Isla unwrapped the sandwich—egg, cheese, and what tasted like bacon on a toasted bagel—and took a bite before her brain fully registered what she was doing. The warmth, salt, and protein hit her system like a drug.
"Thank you," she managed around the second bite.
James settled into the chair across from her desk with his own breakfast, and they ate in companionable silence for several minutes. This was one of the things Isla had come to appreciate most about their partnership over the past three years—James understood when she needed quiet, when conversation would only be noise against the static of her racing thoughts.
Through her office window, she could see the rest of the field office slowly coming to life. Agents arriving for the morning shift, administrative staff settling in at their desks, the perpetual hum of investigation and bureaucracy that kept the Duluth FBI office running. Normal work for a normal Thursday, except two people were dead in the steam tunnels and Isla had no idea who'd killed them or why.
She finished her sandwich and was reaching for her laptop when her email pinged with a new message from Morrison. The subject line read: Graves' phone records - expedited.
"Morrison came through," Isla said, clicking to open the attachment. "Linda Graves's cell phone records just landed."
James set aside his coffee and moved around to look over her shoulder as Isla scrolled through the data. Call logs, text messages, timestamps—the digital footprint of Linda Graves's final hours laid out in clinical detail.
"There." Isla stopped scrolling, her finger tapping the screen. "Unknown number, first contact at 10:31 PM last night."
The text message thread was short but devastating in its simplicity:
10:31 PM - Unknown:Ms. Graves, it's Jessica. I need to talk. I'm going to do something bad. Please help me. Can you meet me? I'll be near the old maintenance building on Harbor Drive. The one by the steam tunnels. I can't go anywhere public. Please come.
10:47 PM - Linda Graves:Jessica, I'm concerned about you. Are you safe right now? Can you tell me more about what's happening?
10:49 PM - Unknown:Please hurry. I don't know how much longer I can hold on.
10:52 PM - Linda Graves:I'm on my way. Stay where you are. We'll figure this out together.
Isla felt her jaw tighten as she read the exchange. Linda Graves had done exactly what a compassionate crisis worker should do—she'd responded to someone in apparent distress, tried to gather information, then moved quickly when she sensed urgency. Her professional training had been weaponized against her.
"Jessica," James said quietly. "Do we know if Graves had a client by that name?"
"Morrison's team is checking her caseload, but I'm guessing whoever sent these knew enough about her work to make it convincing." Isla scrolled down, looking for more messages. "Here, after Linda said she was on her way, there's one more exchange."
11:03 PM - Unknown:I'm at the tunnel entrance on the left side of the building. A maintenance worker let me wait inside where it's warm. He said he'd watch for you.
11:07 PM - Linda Graves:I see the building. Coming now.
That was the last message Linda had sent before the text to her daughter at 10:53 PM—the one giving her location and the thirty-minute check-in window that had ultimately led police to find her body.
"A maintenance worker," Isla repeated, the words heavy with implication. "Someone in a position of authority, someone who would seem safe and helpful. The killer positioned themselves as an escort, a guide."
"Same pattern as Langford," James said, returning to his chair. "Lured by messages that exploited their sense of duty, then guided into a trap by someone who seemed trustworthy."
Isla pulled up the phone number that had sent the messages, running it through the Bureau's database. The results came back within seconds, and she felt her shoulders sag with unsurprised disappointment.
"Prepaid burner phone," she said. "Purchased three days ago at a gas station in Cloquet. Cash transaction, no ID required."
"Different phone than the one used to contact Langford," James noted, checking his own records. "That one was bought six weeks ago in Superior, Wisconsin. Our killer is careful—new burner for each victim, purchased in different locations."
"I'll submit it to tech anyway," James said, pulling out his own phone to send the request. "See if they can trace where the calls originated, maybe pull cell tower data. But I've got a feelingwe're not going to get much. Whoever this is knows how to stay invisible."
Isla stared at the text messages on her screen, at the careful manipulation that had drawn Linda Graves out of her home and into those tunnels. The killer had known Linda was a social worker, had known she would respond to a client in crisis, had crafted a scenario designed specifically to override her professional caution.
"They're studying their victims," Isla said slowly. "Learning their routines, their pressure points, what buttons to push. This isn't random—it's research."
"Which means they probably knew Langford would respond to messages about workplace complaints, just like they knew Graves would respond to a client threatening self-harm." James's expression was grim. "They're finding each victim's weakness and exploiting it."
Isla pulled her laptop closer, the familiar ritual of investigation providing structure against the chaos. "Let's start with victimology," she said, her voice rough from lack of sleep. "Two very different people, two very different careers. What connects them beyond the method of contact?"
James had already opened his own laptop, and Isla heard the rapid clicking of keys as he pulled up their case files. "David Langford, forty-three, pipe fitter with Public Works. Fifteen years with the city, generally solid performance reviews until recently. Linda Graves, fifty-one, social worker with County Family Services. Twenty-three years in the field, extensive experience with crisis intervention and domestic violence cases."
