietly. "And that someone is in this room."
The lights flickered as the storm hit in earnest. Sand began seeping through tiny gaps in the shutters, and the wind howled like something alive and angry.
"We need to establish timelines," Priya said, trying to maintain order. "Where was everyone last night after dinner?"
"I was in my room," Amara said quickly. "Writing posts."
"I was walking the grounds," Carlos offered. "I don't sleep well."
"I was with Hassan," Yuki said, then blushed. "Discussing tomorrow's—today's—class schedule."
Dr. Benali nodded confirmation, though he looked uncomfortable.
"And I was in my room, trying to contact my lawyer about Henrik," Ingrid said. "Though with no signal, I didn't get far."
"So no one has an alibi," Priya summarized. "Wonderful."
The day passed in tense segments. They attempted to maintain some normalcy—meals were served, Yuki led a meditation session that no one could focus on—but the presence of death hung over everything. The storm raged outside, turning day into an orange-tinted twilight.
Priya interviewed each person individually in the library, taking notes in her methodical way.
Amara broke down during her interview, admitting that Dmitri had more on her than just the eating disorder. "I've been taking money from companies I claim to oppose. Promoting products I know don't work. He had screenshots of everything. He was going to destroy me."
Carlos was more circumspect, but eventually revealed he'd been a lawyer for the Sinaloa cartel before testifying against them and entering witness protection. "Dmitri somehow figured it out. Said he could see it in my eyes, the things I'd done. He wanted to know about the drug trade's connection to certain supplement companies."
Yuki admitted her affair with Dr. Benali, and that Dmitri had caught them together weeks ago during a previous retreat. "He said he wouldn't tell anyone if Hassan gave him information about the wellness industry's financial networks. Hassan refused."
Dr. Benali, when pressed, revealed the retreat was nearly bankrupt. "Henrik's offer was generous, but I knew what he planned. Dmitri said he could help, that exposing the corruption would bring honest people to places like mine. But I didn't trust him."
Ingrid maintained her innocence but admitted she'd brought a gun. "For protection. Henrik has dangerous associates." But when they checked her room, the gun was missing.
That evening, as they gathered for dinner, the lights went out completely. The backup generator kicked in, casting everything in a dim, emergency glow. They ate in near silence, the sound of sand hitting the shutters like static.
"We're going about this wrong," Priya said suddenly. "We're looking at who had motive to kill Dmitri. But everyone did. The question is, who had the means and opportunity?"
"The scratches on his hands," Carlos said thoughtfully. "Check everyone for injuries."
They did, but found nothing conclusive. Several people had small cuts from the mountain paths, but nothing that definitively indicated a fight.
That night, Priya couldn't shake the feeling she was missing something. She reviewed her notes by candlelight, looking for patterns. Everyone had lied about something, but that was human nature. The question was which lie mattered.
At three AM, she heard footsteps in the corridor. Soft, deliberate. She opened her door a crack and saw a figure moving toward the stairs. In the darkness, she couldn't tell who it was. She followed at a distance.
The figure went to Dmitri's room and entered. Priya crept closer, listening. She heard drawers opening, papers rustling. Then a gasp.
She pushed open the door to find Yuki holding a phone—Dmitri's phone, still powered on.
"I had to know," Yuki said, tears streaming down her face. "If he had evidence about Hassan and me."
"And?"
"Videos," Yuki whispered. "Of everyone. He'd been recording secretly for weeks. Look."
She showed Priya the screen. There was footage of Amara purging after meals, Carlos on a satellite phone speaking rapid Spanish about "packages," Ingrid meeting with someone in Marrakech who looked suspiciously like a private investigator, and Dr. Benali in his office, on a call saying, "I don't care what it takes. Dmitri cannot leave here with that information."
"My God," Priya breathed. "He was blackmailing everyone."
"Not everyone," Yuki said. "There's nothing about you."
That's when they heard the scream.
They ran toward the sound, finding the others already gathered in Amara's room. She was pressed against the wall, pointing at her bed. There, placed on her pillow, was Ingrid's missing gun with a note: "You're next."
"Someone's trying to frame me," Ingrid said immediately.
"Or threaten Amara," Carlos countered. "Why her?"
"Because I know who the killer is," Amara said shakily. "I saw something that night. I didn't realize what it meant until now."
Everyone leaned in.
"I couldn't sleep, so I went to the kitchen for tea around 2 AM. I saw someone coming from Dmitri's room. They were carrying something—a laptop. They went toward the east wing."
"Who?" Dr. Benali demanded.
"I couldn't see clearly, but they had a distinctive walk. A slight limp on the left side."
Everyone looked at each other, then down at their own feet.
"Carlos," Ingrid said suddenly. "You've been favoring your left foot since yesterday."
"An old injury," Carlos said defensively. "From my previous life. It acts up sometimes."
"Convenient," Ingrid muttered.
"Wait," Priya said, remembering something. "The electronic beep I heard during yoga yesterday morning. That wasn't from outside. It was from inside the studio." She turned to look at each person carefully. "Someone had a device on them. Something that shouldn't have been there."
"That's impossible," Dr. Benali said. "We collected all electronics—"
"Not medical devices," Priya interrupted, her mind racing. "Ingrid, you're in pharmaceuticals. Do you have an insulin pump? A heart monitor?"
Ingrid shook her head, but something flickered in her eyes.
"No, but you know who does, don't you?" Priya pressed. "Your ex-husband. Henrik Larsson. He's diabetic."
"What does that have to do with—" Ingrid started.
"Because Henrik Larsson isn't in Sweden," Priya said, the pieces falling into place. "He's here. He's been here all along."
Everyone looked around wildly.
"That's insane," Dr. Benali protested. "There are only seven of us—"
"Eight," Priya corrected. "Count again. When I arrived, you listed the guests. But you included Yuki as a guest, not staff. Why? Because there's another staff member. Someone who's been invisible to us because we expected them to be invisible."
She walked to the door and called out, "You can come out now, Mr. Larsson. Or should I say, Yousef?"
Slowly, the man they'd all ignored—the silent server who brought their meals, cleaned their rooms, maintained the generator—stepped into view. Without the traditional Moroccan djellaba he'd worn all week, without the beard he'd clearly grown to disguise himself, Henrik Larsson stood revealed.
"Clever," he said in accented English, all pretense gone. "How did you know?"
"The insulin pump beep during yoga. You were in the storage room beneath the studio, weren't you? And the limp—Ingrid mentioned her ex-husband's skiing injury that damaged his left knee. But mostly, it was the notebook. Dmitri wrote 'H.L.' next to Dr. Benali's name, but he wasn't asking who H.L. was—he was noting that H.L. was already here."
"You killed him," Ingrid said to her ex-husband, her voice filled with disgust.
"He was going to ruin everything," Henrik said. "My plans for this place, the entire network I've been building. He had documents, recordings. He knew about the clinical trials, the unregulated supplements, all of it."
"So you fought him in his room and threw him off the terrace," Priya said.
"He fought back harder than expected for such a soft-looking man," Henrik admitted, rubbing his ribs. "But yes."
"Why the gun on Amara's bed?" Carlos asked.
"Insurance. If you'd found me out, I needed someone else to blame. The hysterical influencer seemed a good choice."
"You bastard," Amara spat.
"It's just business," Henrik said with a shrug. Then, quick as a snake, he pulled out a knife. "Now, we're going to wait out this storm, and then I'm leaving. Anyone who tries to stop me—"
Carlos moved faster than anyone expected. One moment he was standing still, the next he had Henrik's wrist twisted behind his back, the knife clattering to the floor. "Lawyer, remember?" he said mildly. "You learn things in certain circles."
They tied Henrik up with yoga straps, of all things, and locked him in the storage room after moving Dmitri's body elsewhere. The storm raged for another day, during which they took turns guarding the prisoner and trying to process what had happened.
When the authorities finally arrived, helicopter blades cutting through the clear morning air, they found a group of people transformed by their ordeal. Amara had deleted her Instagram account, deciding to pursue genuine wellness rather than its performance. Carlos had decided to break his silence and write about his experience, consequences be damned. Yuki and Dr. Benali had ended their affair but committed to saving the retreat through honest means. Ingrid had already contacted journalists about her ex-husband's schemes.
And Priya? She stood on the terrace, watching the helicopter approach, feeling something she hadn't experienced in years—clarity. Not the kind that came from data analysis, but the kind that came from human understanding.
"You did well," Dr. Benali said, joining her. "You saved us all."
"We saved each other," she corrected. "That's what people do when the masks come off."
As the police led Henrik away, Dmitri's body was carefully loaded onto a stretcher. For all his flaws, his aggressive pursuit of truth, he'd died trying to expose corruption. There was something to be said for that.
"Will you come back?" Yuki asked Priya as she prepared to leave.
Priya looked around at the retreat, at the mountains that had witnessed so much drama, at the people who'd become unlikely allies in the face of murder.
"You know," she said with a small smile, "I think I've had enough wellness retreats for a lifetime."
But as the taxi drove her back down the mountain path, she found herself already missing the strange clarity that came from being disconnected from the digital world and connected instead to the messy, dangerous, ultimately human reality of the people around her. Her therapist had been right—she had needed to disconnect. She just hadn't expected it to involve solving a murder.
Back in London a week later, Priya returned to her data streams and algorithms. But now she saw patterns differently. Behind every data point was a human story, complex and contradictory. Dmitri Volkov had been wrong about one thing—people weren't predictable. They were capable of both terrible cruelty and unexpected courage, often in the same moment.
She kept in touch with the others. Amara was training to be an actual nutritionist. Carlos's memoir was already generating buzz. Ingrid was testifying against her ex-husband in multiple countries. The Serenity Sanctuary had reopened under Dr. Benali and Yuki's joint management, this time with transparency about their methods and limitations.
Sometimes, late at night when London's lights blurred together outside her window, Priya thought about those days trapped in the sandstorm with a killer. It had been terrifying, yes. But it had also been real in a way her normal life rarely was. No filters, no algorithms, no careful curation. Just human nature in all its raw complexity.
She pulled up travel websites occasionally, looking at other retreats, other mountains, other places to disconnect. Not because she wanted another murder—God forbid—but because she'd learned something valuable in Morocco. Sometimes the most important patterns weren't in the data at all. They were in the spaces between, in the silences, in the things people tried to hide.
Her phone buzzed with a message from Amara: "There's a new wellness retreat opening in Bhutan. Want to check it out together? I promise no murders this time."
Priya laughed, typing back: "What are the odds of lightning striking twice?"
But even as she sent it, she was already checking flights. Because if there was one thing she'd learned from the Mindfulness Murders, it was that life was too short to spend it all behind screens. Sometimes you had to step into the mess, embrace the chaos, and trust your ability to find patterns in the most unlikely places.
Even if those patterns occasionally led to murder.