"I don't like this," James said quietly."Rodriguez fits too well.The military background, the maritime access, the personal vendetta—it's like someone wrote a profile specifically designed to match our killer."
"Exactly," Isla replied."And that's what worries me.Real investigations are messy.Real suspects have alibis that don't quite fit, backgrounds that don't perfectly align, motivations that require interpretation.When everything clicks into place this smoothly, it usually means someone wants it to."
Kate nodded slowly."All right.Run the investigation your way.But do it fast—we've got a media firestorm brewing outside, a public that's half in love with whoever's doing this, and three separate crime scenes that demand answers.If Rodriguez is our killer, I want her in custody before she can claim another victim.And if she's not..."
"If she's not," Isla finished, "then we need to figure out who sent us that tip and why."
The meeting broke up with the particular energy of people who had direction but not certainty.Analysts returned to their keyboards, Kate retreated to her office to manage the political fallout that was surely building, and James fell into step beside Isla as they made their way back toward their desks.
"You don't believe it," he said, pitching his voice low enough that only she could hear."The tip.Rodriguez.You think it's wrong."
"I don't know what I believe," Isla admitted."That's the problem.Every piece of this case has been wrong somehow—leads that go nowhere, suspects that don't quite fit, patterns that shift every time I think I understand them."She stopped walking, turning to face him in the corridor outside their shared workspace."I've been chasing the Lake Superior Killer for almost two years, James.Almost two years of staged drownings and convenient accidents and a ghost I can't quite catch.And now someone else shows up—someone who doesn't bother to hide what they're doing, who leaves blood and bodies and terror in their wake—and suddenly we've got an anonymous tip pointing us toward a suspect who fits perfectly."
"You think the two are connected?The LSK and the vigilante?"
"No, but I think..."She paused, searching for words to express the unease that had been building in her gut since the Northern Dawn first drifted into their awareness."I think there's something we're not seeing.Something bigger than a vigilante with a grudge or a harbor pilot who lost her brother.The Lake Superior Killer has been operating for years, maybe decades, and we've never gotten this close.Now suddenly we've got ghost ships and media attention and anonymous tips coming in like someone opened a floodgate."
James was quiet for a moment, processing."You think someone's pulling strings."
"I think I'm tired," Isla said, and felt the truth of it settle into her bones."I think I haven't slept properly in days, and my judgment is compromised, and I'm seeing conspiracies where there might just be coincidence and chaos."She ran a hand through her hair, feeling strands escape from her already-disheveled ponytail."But I also think we need to be careful.Rodriguez might be our killer.Or she might be someone's convenient sacrifice.Until we know which, we treat this like what it is—an anonymous tip with no verification, pointing us toward a woman who could be guilty or could be a victim herself."
"So where do we start?"
Isla looked toward the window, where Lake Superior stretched gray and patient toward the horizon.Somewhere out there, bodies were settling into the cold depths.Somewhere out there, a killer was planning their next attack—or celebrating their escape.And somewhere, in the maze of information and misdirection that had become this case, was a truth she couldn't quite see.
"We start with Miguel Rodriguez," she said."Her brother.If someone's using him to build a case against Elena, we need to understand what really happened to him.Pull the original case file, interview the detectives who worked it, find out everything we can about the circumstances of his death."
"And Elena herself?"
"Background check.Deep dive into her finances, her movements, her relationships.But quietly—I don't want her to know we're looking until we have something concrete."Isla turned back toward the office, her exhaustion temporarily pushed aside by the familiar energy of investigation."And put someone on that anonymous tip.I want to know where it came from, who made it, and why they chose now to point us toward Rodriguez."
James nodded, already pulling out his phone to start the process.But he paused at the door to their workspace, looking back at Isla with an expression she couldn't quite read."For what it's worth, I hope you're right.About being careful, I mean.About not jumping to conclusions."
"Why?”
"Because if Rodriguez is innocent—if someone's setting her up—that means our real killer is still out there.Still hunting."His blue eyes held hers, carrying the weight of everything they'd seen over the past week."And whoever they are, they're smart enough to know exactly how to point us in the wrong direction.
Isla thought about the Midnight Crossing, about Madeline Holmes and her green eyes full of terror and hope.She thought about the Northern Dawn and the Storm Runner and all the bodies that would never be found.She thought about Marcus Sterling sitting in his cabin, watched by a surveillance team that might be protecting a killer or wasting their time on an innocent man.
Two predators on the same waters.Or three.Or more.
"Then we'd better find them before they find someone else," she said, and followed James into the office where the real work was waiting.
The lake stretched gray and patient outside the window, keeping her secrets as she always had.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Elena Rodriguez lived in a modest Cape Cod on the outskirts of Superior, Wisconsin—a twenty-minute drive from Duluth that took Isla and James across the Blatnik Bridge, with its sweeping views of the harbor where cargo ships moved like gray whales through the morning mist.The house sat at the end of a quiet street lined with oak trees just beginning to show their first spring buds, their branches still skeletal against the pewter sky.A sensible sedan occupied the driveway, and an American flag hung motionless from a bracket beside the front door.
Isla studied the house as James pulled their SUV to the curb, cataloging details with the automatic precision that years of fieldwork had carved into her nervous system.Neatly trimmed hedges.A welcome mat that looked recently swept.Wind chimes hanging silent in the still air.Everything about the property suggested order, discipline, the kind of military-adjacent tidiness that matched what they knew about Rodriguez's background.
"Looks quiet," James said, killing the engine.His voice carried the particular tension that came before any interview with a potential suspect—the awareness that the next few minutes could change everything, or change nothing at all.
"Too quiet."Isla reached for her door handle, then paused.Through the living room window, she could see movement—a figure passing behind the curtains, there and gone in the span of a heartbeat."She's home."
They approached the front door together, their footsteps crunching on the gravel path that led from the driveway.Isla's hand rested near her service weapon out of habit rather than expectation—Rodriguez was a person of interest, not a confirmed threat, and they were here for a conversation, not an arrest.The morning air carried the smell of lake water and budding vegetation, that particular April scent that promised warmth while still delivering cold.
James raised his hand to knock.
