He watched them go, her confident stride and his more careful gait, two predators moving through territory they didn't fully understand yet.
But she would.
The lake might be quiet now, but it wouldn't stay that way forever.And when it began to whisper again, when the next target presented themselves, Agent Rivers would be watching.
The thought should have filled him with caution.
Instead, as he finally looked down at his clipboard and got back to work, he realized he was almost looking forward to it.
CHAPTER ONE
The twilight sky above Lake Superior stretched like a bruise, purple and gold bleeding into the gray waters that lapped against the dock pilings with mechanical persistence.FBI Agent Isla Rivers pulled her wool coat tighter against the April wind.It carried the metallic tang of the harbor as she walked the weathered planks for what felt like the hundredth time in four months.
Her eyes swept the maze of shipping containers, cranes, and warehouse shadows that had become as familiar to her as her own reflection.The smell of diesel fuel and rust hung heavy in the air, mixing with the cleaner scent of lake water that stretched endlessly toward the horizon.Somewhere among these docks, she was certain, walked a killer who had perfected the art of making murder look like misfortune.Alex Novak's frozen body pulled from that ice fishing hole in December had been the final piece of a puzzle she'd been assembling since Sarah Sanchez's death nearly two years ago—her first case in Duluth, when she'd still believed this assignment was temporary.
The transition from Miami's perpetual heat to Minnesota's brutal winters had been jarring enough without adding a serial killer to the mix.But the patterns were unmistakable once you knew how to look for them.Bodies found floating in the harbor, all with head wounds consistent with falls.All discovered alone, without witnesses.All dismissed as tragic accidents by investigators who saw only what they expected to see in a dangerous industrial environment.
The Merrell boot print pressed into the snow beside Alex's fishing hole had been their only concrete lead.Size eleven, worn tread pattern, distinctive enough to trace.It might have been his first true mistake.
Isla had spent weeks methodically working through employee records at Northern Star Shipping and three other major operations along the waterfront.Her notebooks contained detailed interviews with forty-seven workers, background checks, alibis cross-referenced with dates of suspicious drownings stretching back five years.She'd studied personnel files until the names blurred together, looking for patterns in hiring dates, work assignments, anything that might connect to the timeline of deaths she'd mapped out on her office wall.
All of it had led nowhere.Today had been yet another fruitless day of investigating, and now she was back in the area, not to search for more answers, but to haunt the dock and think about what might come next.
The dock beneath her feet creaked as she paused beside a towering stack of containers bound for ports she'd never see—Shanghai, Rotterdam, Hamburg.Their metal sides were streaked with rust and salt, covered in shipping codes that spoke of a global network she was only beginning to understand.The amber glow of sodium lights was beginning to flicker on, casting long shadows that seemed to shift and breathe in her peripheral vision.She'd taken to these evening walks partly from frustration, partly from instinct.
Predators were creatures of habit, and something told her this one wouldn't be able to resist watching his hunting ground.
The port never truly slept.Even now, she could see the skeletal crews that worked the night shift—security guards making their rounds, maintenance workers checking equipment, the occasional truck rumbling through with late deliveries.Any one of them could be the person she was looking for.The Lake Superior Killer had been operating for years, possibly decades, blending seamlessly into the rhythm of daily operations.
A gull cried overhead, its harsh call echoing off the metal walls surrounding her.The sound reminded her of the seagulls back in Miami, though these northern birds seemed hardier, more aggressive in their pursuit of scraps from the fishing boats that still operated out of the harbor.Everything here was tougher, more resilient.Even the criminals.
Isla's hand drifted automatically to the service weapon at her hip—a gesture that had become more frequent as the investigation stalled.The familiar weight of the Glock was reassuring, though she knew it would do little good against an enemy who struck from shadows and disappeared like mist.In Miami, she'd been known for her ability to read crime scenes like others read novels, to slip inside a killer's mind and anticipate their next move.Here, she felt like she was groping through fog, chasing echoes of a presence that always stayed one step ahead.
The thought of Miami brought with it the familiar stab of guilt.Alicia Mendez's face surfaced in her memory—twenty-eight years old, elementary school teacher, dead because Isla had misread a profile and gone after the wrong suspect.The real killer had had time to claim one more victim while the FBI chased shadows, arriving just in time to see Alicia's life end.The transfer to Duluth had been presented as a lateral move, but Isla knew a demotion when she saw one.The question was whether she'd learned enough from her mistakes to catch this killer before he claimed someone else.
A crane groaned to life somewhere in the distance, its mechanical cry mixing with the constant whisper of wind through the rigging of moored vessels.The harbor was a symphony of industrial sounds—metal on metal, the hiss of hydraulics, the rumble of engines that never quite went silent.It would be easy to hide the sounds of violence here, to make a scream disappear into the ambient noise of commerce.
The sound of footsteps on wooden planks made her turn, muscles tensing until she recognized the familiar silhouette approaching through the gathering dusk.Special Agent James Sullivan's broad shoulders were hunched against the cold, his navy parka zipped up to his chin.His breath was visible in small puffs as he closed the distance between them, and she could see the concern etched in the lines around his blue eyes, even in the dim light.
"Figured I'd find you here," he said, his voice carrying that familiar note of quiet worry that had become more pronounced over their months of partnership."You've been out here for hours.Emma asked if you were coming to her soccer game on Saturday—apparently, I mentioned you might."
The mention of James's twelve-year-old daughter brought a small smile to Isla's lips despite her dark mood.Emma had inherited her father's stubborn streak and her mother's charm, a combination that had quickly wormed its way past Isla's carefully maintained professional boundaries."Wouldn't miss it.She's been working on that corner kick."
"She has."James moved to stand beside her, close enough that she could smell the faint scent of coffee and aftershave that always seemed to cling to his flannel shirts."Though right now she's more worried about her dad's partner, who apparently hasn't been eating real meals or sleeping regular hours."
The gentle reproach made Isla realize she couldn't remember her last proper meal or full night's sleep.The investigation had consumed her completely, turning her into the kind of obsessed agent she used to worry about becoming.Her sister, Claire, had stopped calling as frequently, tired of conversations that always circled back to dead ends and frustration.
Isla pulled her phone from her pocket and frowned at the time display.Eight-thirty.She'd been out here since before six, watching the port transition from day operations to the skeleton crew that worked through the night."Didn't realize it was getting so late."
"Come on," James said, his tone shifting from concern to gentle coaxing."Let's get out of here.The Claddagh has that shepherd's pie you like on special tonight, and Murphy's got a new batch of his homemade bread.You need something more substantial than the energy bars I saw you eating for lunch."
The mention of their regular spot—a warm, dimly lit Irish pub a few blocks from the waterfront where they'd fallen into the habit of decompressing after difficult days—made something tight in her chest loosen slightly.The Claddagh had become a refuge of sorts, a place where they could discuss cases without the formal constraints of the office, where Murphy, the bartender, knew their usual orders and never asked questions about the long silences or intense conversations that sometimes stretched past midnight.
James had been the first person in Duluth to take her theories seriously, to see the pattern she'd identified in what everyone else dismissed as industrial accidents.When she'd first presented her timeline connecting Sarah Sanchez's death to Alex Novak's and the others, he hadn't looked at her like she was seeing connections that weren't there.Instead, he'd asked thoughtful questions, helped her refine her approach, backed her up when they brought it forward.
"He's here somewhere," Isla said, her gaze sweeping the maze of metal and machinery surrounding them.The conviction in her voice was born of months of study, countless hours poring over files and crime scene photos."I can feel him watching, planning.The interviews spooked him—that's why there haven't been any incidents since Alex.He's lying low, but he's still here."
A container ship horn sounded across the water, its deep bass note reverberating through the steel structures around them.The port operated on its own rhythm, dictated by shipping schedules and weather patterns, tides, and seasons.Someone who had been killing here for years would understand that rhythm, would know how to move within it undetected.
