The answers were out there, hiding in the details she hadn't yet found.And she would find them—every last one—before this killer had a chance to choose his next victim.
The lake whispered to Robert Brune.Something else was whispering to this killer—something about blonde hair and gentle faces, about cold storage and careful arrangement, about a type of woman he needed to possess.
Isla intended to learn its language.
Whatever it took.However long it took.
She owed that much to the woman in the freezer.
She owed that much to all of them.
CHAPTER TEN
The FBI field office had the particular stillness of early morning—phones not yet ringing, keyboards not yet clicking, the fluorescent lights humming their quiet dirge over rows of empty desks.Isla had been there since six-thirty, fueled by vending machine coffee and the electric hum of a case that refused to slow down.
Amanda Pierce.
The name had come through just before eight, matched to the missing persons report filed by a frantic roommate who'd waited up all night for a friend who never came home.Isla stared at the photograph on her monitor—a candid shot, probably taken at some school function, showing a woman with a warm smile and light blonde hair pulled back in a casual ponytail.She was holding a handmade card, the kind children made with construction paper and too much glitter, her expression radiating the particular joy of someone who loved her work.
Thirty-six years old.Special education teacher at Lincoln Elementary.Winner of Duluth's Teacher of the Year award just eleven months ago for her innovative programs working with special needs children.
The news articles Isla had pulled painted a picture of a woman beloved by her community.Parents quoted talking about how Amanda had changed their children's lives.Colleagues describing her patience, her creativity, her refusal to give up on even the most challenging students.A photograph of her accepting the Teacher of the Year plaque, beaming at the camera while the superintendent shook her hand.
And now she was lying in a morgue, strangled and frozen, posed with the same terrible tenderness as Monica Hayes.
The door to the office opened, letting in a gust of cold air and James Sullivan.He was carrying two cups of coffee from the good place three blocks over—the one that actually knew what they were doing—and his face carried the particular exhaustion of someone who'd been awake for too many hours.
"Thought you could use an upgrade from the vending machine sludge," he said, setting one of the cups on her desk.
Isla wrapped her hands around the warmth, grateful."You're a saint."
"I'm a realist.You're no good to anyone running on that garbage they call coffee downstairs."He pulled his chair around to face her desk, settling into it with the easy familiarity of years working together."What have you got?"
"Amanda Pierce."Isla turned her monitor so he could see."Thirty-six, special ed teacher, Teacher of the Year.Her roommate reported her missing around midnight when she didn't come home from yoga class."
"Yoga class."
"Serenity Yoga Studio on the east side.Monday night class runs from six to seven.I've already got Fritz sending someone over to interview the instructor and any students who might have seen her."Isla pulled up another window—a schedule she'd been building since the identification came through."According to her roommate, Amanda left for class around five-thirty.She always stayed a few minutes after to chat with the instructor.Usually home by seven-thirty at the latest."
James studied the timeline, his brow furrowing."So somewhere between seven and whenever she was killed, someone grabbed her."
"The roommate—her name is Debra Kowalski—said Amanda always parked in the same spot at the studio.Far end of the lot, near the trees.She was a creature of habit."Isla's jaw tightened."The lot is poorly lit.Isolated.Perfect hunting ground for someone patient enough to wait."
"He was watching her."
"Almost certainly.Same as with Hayes—someone who knew her patterns, her routines.Someone who'd taken the time to learn when she'd be vulnerable."Isla picked up her coffee, took a long sip, and set it back down."I've requested security footage from any cameras in the area, but that stretch of road isn't exactly Times Square.We might get lucky.We might not."
James was quiet for a moment, studying Amanda Pierce's smiling face on the screen.When he spoke again, his voice was careful, measured."I've got news on Carlisle."
Something in his tone made Isla look up."What kind of news?"
"He checked himself back into Lakeview Behavioral Health last night.Apparently, our visit triggered something—he called his psychiatrist around nine PM in crisis.They admitted him for observation."James met her eyes."He's been under supervised care since approximately ten o'clock last night."
Isla processed this, turning the implications over in her mind.Amanda Pierce had last been seen around seven PM.If she'd been killed between seven and whenever she was placed in the freezer—and Henley's estimate put time of death between twelve and twenty-four hours before discovery—then Carlisle couldn't have done it.He'd been in the psychiatric facility while Amanda was still alive, still walking out of her yoga class, still heading toward her car with no idea what waited in the shadows.
"So he's definitively out," she said.
"Definitively."James leaned back in his chair."For what it's worth, the admitting psychiatrist said Carlisle was genuinely distressed.Kept talking about the woman in the photo, about how seeing someone who looked like Maria had sent him spiraling.He's not faking."
