"I don't know what to say," she managed.
"Say you'll think about it." McCrae's tone gentled slightly. "I know Duluth has probably grown on you—it tends to do that to people. But Isla, you're meant for bigger things than processing cargo theft and the occasional homicide. Miami has the cases that match your talents. Major organized crime, complex investigations, the kind of work that actually challenges you."
Through the partially open door of her office, she could see James still sitting at her desk, waiting patiently. His broad shoulders were angled toward the window, giving her privacy while remaining present. Dependable. Solid. Everything she'd come to rely on over the past three years.
Her heart constricted painfully.
"I need to think about it," Isla said, her voice steadier than she felt. "The manhunt—I can't just leave in the middle of—"
"Of course not. Take your time. The position won't be officially posted for another month." She heard papers rustling on his end. "But I wanted you to know first, Isla. You deserve this opportunity."
They exchanged a few more pleasantries before ending the call. Isla stood in the hallway for a long moment, phone still clutched in her hand, trying to process what had just happened.
A promotion. Miami. Home.
Except when had she started thinking of Duluth as home?
She took a breath, squared her shoulders, and pushed back into her office. James looked up immediately, his blue eyes searching her face with the perceptiveness that made him such a good investigator.
"Everything okay?" he asked.
"Fine." The lie came easily, practiced. "Just a follow-up from an old case."
If James suspected otherwise, he didn't press. He simply nodded and took another bite of his sandwich, giving her space to settle back at her desk.
Isla unwrapped the remainder of her turkey on rye, but her appetite had vanished. She forced herself to eat anyway, mechanically chewing while her mind raced.
She couldn't tell him. Not yet. Not until she'd figured out what she actually wanted.
The afternoon passed in a blur of reports and phone calls. More sightings, more dead ends. The Marshals were coordinating with Canadian authorities now, expanding the search grid. Border patrol had Brune's photo at every crossing point. It was only a matter of time.
Except Isla couldn't shake the feeling that they were looking in all the wrong places.
By five o'clock, James started packing up his things, shooting her meaningful looks that she pretended not to notice.
"Emma has a piano recital tonight," he said finally. "I need to leave by five-thirty."
"Go." Isla waved him off. "I'll be here if anything breaks."
"Isla—"
"I'll leave at a reasonable hour," she promised, though they both knew it was a lie. "Tell Emma to knock 'em dead."
James hesitated at the door, looking like he wanted to say something more. Then he simply nodded and left, his footsteps fading down the hallway.
Isla worked until seven, then eight. The office gradually emptied around her until she was alone with the hum of fluorescent lights and the glow of her computer screen. She pulled up the map one more time, studying the scatter of red pins representing Brune sightings.
Thunder Bay. Duluth. Superior. Ashland. They formed a loose circle around the western tip of Lake Superior, but there was no clear pattern, no logical progression.
Because he's not running, Isla thought. He's hiding. Somewhere close.
At eight-thirty, she finally admitted defeat for the day. She gathered her things, locked her office, and made her way down to the parking garage. The December air hit her like a physical force as she stepped outside—sharp, cold, smelling of snow that hadn't quite fallen yet.
Her apartment was only a fifteen-minute drive, a small one-bedroom in a converted warehouse building near the waterfront. She'd chosen it partly for the location—close to the office and the docks—and partly because it reminded her of her place in Miami, back when everything had seemed possible.
The building's lobby was quiet, just the night security guard offering a friendly wave as she passed. Isla rode the elevator to the fourth floor, her footsteps echoing in the empty hallway as she approached her door.
Inside, the apartment was dark and cold. She'd forgotten to adjust the thermostat again before leaving that morning. Isla dropped her bag on the small table by the door, hung her blazer over a chair, and moved through the familiar space by muscle memory.
