Thomas settled into the shadows, his headlamp switched off, and let the tunnel's darkness embrace him. He could perceive the heat signatures of the steam lines around him, could sense the warmth of his own body against the oppressive temperature of the Furnace. When Stacy arrived, her cold soul would stand out like a void, a pocket of absolute zero moving through the normal heat of the living world.
And then he would correct her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The cold seeped through Isla's thermal layers despite her best efforts, December's bite finding every gap in her borrowed winter gear. She shifted her weight in the driver's seat, trying to restore circulation to her legs after ninety minutes of motionless surveillance. Through the windshield, Access Point 12's steel door remained stubbornly closed, its security light casting weak illumination across empty asphalt.
James sat in the passenger seat, his breath forming small clouds in the car's interior despite the heater running at low power. They'd agreed to minimize the engine noise, trading comfort for stealth. His eyes stayed fixed on the access point, but Isla caught him glancing at his phone every few minutes, monitoring the check-ins from the other surveillance teams scattered across the city.
"Morrison's unit reports nothing at Access Point 7," James said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper despite them being alone in the car. "State police have eyes on 14 and 18. Also quiet."
Isla nodded, adding the information to the mental map she'd been building all evening. Eight locations covered by personnel, twelve relying on periodic drive-bys that might or might not catch the killer in the act. The gaps in their coverage gnawed at her with every passing minute.
Her phone buzzed with a text from Kate:Any movement?
Isla typed back:All quiet. Teams in position.
The response came immediately:Director's office wants updates every hour.
Isla pocketed her phone without replying. She understood the pressure—understood that unsolved murders drew attention, that patterns suggested more victims to come, that every hour without progress increased the likelihood ofbureaucratic intervention. But understanding didn't make the waiting easier.
"How long do you think before he moves?" James asked, his eyes still on the access point.
"Could be tonight. Could be tomorrow. Could be—" Isla stopped herself before she saidnever, because that would mean admitting defeat. "He's accelerated. Three victims in four days. That suggests urgency, compulsion, whatever drives him is intensifying. He'll move soon."
"Unless we've already scared him off," James said. "He knows we're investigating. Knows we've connected the tunnel murders. Smart killer might go to ground, wait for the heat to die down."
Isla had considered this possibility during the endless afternoon of preparation, had weighed the chances that their very visible investigation might push the killer into dormancy. But something about the escalation pattern suggested otherwise. This wasn't someone who killed opportunistically, who could simply stop when circumstances became difficult. This was someone driven by something deeper than caution.
"He won't stop," she said with more confidence than she felt. "Whatever his motive, it's too strong. He needs to continue."
The silence that followed felt heavier than usual, weighted with something Isla couldn't quite identify. She glanced at James and found him studying her with an expression she recognized from their three years of partnership—the look that meant he was debating whether to push into territory they usually avoided.
"What?" she asked.
"You've seemed distracted lately," he said carefully. "More than usual, I mean. Beyond the case, beyond Brune. Like something else is weighing on you."
Isla kept her gaze on the access point, watching for movement that didn't come. The confession rose in her throat unbidden, surprising her with its urgency. Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the tension of the stakeout, or simply the fact that three years of partnership meant James could read her better than she'd realized.
"McCrae called last week," she said quietly. "From Miami. There's an opening on his team. He thinks my work on the Lake Superior Killer case has impressed people at headquarters."
She felt rather than saw James go still beside her. When he spoke, his voice was carefully neutral. "He offered you a position?"
"Suggested I might want to consider coming back. Said it would be good for my career trajectory." The words came out flat, hiding the turmoil that had kept her awake even more than the nightmares about Robert Brune. "I told him I'd think about it."
The silence stretched between them, thick with implications neither of them seemed ready to voice. Isla's hands tightened on the steering wheel even though the car was stationary.
"Miami," James finally said. "Where you made your name as an investigator. Before..." He trailed off, but they both knew what he meant. Before Alicia Mendez. Before the case that had gone wrong, before the transfer that had brought her to Duluth.
"Before I misread a killer and got someone killed," Isla finished. "Before I had to accept a transfer or face an inquiry that would have destroyed what was left of my career."
"Is that how you still see it?" James turned in his seat to face her, his blue eyes serious in the dim light from the dashboard. "Because from where I'm sitting, you identified a serial killer nobody else had connected. You stopped him from killing again. You gave closure to fifteen families who thought their loved ones had died in accidents."
"And then I let him run at North Pier." The admission tasted bitter. "So what good is any of that if he's still out there?"
"The Marshals will find him. That's their job." James was quiet for a moment, then asked the question she'd been dreading. "Are you seriously considering it? Going back?"
"I don't know." The honesty surprised her. "Part of me thinks it's a chance to rebuild what I lost, to prove I'm more than the agent who failed in Miami. But another part wonders if I'm just running. Again."
