"I didn't catch him," Isla said, more sharply than she intended. "He's still out there."
"You identified him. Saved his next victim. That counts for something."
Isla turned back to her screen, unwilling to accept the praise when Brune remained free. James fell silent, and she heard him move away from the doorway, giving her space.
The morning crawled forward with painful slowness. More reports came in—possible sightings in Ashland, Superior, even one as far south as Minneapolis. Each one required review, cross-referencing, and coordination with local law enforcement. Each one led nowhere.
James returned with lunch at eleven-thirty, setting a wrapped sandwich and bottled water on her desk with quiet efficiency. The smell of garlic and fresh bread made Isla's stomach growl, betraying how long it had been since she'd eaten properly.
"Thank you," she said, unwrapping the sandwich. The first bite was better than she wanted to admit—turkey, swiss, crisp lettuce, tomatoes, and that promised aioli that was indeed excellent.
James settled into the chair across from her desk with his own lunch, and they ate in companionable silence while Isla continued scrolling through reports. This was one of the things she appreciated most about their partnership—James understood when she needed quiet, when conversation would only be a distraction from the work.
Just then, Isla’s phone began to ring. She took it out and frowned at the caller ID. Samuel McCrae was calling her.
Samuel McCrae, as in her former boss in Miami.
CHAPTER THREE
Samuel McCrae.
The man who'd had to process her transfer paperwork nearly three years ago, his disappointment palpable even as he maintained professional courtesy. She hadn't spoken to him since those final, awkward days of packing up her desk while avoiding everyone's eyes.
"I need to take this," Isla said, already standing. James looked up from his sandwich, curiosity flickering across his face, but he simply nodded.
She moved into the hallway, pulling the door partially closed behind her before answering. "McCrae."
"Agent Rivers." His voice was exactly as she remembered—deep, measured, carrying the trace of a Georgia accent that decades in South Florida hadn't quite erased. "I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time."
"I'm in the middle of a manhunt for a serial killer, so it depends on your definition of bad." Isla immediately regretted the sharp tone. "Sorry. It's been a long couple of weeks."
"So I've heard." There was something in his voice—not quite pride, but close to it. "The whole Bureau's been following your work on the Lake Superior case. Identifying a killer who'd been operating undetected for decades? That's exceptional investigative work, Isla."
She leaned against the wall, suspicious of the compliment. McCrae had never been one for idle flattery. "Is there something I can help you with?"
"Actually, I'm calling to help you." A pause, and she could picture him in his Miami office, probably standing at his window overlooking Biscayne Bay. "How would you feel about coming home?"
Isla's breath caught. "What?"
"We have an opening for a supervisory special agent position," McCrae continued, his words gaining momentum. "Elevated GS grade, your own team, opportunity to work major cases. Your work in Duluth has more than demonstrated your capabilities, and frankly, Isla, we never should have lost you in the first place."
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Somewhere down the hall, a phone rang. Isla's mind went blank, then flooded with too many thoughts at once.
Miami. A promotion. Recognition for her work.
Everything she'd dreamed of when they'd exiled her to Duluth with its brutal winters and small-town pace that felt like punishment after Miami's intensity.
"I..." She struggled to form coherent words. "This is unexpected."
"I know the timing isn't ideal, with your manhunt ongoing," McCrae said. "But I wanted to reach out personally before the official paperwork starts moving through channels. You'd be coming back as a success story, Isla. Not as the agent who made a mistake, but as someone who took a difficult situation and turned it into a career-defining investigation."
Alicia Mendez's face flashed through her mind—dark eyes wide with terror in that last photograph, the one they'd found at the killer's apartment. The woman, Isla, had failed to save because she'd been so sure, so confident in her profile of the wrong suspect.
"The Mendez case—" she started.
"Is history," McCrae interrupted firmly. "What matters now is your record since then. Fifteen homicides solved, a serial killer identified, patterns recognized that no one else saw. That's what the Bureau will remember. That's what I'll make sure they remember."
Isla pressed her free hand against the cool wall, grounding herself. This was everything she'd wanted. Vindication. Proof that she was more than her worst mistake. A chance to return to the career trajectory she'd been on before everything fell apart.
