His expression changed immediately, pain flickering across his features before he schooled them back to neutrality. "Grace struggled with a lot of demons. Her death was... it was a tragedy, but it wasn't the tunnels' fault. She chose that location because she knew I worked down there, knew I'd understand she'd found some kind of peace in the darkness. At least that's what her note said."
"That must have been incredibly difficult," James said quietly.
"It was. It is." Holloway removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "But Agent Rivers, if you're thinking her death would make me want to kill people in those tunnels—that's not how grief works. I don't blame the infrastructure for my sister's choices. I don't have some vendetta against public servants who work in the system. I'm just trying to do my job and make sure nobody else gets hurt down there."
The quiet dignity in his voice made Isla feel like she was grasping at straws—which, she realized with uncomfortable clarity, she was. Gary Holloway wasn't their killer. He was just another person touched by the tunnels' darkness, trying to make sense of loss while doing work that mattered.
"I apologize for the intrusion," Isla said, standing. "But we do need your help with something else. The city's maps of the tunnel system are apparently incomplete. Your supervisor mentioned that documentation hasn't kept pace with decades of modifications and expansions."
"That's putting it mildly," Holloway said, some of his earlier warmth returning now that he understood he wasn't actually a suspect. "The official maps are a mess—missing entire sections, showing passages that don't exist anymore, failing to document the decommissioned areas that are still physically present. I've been lobbying for years to get a comprehensive mapping project funded, but budget priorities..." He shrugged.
"Is there anyone who would have better knowledge of the complete system?" Isla asked, feeling like she was finally asking the right question. "Someone who's spent enough time down there to know not just what's on the maps, but what actually exists?"
Holloway didn't hesitate. "Thomas Garrett. He's a veteran steam tunnel maintenance engineer, been with the city for over twenty years. Tom's spent more time underground than anyone I know—he's mapped passages that officially don't exist, documented abandoned sections that were never properly recorded. If anyone knows the complete layout of that system, it's him."
Isla felt something click into place, though she couldn't articulate exactly what. Thomas Garrett—a name that hadn't appeared in any of their previous investigations, someone who apparently possessed exactly the kind of intimate knowledge their killer had demonstrated.
"Where can we find Mr. Garrett?" she asked, already pulling out her phone to take notes.
"You're in luck," Holloway said, glancing at his watch. "He's on shift today. Should be somewhere in this building—probablyeither in the maintenance office on the first floor or down in the tunnel access point in the basement. Want me to page him for you?"
Isla exchanged a glance with James, seeing her own cautious optimism reflected in his expression. They'd been pursuing suspects and theories that kept dissolving into nothing, but maybe they'd been asking the wrong questions. Maybe instead of looking for someone with a motive to kill, they needed to find someone who could actually teach them about the tunnels themselves.
"Yes," Isla said. "Please tell him we'd like to speak with him about the tunnel system. We need his expertise."
As Holloway picked up the conference room phone to make the page, Isla felt the familiar tension of investigation shifting. They weren't pursuing Thomas Garrett as a suspect—not yet, anyway. They were seeking him as a resource, someone who might finally help them understand the underground world where three people had died.
But even as she thought it, a small voice in the back of her mind whispered: What if the person with the most knowledge is exactly the person you should fear most?
The overhead speaker crackled to life: "Thomas Garrett to Conference Room 3B. Thomas Garrett to Conference Room 3B."
Isla straightened her blazer, checked that her weapon was secure in its holster—force of habit, probably unnecessary—and waited to meet the man who knew Duluth's hidden depths better than anyone else in the city.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Thomas Garrett arrived within five minutes, moving with the unhurried confidence of someone who'd spent decades navigating underground passages where haste could get you killed. He was in his late fifties, Isla guessed, with the kind of weathered features that suggested years of exposure to extreme temperatures and harsh conditions. His hair was more gray than brown, cropped short beneath a battered maintenance cap, and his hands showed the calluses and scars of someone who worked with tools and hot metal for a living.
"Agents," he said, his voice carrying a slight rasp that reminded Isla of steam hissing through old pipes. "Gary said you needed help understanding the tunnel system. Happy to assist however I can."
Isla stood, extending her hand. His grip was firm but not crushing, and she noted the way his gaze moved between her face and James's with the careful assessment of someone sizing up a situation. "Special Agent Rivers, and this is Agent Sullivan. We appreciate you taking the time."
"Time's about the only thing I've got plenty of down in those tunnels," Garrett said with a half-smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He pulled out a chair and settled into it with the ease of someone settling into familiar territory. "Twenty-three years I've been maintaining that system. I know every passage, every junction, every place where the heat gets dangerous or the water rises too high."
"That's exactly the expertise we need," James said, pulling out his laptop. "The city's official maps are incomplete. We need to understand the full scope of what's down there—particularly the decommissioned sections."
Garrett's expression shifted, becoming more serious. "You're investigating the murders. The ones in the tunnels." It wasn't a question. "I heard about Langford—worked with him a few times over the years. And the social worker, and now the doctor. Terrible business."
"Did you know any of the victims well?" Isla asked, watching his face carefully.
"Not really. Langford and I crossed paths occasionally—different departments, different schedules. He wasn't the friendliest guy, but he knew his job." Garrett paused, his fingers drumming once against the table. "The others, just names from the news. But I'll tell you what bothers me most—whoever's doing this knows the tunnels almost as well as I do. Maybe better, in some ways."
The admission was striking. Isla leaned forward slightly. "What makes you say that?"
"The locations they're choosing. The modifications to the temperature controls. The way they're navigating through sections that aren't on any map." Garrett pulled off his cap, running a hand through his gray hair. "I've spent two decades documenting passages the city doesn't officially acknowledge exist. And whoever your killer is, they've found the same passages. They're using the system the way I would—as a tool, a weapon, something with its own logic and rules."
He reached into the worn canvas messenger bag he'd brought with him and pulled out a bundle of papers held together with rubber bands. "I brought my maps. The real ones, not the sanitized versions the city keeps on file."
Isla accepted the bundle, carefully removing the rubber bands to reveal dozens of hand-drawn schematics on graph paper. Each page was meticulously detailed, showing not just the main corridors and access points but smaller passages, hidden junctions, areas marked with notes in crampedhandwriting. "Extreme heat—protective gear required." "Flooding risk—check weather conditions." "Structural damage—avoid northwest corner."
