The thought had been nagging at her since they'd first discovered the scope of the ghost ship attacks.The Lake Superior Killer was patient, invisible, his methodology designed to avoid detection entirely.The vigilante—Sterling or whoever he was—operated with brutal efficiency but left evidence behind, creating a climate of fear that was impossible to ignore.Different psychology, different goals, different signatures.
And yet both had chosen Lake Superior as their hunting ground.Both understood how to exploit the vastness of these waters, the limitations of law enforcement jurisdiction, and the simple fact that people disappeared on the Great Lakes with enough regularity that a few more bodies might go unnoticed.
"Why does this lake attract them?"she asked, though she wasn't really expecting an answer."Why do so many killers feel the need to help it?"
James moved to stand beside her, close enough that she could smell the coffee and exhaustion that clung to him like a second skin."Maybe it's not about the lake," he said."Maybe it's about what the lake represents.Power.Indifference.Something bigger than human law that doesn't care about justice or fairness.For someone who feels wronged by the system, who believes the rules are rigged against them..."He trailed off, his gaze fixed on the darkness beyond the window."I imagine there's something appealing about aligning yourself with a force that operates outside all of it."
Isla considered this, turning the idea over in her mind like a stone worn smooth by water.Sterling had spoken about justice—his version of it, anyway.The Lake Superior Killer, if her profile was accurate, likely had his own twisted rationale for the deaths he'd caused.Both of them had decided that human systems had failed, that something more primal was needed.
The lake obliged.It always obliged.It had been swallowing the unfortunate and the unlucky for thousands of years, and it would continue long after everyone in this room was dead and forgotten.
"The Coast Guard's stretched thin," James said, pulling her back to more immediate concerns."They've got every available vessel out there, but you can't patrol thirty-two thousand square miles of water effectively.If someone wants to make a move tonight, odds are good they'd get away with it."
"Not Sterling," Isla said."If Sterling's our guy, he's not making any moves.Not with our people watching his cabin."
"And if he's not our guy?"
The question hung between them, uncomfortable in its implications.If Marcus Sterling was innocent—if he was nothing more than a disgruntled veteran who enjoyed being suspected of crimes he hadn't committed—then the real killer was still out there.Still hunting.Still capable of turning another vessel into a ghost ship before morning.
Isla's phone buzzed against her hip, and she glanced at the display.The surveillance team, reporting that Sterling had just turned off his television and appeared to be settling in for the night.Routine activity.Normal behavior.The kind of evening anyone might have after being interviewed by the FBI and learning they were under suspicion for multiple murders.
"He's bedding down," she said, sliding the phone back into her pocket."Surveillance says everything looks normal."
James nodded, though his expression suggested he was weighing the same uncertainties she was."So either we've got our man contained, or we're watching the wrong person while the real killer's out there somewhere."
"Story of this investigation," Isla muttered.The Lake Superior Killer had eluded her for almost two years now.Sarah Sanchez, Alex Novak, and god knew how many others—all of them ghosts in a case file that seemed to grow longer without ever getting closer to resolution.And now this new predator, this vigilante with military training and a cause he believed in, adding his own victims to the lake's endless appetite.
Two killers.One lake.And her, standing in the middle of it all, trying to drag monsters into the light while the darkness just kept getting deeper.
"Isla."James's voice was gentler now, carrying the note of concern that had become more frequent over their months of partnership."We've got eyes on Sterling.If he's guilty, at least we can rest tonight knowing he won't be able to kill again without getting caught."
She wanted to argue, to point out all the ways that certainty could be wrong.Sterling could have accomplices they didn't know about.The surveillance team could miss something.The real killer could be someone else entirely, someone who hadn't even appeared on their radar yet.But the exhaustion was a physical weight now, pressing down on her shoulders and making it hard to form the words.
"When did you last sleep?"James asked."Actually, sleep, not just close your eyes for an hour between case reviews?"
Isla tried to remember and found she couldn't.The past few days had blurred together into a continuous stream of crime scenes and interviews, of bodies pulled from cold water and leads that went nowhere.Sleep had become a luxury she couldn't afford, or so she'd told herself.
"You need rest," James continued, his tone shifting from concern to something more insistent."We both do.We're not going to solve this case tonight, and we're not going to be any good to anyone if we're running on empty tomorrow."
"There's still work to do.Sterling's records, the cross-references with the earlier attacks—"
"Will still be there in the morning."James moved to gather the scattered files on the conference table, stacking them with the methodical precision that characterized everything he did."Kate's got a night crew monitoring the situation.Coast Guard's on high alert.Surveillance is watching Sterling.There's nothing more we can do right now except run ourselves into the ground."
Isla wanted to resist, to insist that she could push through for a few more hours, that the answer might be hiding in one more document or one more database search.But her body was betraying her—her eyes burning, her muscles aching, her thoughts moving with the sluggish quality of a mind pushed past its limits.
"Fine," she heard herself say."A few hours.But if anything breaks—"
"If anything breaks, they'll call us."James handed her her jacket, the wool worn soft from months of Duluth winters that she'd refused to dress properly for."Go home, Isla.Get some actual sleep.Eat something that didn't come from a vending machine."
She took the jacket, feeling the familiar weight of it settle across her shoulders.Home.Her apartment in Duluth had never really felt like home—not the way Miami had, not the way her childhood had been, moving from one coastal city to another following her father's Coast Guard postings.It was a place to sleep, to shower, to stare at the walls while her mind refused to stop working through evidence and suspects and the faces of people she hadn't been able to save.
But James was right.She knew he was right.The investigation would still be here in the morning, and she'd be more useful to it with a few hours of rest than she would be stumbling through another sleepless night.
"Saturday," she said as she headed for the door."Emma's soccer game.I promised."
James's face softened at the mention of his daughter."She'll hold you to it.Been practicing that corner kick all week."
"I'll be there."It was a small thing, a commitment to normalcy in a world that seemed increasingly consumed by violence and darkness.But small things mattered.They were what kept you human when the job tried to turn you into something else.
