Her phone was ringing.
The sound cut through the fog of sleep and fear, sharp and insistent.Isla fumbled for it on her nightstand, nearly knocking it to the floor before her fingers found purchase.The screen glowed in the darkness: SULLIVAN.
She checked the time.5:47 AM.
Nothing good ever came from a call at 5:47 in the morning.
"Rivers," she said, her voice rough with sleep and the remnants of the dream.
"It's Sullivan."His voice was clipped, professional, carrying the particular flatness that meant he was already in work mode, already compartmentalizing whatever he was about to tell her."We've got another one."
CHAPTER NINE
Isla was dressed and out the door in six minutes.
The dream still clung to her—Brune's voice, the rising water, that smile—but she shoved it down, locked it away in the same compartment where she kept Miami and Alicia Mendez and all the other failures she couldn't afford to think about.There would be time for nightmares later.Right now, there was work.
James had given her an address on the far edge of Duluth, a stretch of road she barely knew that ran parallel to the highway before disappearing into the kind of nowhere that existed between towns.He'd been sparse on details—another woman, same MO, construction crew found her this morning—but the flatness in his voice had told her everything she needed to know.
The killer had struck again.Less than twenty-four hours after they'd pulled Monica Hayes from the freezer at Bella Ristorante, there was another body.
The drive took twenty minutes through streets that were just beginning to wake up.Tuesday, February 13th.The day before Valentine's Day, Isla realized with a distant sense of irony.Somewhere in Duluth, people were buying flowers and making dinner reservations and planning romantic gestures for the people they loved.
And somewhere else, a woman had been strangled and left in the cold.
She found the address easily enough—a squat building that had probably been a diner in another life, sitting alone on a gravel lot that bordered a strip of frozen wetland.The windows were boarded over, the parking lot empty except for two construction trucks, James's sedan, and the forensics van that had become a familiar sight over the past forty-eight hours.Crime scene tape stretched across the entrance, snapping in the wind like something alive.
Isla parked and climbed out into the cold.The sun was just beginning to rise, painting the eastern sky in shades of pale orange that did nothing to warm the February air.Her breath fogged in front of her as she ducked under the tape and approached the building.
James met her at the door.His face was drawn, his eyes carrying the particular weariness of someone who hadn't slept and didn't expect to anytime soon.He'd thrown on clothes that didn't quite match—a flannel shirt under a heavy coat, jeans instead of his usual suit pants.She wondered if he'd even made it home before the call came in.
"What have we got?"she asked, forgoing any greeting.There would be time for pleasantries later, too.
"Female victim, appears to be in her thirties."James fell into step beside her as they entered the building."Strangled first, then brought here and placed in the walk-in.Same positioning as Hayes—arms folded, eyes closed, almost peaceful.No ID on her yet."
The interior of the diner was a mess of exposed beams and torn-up flooring.The renovation had clearly been in progress for some time—half the booths had been ripped out, the counter was stripped down to bare plywood, and one entire wall had been knocked through, the gap covered only by heavy plastic sheeting that billowed and snapped in the wind seeping through from outside.
"Construction crew's been using the place as a base of operations," James continued, leading her toward the back."They've got the walk-in still running to keep their lunches and drinks cold.One of the guys—Tony Reeves—came in early this morning to grab a Red Bull before the rest of the crew arrived.Found her instead."
"Where's Reeves now?"
"Gave his statement to Fritz.He's pretty shaken up—apparently thought it was a mannequin at first."James's mouth pressed into a thin line."Kept saying he didn't understand how she got there.The crew locks up every night, and nothing looked disturbed when they arrived."
They reached the kitchen—or what had been the kitchen, before the renovation stripped it down to bare walls and dangling wires.The walk-in freezer stood at the back, its heavy steel door propped open, light spilling out into the dim space.
Isla stepped inside.
The cold wrapped around her immediately, sharp and familiar, carrying that particular smell of frost and metal that she was beginning to associate with death.The freezer was smaller than the one at Bella Ristorante—barely room for two people to stand—but it had been stocked with the same careful consideration.Coolers lined one wall, packed with energy drinks and sandwiches wrapped in plastic.A case of water bottles sat in the corner, still sealed.
And on the floor, positioned between the coolers with the same deliberate care they'd seen before, lay a woman.
Isla's breath caught in her throat.
The woman was blonde—light blonde, almost the same shade as Monica Hayes.Her hair fell in soft waves around a face that had gone pale with frost but still retained the delicate bone structure, the gentle features that Isla had seen before.She was wearing workout clothes—yoga pants, a fitted jacket, running shoes—as if she'd been grabbed on her way to or from the gym.Her arms were folded across her chest, her eyes closed, her expression almost serene.
She could have been Monica Hayes's sister.She could have been Maria Carlisle's.
The same type.The same profile.Light hair, mid-thirties, slender build, soft features.Another woman who fit the pattern with eerie precision.
