They sat in comfortable silence for a few moments, the ambient noise of the pub washing over them—conversations from other tables, the clink of glasses behind the bar, the low murmur of the television continuing its news cycle. The familiar sounds of a place that had become theirs over three years of cases and late nights, and the quiet understanding that partnership sometimes meant more than professional collaboration.
"So what's your plan?" James asked eventually. "For when Brune resurfaces?"
"I've been working on that." Isla pulled out a folder she'd brought with her, spreading photographs and maps across their table. "I've identified seventeen locations along the waterfront where someone could live rough for extended periods—abandoned warehouses, storm drains, maintenance tunnels that don't connect to the main system. Places with access to the lake but isolated enough that a fugitive could hide indefinitely."
James studied the materials, his investigator's eye picking up patterns she'd documented. "You want to stake these out."
"Not officially. The Marshals won't allocate resources for surveillance of locations Brune probably isn't at." Isla's voice carried frustration she'd been trying to suppress for two weeks. "But I can check them myself. Early mornings before work, evenings after the office closes. Just drive-bys, visual confirmation that the hiding places I've identified are actually being used."
"That's a lot of territory to cover alone," James said, his tone suggesting where this was heading.
"I know. Which is why I was hoping—"
"I'm in," James interrupted. "You know I'm in. We'll split the list, coordinate schedules, make sure we're covering everything without burning ourselves out." He paused, a slight smile crossing his face. "Partners, right?"
"Partners," Isla confirmed, feeling the word settle with comfortable weight.
Her phone buzzed with a text from Kate:Garrett's psychiatric evaluation came back. They're recommending he be held for full assessment—neurological scans showing significant damage to his temporal lobe from the heat stroke. Might affect his competency to stand trial.
Isla showed the message to James, who read it with a troubled expression.
"Heat stroke causing brain damage that made him think he could see defective souls," James said. "It's almost tragic if it wasn't so horrifying."
"It doesn't excuse what he did," Isla said firmly. "Neurological damage might explain his delusions, but he was lucid enough to plan elaborate murders, to engineer death traps, to manipulate our investigation. He knew what he was doing was illegal and wrong—he just thought he had justification that transcended human law."
"Like Brune thinking the lake demands sacrifices."
"Exactly like that." Isla gathered up her materials, tucking them back into the folder. "Which is why I need to catch him before he decides Superior is angry about the two weeks without offerings and needs to make up for lost time."
The thought made her stomach clench—how many potential victims had they saved by identifying Brune when they did? How many more would die if he remained free, if the attention faded, if people forgot that the Lake Superior Killer was still out there waiting for his moment to return?
"He will come back," Isla said with certainty that came from somewhere deeper than evidence or logic. "The lake is his whole identity, his entire reason for existing. Take that away and he's just a broken old man hiding in the dark. He won't be able to bear that for long."
"And when he does?" James asked.
"When he does, I'll be waiting." Isla's voice carried a steel she usually reserved for interrogations. "He got away from me once. I won't make the same mistake twice."
They finished their drinks in thoughtful silence, each lost in their own calculations about surveillance schedules and potential hiding places and the psychological profile of a serial killer who believed himself an instrument of an ancient lake's will. The television cycled through more news stories—political scandals, economic reports, the weather forecast promising another winter storm system moving in from Canada.
No mention of Robert Brune. No updates on the manhunt that had consumed regional attention just days ago.
But Isla didn't need media validation to know the threat remained real. She'd seen his face, had looked into his eyes and recognized the absolute conviction of someone who'd found their purpose and would die before abandoning it. The lake whispers, he'd said in her dreams, and that conviction would bring him back to Superior's shores eventually.
When it did, she would be there.
"I should get home," James said finally, checking his watch. "Emma has a science project due tomorrow, and I promised I'd help her finish it tonight. Something about the water cycle that apparently requires excessive amounts of poster board and glitter."
Isla smiled at the domestic detail, the reminder that James had a whole life outside their partnership—an ex-wife he co-parented with, a daughter who needed help with school projects, responsibilities that extended beyond chasing serial killers through Duluth's darkness.
"Tell Emma I said good luck with the project," Isla said, gathering her coat. "And James? Thank you. For understanding Miami. For not... making it complicated."
"It's already complicated," James said quietly, standing and pulling on his own heavy winter jacket. "But maybe that's okay. Maybe complicated is better than easy."
The words hung between them as they left The Claddagh, stepping out into December cold that bit at exposed skin and turned their breath into visible clouds. Isla's car was parked down the block, James's sedan just beyond it, and they walked together in silence until they reached the point where they'd have to separate.
"Same time next week?" James asked, and Isla understood he meant both their routine drink at The Claddagh and the coordinated surveillance of the locations where Brune might be hiding.
"Same time," she confirmed.
