CHAPTER ONE
The coffee in Isla's mug had gone cold an hour ago, but she lifted it to her lips anyway, more out of habit than desire. The bitter liquid matched her mood as she stared at the computer screen, scrolling through the latest report from the U.S. Marshals Service. Another dead end. Another sighting that led nowhere.
Possible visual confirmation, truck stop outside Fargo. Subject departed before law enforcement arrival.
She rubbed her eyes, feeling the familiar burn of too many late nights and too little sleep. The fluorescent lights of the Duluth FBI field office hummed overhead, a constant drone that had become the soundtrack to her days since they'd identified Robert Brune as the Lake Superior Killer two weeks ago.
Two weeks.
It felt like both a lifetime and no time at all.
Isla clicked to the next tab, where a map displayed reported sightings across Minnesota, Wisconsin, North Dakota, and even a few in Canada. Red pins clustered around the border towns, each one representing someone who thought they'd seen him—the grizzled fisherman with dead eyes who'd been drowning people in Lake Superior for decades, making each death look like an accident.
Her mind drifted to that night two weeks ago when she'd caught him stalking his next victim near the North Pier. The way he'd moved through the shadows with the practiced ease of someone who knew the docks as intimately as his own reflection. The cold certainty in his expression when she'd finally cornered him, her weapon drawn, her voice steady despite the adrenaline flooding her system.
He'd smiled at her. Actually smiled, as if they were old friends meeting for coffee rather than predator and hunter facing off in the dark.
And then he'd run.
Isla's fingers tightened around her mug. She'd been so close. Close enough to see the weathered lines of his face, the gray in his beard. Close enough to end this.
But close wasn't good enough.
The office door opened behind her, and she heard James's familiar footsteps—measured, solid, dependable. He'd been trying to get her to leave the office at reasonable hours, reminding her that the Marshals had the manhunt well in hand, that she needed rest. As if rest were possible when a serial killer she'd identified was still out there, free to kill again.
"Any updates?" James asked, setting a fresh cup of coffee on her desk. The steam rose in lazy spirals, and despite herself, Isla felt a flicker of gratitude.
"Same as the last twenty updates," she said, not looking away from the screen. "A lot of maybes and almosts, but nothing solid. It's like he's a ghost."
James pulled up a chair beside her, his broad shoulders angled toward the monitor. At six-two, he had to hunch slightly to see the screen properly, and Isla found herself distracted by the familiar scent of his aftershave mixed with the cold air that still clung to his clothes. He must have just come in from outside.
"The Marshals know what they're doing," he said quietly. "They'll find him."
Isla finally turned to look at him. His blue eyes held concern, and something else she didn't want to name. Something that had been growing between them over the almost two years they'd worked together—a connection that neither of them had acknowledged out loud.
"They're searching in the wrong places," she said, voicing the thought that had kept her awake for fourteen consecutive nights. "Everyone assumes he ran—headed for Canada or went to ground in some small town where nobody knows him. But he's lived in Duluth his entire life. The lake is everything to him. He believes it whispers to him, James. That it demands sacrifices."
"You think he's still here?" James's voice was carefully neutral, but she could see the wheels turning behind his eyes.
"I don't know." Isla pushed back from the desk, standing and moving to the window. Beyond the glass, Lake Superior stretched vast and gray under December's weak morning light. Somewhere out there, beneath the surface, were the victims who would never be found. The ones Robert Brune had fed to the water he considered sacred. "But I walk the docks every night, and I can't shake the feeling that he's closer than we think."
James was quiet for a moment. "You've been going to the docks? Alone?"
There it was—the note of worry she'd been expecting. Isla crossed her arms, still staring out at the lake. "I'm armed, trained, and careful. And before you lecture me about procedure, I'm not conducting any investigation. I'm just... walking."
"Isla—"
"I know what you're going to say." She turned back to face him, leaning against the windowsill. The cold seeped through the glass behind her, but she welcomed it. It kept her sharp. "But I can't just sit at home while he's out there. Not after Sarah Sanchez. Not after all the others, we didn't even know were victims until I found the pattern."
James stood, closing the distance between them with a few steps. For a moment, she thought he might reach for her hand, but he stopped just short, his expression torn between frustration and understanding.
"Nobody's questioning what you accomplished," he said. "You identified a serial killer who'd been operating undetected for decades. You saved whoever his next victim was going to be. The Director called Kate personally to commend you. That's—"
"Not enough," Isla finished. "Not while he's still out there."
The words hung between them, heavy with the weight of her Miami failure. She didn't have to say Alicia Mendez's name for both of them to know that's where her mind had gone. The woman who died because Isla had misread a profile, chased the wrong suspect, arrived too late to save her.
She'd promised herself it would never happen again.
