They pulled into the FBI field office parking lot just as the first of the media vans arrived.Isla counted three of them by the time James killed the engine—local news affiliates, their satellite dishes already extending toward the sky like metallic flowers seeking sunlight.Reporters were spilling out of vehicles, camera operators hoisting equipment onto shoulders, everyone moving with the particular urgency of people who sensed a story breaking.
"Word travels fast," James muttered.
"Someone talked.Or someone made sure they'd be here."Isla watched a reporter adjust her hair in a compact mirror, preparing for the live shot that would beam Rodriguez's arrest into living rooms across the region."The anonymous tip, the immediate confession, and now media coverage of the suspect being brought in.This is choreographed, James.Someone wants this story told a certain way."
They exited the SUV into a barrage of shouted questions and camera flashes.Rodriguez emerged from the back seat with the same composed dignity she'd shown since opening her front door, her chin lifted, her expression serene despite the handcuffs visible around her wrists.If anything, the media attention seemed to strengthen her resolve—as if the cameras were witnesses to something noble rather than the beginning of what would likely be a life sentence.
"Agent Rivers!Can you confirm this is the Ghostship Killer?"
"Is it true she confessed?"
"Elena!Elena, do you have anything to say?"
Isla pushed through the crowd with James at her side and Rodriguez between them, using her body to shield the suspect from the worst of the press surge.The questions continued—a waterfall of noise that seemed to grow louder with every step—but she kept her face neutral and her pace steady.No comment.No reaction.Nothing that could be clipped and replayed and analyzed by talking heads seeking to fill airtime.
They reached the building's entrance, and Isla held the door as James guided Rodriguez inside.The noise cut off abruptly as the heavy glass swung shut, replaced by the climate-controlled hum of the office and the distant ring of telephones.The sudden quiet felt wrong somehow—like the calm before a storm that was still gathering strength just beyond the walls.
"Get her processed," Isla said."I want her in Interview Room One as soon as her attorney arrives."
James nodded, his hand on Rodriguez's elbow as he guided her toward the holding area.The woman went without protest, without a backward glance, moving with the steady purpose of someone who had accepted their fate and was simply waiting for the rest of the world to catch up.
Isla watched them go, her mind churning through everything she knew and everything she suspected.The anonymous tip.The perfect-profile suspect.The confession that came too easily, too completely, too conveniently.And somewhere out there—still hunting, still killing, still moving through these waters with impunity—the real predator.
The media would have their story.The public would have their hero, now transformed into a martyr willing to face justice for crimes they believed were righteous.And Elena Rodriguez would have her sacrifice years in prison for murders she almost certainly didn't commit, protecting a killer she'd elevated to the status of savior.
Unless Isla could prove her wrong.
* * *
The attorney arrived at eleven forty-seven—a sharp-featured woman named Margaret Stinson who moved through the FBI field office with the particular confidence of someone who had spent decades navigating hostile territory.Her gray suit was impeccably tailored, her briefcase worn soft from years of use, and her eyes held the watchful intensity of a predator assessing its environment.
"My client has already confessed," Stinson said, settling into the chair beside Rodriguez in Interview Room One.The observation window reflected both women like a darkened mirror, their images superimposed over Isla's own face as she watched from the adjoining room."I'm not sure what more you expect to accomplish with this interview."
"Understanding," Isla replied, taking the seat across from them.James remained standing near the door, his presence solid and reassuring at her back."Your client confessed to eight murders before we could ask a single question.I'd like to understand how and why."
Rodriguez sat with her hands folded on the table, her posture erect, her expression unchanged from the calm acceptance she'd worn since opening her front door.The handcuffs had been removed for the interview, but red marks still circled her wrists—evidence of metal against skin, of freedom surrendered.
"Ms.Rodriguez," Isla began, "you've claimed responsibility for the deaths of four crew members aboard the Northern Dawn, four aboard the Storm Runner, and the five traffickers on the Midnight Crossing.That's thirteen people killed across three separate incidents, all within the span of a week."
"I know what I did," Rodriguez said.Her voice carried the same measured cadence as before—controlled, deliberate, as if each word had been chosen with care.
"Then walk me through it.Start with the Northern Dawn.How did you board her?How did you know what she was carrying?How did you manage to kill four armed men without raising an alarm?"
Stinson leaned forward."My client has no obligation to provide details beyond her confession.She's admitted guilt.The burden of proof—"
"The burden of proof requires us to build a case that will hold up in court."Isla kept her eyes on Rodriguez, watching for any crack in the facade."A confession without corroboration is worthless.Any defense attorney worth their fee will argue coercion, mental instability, false confession syndrome.I need details, Ms.Rodriguez.Specifics that only the actual killer would know."
Something flickered behind Rodriguez's eyes—a momentary uncertainty, quickly suppressed."I boarded the Northern Dawn at night.I knew their route because of my work as a harbor pilot.I...I surprised them."
"Surprised four armed smugglers."Isla let the skepticism show in her voice."Men who were transporting millions of dollars in illegal weapons.Men who would have been on high alert for exactly the kind of interception you're describing."
"They weren't expecting a woman."Rodriguez's chin lifted slightly, a hint of defiance breaking through the calm."They underestimated me."
"And the knife?The medical examiner's report describes wounds requiring significant force.Deep penetration, angled entry, the kind of strikes that suggest someone with substantial upper body strength and close-combat training."
"I told you.The Navy—"
"Your service record shows surface warfare specialist, navigation track.No hand-to-hand combat certification, no weapons training beyond standard naval requirements."Isla leaned forward, closing the distance between them."You're a pilot, Ms.Rodriguez.You guide ships through harbors.You don't kill people with knives."
