One killer caught. One victim saved.
And somewhere in the balance of those facts, Isla would find her answer about Miami.
But not tonight. Tonight, she'd count the victory and let tomorrow's decisions wait for tomorrow's clarity.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The Claddagh's warm amber lighting felt like a sanctuary after forty-eight hours of interrogating Thomas Garrett and processing the steam tunnel crime scenes. Isla wrapped her hands around a whiskey glass, letting the burn of good Irish spirits cut through the exhaustion that had settled into her bones like winter cold.
James sat across from her in their usual booth—the corner table with scarred wood that had absorbed decades of conversations, confessions, and the quiet companionship of people who understood that sometimes silence was its own form of connection. Three years of partnership had made this their spot, though neither of them had ever said it out loud.
The television above the bar cycled through the evening news, and Isla caught glimpses of her own face during a press conference from earlier that day. SAC Channing standing at the podium, commending the swift resolution of the steam tunnel murders, praising the investigative work that had saved Stacy Lang's life. The footage shifted to file photos of Thomas Garrett being led into custody, his weathered face eerily calm despite the charges that would likely keep him imprisoned for the rest of his life.
But the story that had dominated headlines just a week ago—the Lake Superior Killer, Robert Brune's dramatic escape, the manhunt spanning three states—had already begun to fade from the news cycle. Replaced by newer tragedies, fresher scandals, the relentless churn of media attention that couldn't sustain focus on an unsolved case when there was no dramatic footage to show, no updates to breathlessly report.
"They've already moved on," Isla said quietly, nodding toward the television. "Two weeks ago, Brune was the biggeststory in the region. Now he's lucky to get thirty seconds at the end of the broadcast."
James followed her gaze, his blue eyes thoughtful in the dim light. "That's how it works. The public needs resolution, closure, something they can file away as solved. An ongoing manhunt with no new developments doesn't give them that."
"But he's still out there." Isla's grip tightened on her glass. "Decades of killing, fifteen murders we've connected, probably more we haven't. And because the Marshals haven't found him in two weeks, everyone's already assuming he's gone. Fled to Canada or Mexico or anywhere far from Lake Superior."
“You still don’t think he’s gone.”
Isla took a sip of whiskey, feeling it burn down her throat before answering. She'd been thinking about this question constantly over the past two weeks—during sleepless nights, while processing crime scenes, in the quiet moments between interviews when her mind wandered back to that confrontation at North Pier.
"No," she said finally. "I think he's hiding, probably somewhere in the tunnel system or in abandoned buildings near the docks. Waiting for the search to cool down so he can return to the only thing that's given his life meaning for half a century."
James leaned back against the booth, studying her with that careful attention she'd come to recognize as him choosing his words deliberately. "The lake."
"The lake," Isla confirmed. "Everything we learned about Brune points to someone whose entire identity is wrapped up in Lake Superior. His mother drowned there when he was eight. He spent forty years as a fisherman on those waters. He believes—genuinely, deeply believes—that the lake speaks to him, demands sacrifices, gives him purpose."
She set down her glass, her hands gesturing as she worked through the logic that had been crystallizing in her mind. "Thatkind of connection doesn't break because the FBI identifies you. You don't just abandon a relationship that's defined your entire existence and flee inland to some landlocked refuge. It would be like cutting out your own heart."
"So you think he'll come back."
"I think he never really left." Isla pulled out her phone, opening the map application where she'd marked all the possible hiding places within Duluth's industrial district. "The Marshals have been focusing on border crossings, on major highways, on the assumption that a fugitive runs as far and fast as possible. But Brune isn't a typical fugitive. He's not running from something—he's protecting something. His connection to the lake, his ability to continue the work he believes Superior demands of him."
James was quiet for a moment, his fingers drumming once against the table in the gesture that meant he was processing, analyzing, deciding whether to push into territory they'd been carefully avoiding since that conversation in the surveillance car.
"Is that why you turned down Miami?" he asked finally, his voice careful. "Because you're convinced Brune will return and you want to be here when he does?"
Isla had been expecting the question since she'd made her decision three days ago, had rehearsed various ways to answer it. But sitting here in the warm comfort of their booth, with whiskey loosening the tight control she usually maintained over her emotions, the truth came easier than the rehearsed versions.
"Partly," she admitted. "McCrae's offer was tempting—a chance to rebuild my career in Miami, to prove I'm more than the agent who failed three years ago. But it would mean leaving an unsolved case that matters. Leaving fifteen families who deserve justice, leaving a serial killer free to continue killing once the attention dies down."
She met James's eyes directly, seeing her own complicated feelings reflected in his expression. "And it would mean leaving a partnership that works better than any I've had. A city that I've come to understand, even like, despite viewing it as a setback when I first arrived. A life that's become more than just running from the past."
"Isla—" James started, but she held up a hand.
"Let me finish," she said. "I turned down Miami because going back would be exactly that—going back. Trying to recapture something that maybe wasn't as good as I've been telling myself it was. The Miami assignment that ended with Alicia Mendez's death wasn't just bad luck or a single mistake. It was the culmination of me being so focused on advancement, on building a reputation, that I'd lost sight of why I became an agent in the first place."
She took another sip of whiskey, letting it steady her voice. "Duluth has reminded me. These cases—Sarah Sanchez, David Langford, Linda Graves, all the victims I've worked here, they matter more than career advancement. And catching Brune, bringing him to justice for decades of murders nobody else even recognized... that matters more than a prestigious position on McCrae's team.”
The words hung between them, carrying weight beyond their literal meaning. Isla could see James processing them, could watch him choosing whether to acknowledge what she wasn't quite saying directly.
"I'm glad you're staying," he said finally, his voice carrying an emotion she couldn't quite identify. "For all those reasons. And maybe some others we don't need to examine too closely right now."
Isla felt something in her chest relax, a tension she hadn't realized she'd been carrying. "Maybe some others," she agreed.
