Her phone rang, the sudden sound making both of them jump. Isla glanced at the screen, expecting Kate or maybe one ofthe crime scene techs with an update. Instead, she saw a number with a Minnesota area code she didn't recognize.
"Rivers."
"Agent Rivers, this is Deputy Marshal Nicole Barrett with USMS." The voice was crisp, professional, humming with barely contained excitement. "We have a credible sighting of Robert Brune. He was spotted at the Pine Ridge Motel, three hours northwest of Duluth near Grand Rapids. We're mobilizing response teams now and wanted to keep you in the loop."
Isla's heart lurched, her exhaustion evaporating in an instant. "How credible?"
"Motel clerk called it in. Said a man matching Brune's description checked in this afternoon using cash and a fake name. The clerk recognized him from the news coverage. We've got units converging on the location now, state police helicopter in the air, the works."
Three hours away. Isla could be there in less if she left now, if she ignored traffic laws and pushed the Bureau sedan to its limits. She could be there when they brought him in, could see his face when they finally cornered him after two weeks of fruitless searching.
"What's the game plan?" Isla heard herself ask, her hand already reaching for her car keys.
"Surround and contain, standard fugitive apprehension protocol. We'll have the area locked down within the hour. Local PD is clearing civilians from adjacent rooms. If he's still in there, he's not getting out."
If he's still in there. The doubt in that single word made Isla's chest tighten. Brune had evaded capture for two weeks, had disappeared like smoke every time they'd gotten close. What were the odds he'd still be sitting in a motel room three hours away, waiting to be arrested?
"I'm coming there," Isla said. Across the desk, James straightened, his expression shifting to concern. "I need to be there when—"
"Agent Rivers." Deputy Marshal Barrett's tone was firm but not unkind. "I appreciate your investment in this case—god knows you earned it by identifying Brune in the first place. But this is a tactical apprehension now. It's what we do. The best thing you can do is stay where you are and let us bring him in."
The words stung, though Isla knew they were reasonable. The Marshals Service specialized in fugitive apprehension. They had training and protocols specifically designed for situations like this. She was an investigator, not a tactical operator.
But Brune was her case. Her identification. Her failure to catch when she'd had the chance two weeks ago at North Pier.
"Keep me updated," Isla said, her voice tight. "Every development, I want to know."
"Will do. We'll call as soon as we have him in custody."
The call ended, and Isla stood frozen by her desk, keys still clutched in her hand. Part of her wanted to run for the elevator, to race toward Grand Rapids and whatever confrontation was unfolding there. But a larger part—the professional part, the part that had learned painful lessons about staying in her lane—knew Barrett was right.
"They've got a Brune sighting," she said to James, her voice hollow. "Three hours northwest. Big response, helicopter, the works."
James was watching her carefully, reading the conflict on her face with the perceptiveness that came from almost two years of partnership. "You want to go."
It wasn't a question. Isla set her keys down on the desk, the small sound of metal on wood feeling like surrender. "Yes. But it's not my job anymore. I did my part by identifying him. Now I need to let the experts bring him in."
"That's very mature of you," James said, though his tone was gentle rather than mocking. "I know it's not easy."
Isla moved back to the window, pressing her palm against the cold glass. Out there, three hours away, tactical teams were converging on a motel room where Robert Brune might or might not be waiting. The manhunt that had consumed her thoughts for two weeks was potentially reaching its conclusion, and she wasn't even going to be there to see it.
"I keep thinking about when I confronted him at North Pier," she said quietly. "I was so close, James. Close enough to see every line on his face. And I let him run."
"You didn't let him do anything. He made a choice to flee, and you made a choice not to shoot an unarmed man in the back." James's reflection appeared in the window beside hers. "That's called being a good agent. Being a good person."
"Being a good person doesn't catch serial killers."
"No, but brilliant investigative work does. Which is what you did. And now the Marshals are doing their job, and we need to do ours." He gestured back at the whiteboard, at David Langford's life mapped in marker and photographs. "Someone tortured and killed a city employee in those steam tunnels. They planned it carefully, executed it methodically, and they're still out there. That case needs you present and focused, not three hours away hoping to catch a glimpse of Brune in handcuffs."
Isla knew he was right. Intellectually, she understood that every word James had said was true. But emotionally, the pull toward Grand Rapids was almost physical, a magnetic force trying to drag her away from the unsolved murder on her desk.
Her phone buzzed with another update—crime scene photos from the tunnel chamber, enhanced and annotated by the techs. Isla forced herself to look at them, to study the deliberate burn patterns on David Langford's skin, the modified wiring in thejunction box, the evidence of a killer who'd turned infrastructure into a weapon.
This was her case now. Present tense, active investigation, someone who needed to be caught before they hurt anyone else.
"You're right," Isla said finally, turning away from the window. "Brune is their job now. Langford is ours."
"Good." James returned to his desk, pulling up a new document. "Because I've been thinking about those text messages. The phrasing was specific—'Don't involve HR or I'll make sure everyone knows what you did.' That suggests inside knowledge, but also something to hold over Langford. Something he was hiding."
