James seemed to recognize the shift in her mood, the way her jaw tightened and her amber eyes went distant. He took a step back, giving her space.
"The press conference is at ten," he said, changing the subject. "Kate wants you front and center. This is your case, Isla. Your victory."
"It's not a victory until he's in custody." She returned to her desk, pulling up the next report. "And sitting in front of cameras while he's still free feels more like a performance than investigative work."
"It keeps the public aware. Keeps people looking." James moved toward the door, then paused. "For what it's worth, I think you're right. About the docks. About him staying close to what he knows." He met her eyes. "But please, don't go out there alone anymore. Not while he's in the wind."
Isla wanted to argue, but something in his expression stopped her. Concern, yes, but also something deeper. Something that made her chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with the case.
"I'll think about it," she said, which they both knew wasn't a promise.
James nodded once and left, the door clicking softly behind him.
Isla turned back to her computer, but the words on the screen blurred together. She thought about Robert Brune out there somewhere—a man who'd spent forty years as a fisherman, who'd grown up in the foster system after his mother drowned when he was eight, who'd somehow twisted that childhood trauma into a decades-long killing spree.
The lake whispers to him,she thought.Demands sacrifices.
What kind of message was it giving him now, with law enforcement searching for him across multiple states? Was he listening to it, even now? Planning his next move?
Her phone buzzed with another alert—another possible sighting, this one in Thunder Bay. She pulled up the details, already knowing what she'd find. Vague description, unconfirmed visual, no follow-up possible. The same pattern repeated endlessly, like waves against the shore. She’d been obsessively watching whatever security footage she could get access to along shorelines to see if she’d spot him herself, but no luck yet.
The morning crept forward with agonizing slowness. Isla reviewed reports, cross-referenced sightings with known associates from Brune's past, and tried to find patterns in the chaos of the manhunt. But every lead felt thin, every connection tenuous. It was like trying to catch smoke.
At nine-thirty, she stood and moved to the small mirror mounted near the filing cabinets. Her reflection stared back—dark wavy hair pulled into its usual practical ponytail, though several strands had escaped to frame her face. The amber eyes that had seen too much looked tired, shadows beneath them that no amount of coffee would erase. The faint freckles across her nose and cheekbones, remnants of her Miami years, seemed to have faded even more in Duluth's winter gloom.
She adjusted her blazer, checking that her badge was properly clipped to her belt and her service weapon sat secure in its holster. The tailored pantsuit was professional, appropriate for facing cameras. She looked like an FBI agent who had everything under control.
If only that were true.
A sharp knock interrupted her thoughts, and Kate Channing's voice followed immediately. "Isla? You ready?"
The door opened before Isla could respond, and her boss stepped into the office with the commanding presence that made her seem taller than her five-nine frame. Kate's silver-gray hair was perfectly styled, her designer suit impeccable despite the early hour. The gray-blue eyes that missed nothing swept over Isla with the practiced assessment of someone who'd spent twenty-five years reading people.
"The press is outside," Kate said, her tone brisk but not unkind. "They're ready to start the conference, so you better look sharp."
Isla smoothed down her blazer one more time, a nervous gesture she immediately regretted. Kate noticed everything.
"I'm ready," Isla said, though she wasn't sure she believed it.
Kate's expression softened slightly, and she stepped further into the office, lowering her voice. "I know this isn't easy. Standing up there while he's still at large. But the public needs to see that we're making progress, that we have a face and a name for the threat. You gave us that."
"Progress would be him in handcuffs," Isla said, unable to keep the edge from her voice.
"Yes, it would." Kate's response was matter-of-fact, no platitudes or empty reassurances. It was one of the things Isla respected most about her boss—Kate never sugarcoated reality. "But until the Marshals find him, this is what we have. Yourwork identified him, and the public deserves to know who to look for. That's not nothing."
Isla nodded, swallowing the frustration that threatened to rise in her throat. Kate was right, of course. She usually was.
"The Marshals will have someone there, too," Kate continued, moving toward the door. "They'll handle questions about the manhunt logistics. You focus on the profile—why he kills, how you identified him, what people should watch for. You know this better than anyone. We can’t hold off on the press release any longer."
That's what worries me,Isla thought. She knew Robert Brune's profile intimately now. Knew his patterns, his triggers, his psychology. She'd spent weeks reconstructing his life from scattered records and witness statements, building a picture of a man shaped by tragedy and isolation into something dark and twisted.
But knowing him also meant understanding how difficult he would be to catch. He knew the region like the back of his hand. He'd spent forty years working the water, learning every inlet and cove, every abandoned building and hidden access point. He was patient, methodical, and utterly convinced of his purpose.
He wouldn't make careless mistakes.
"Isla?" Kate's voice pulled her back to the present. "We should go."
Isla grabbed her phone and the case file she'd prepared for reference, though she had the details memorized. Every victim, every timeline, every piece of evidence that had finally connected the dots and revealed the Lake Superior Killer's true identity.
