The possibilities multiplied in her mind, branching like frost patterns on glass.A health inspector, like Kyle Henderson.A delivery driver who worked with multiple restaurants.A maintenance worker.A city employee with access to closure records.The list of people who might have the specific knowledge this killer demonstrated was longer than she'd hoped, but shorter than the general population.
It was something.A thread to pull.
"There's something else," James said, his voice pulling her back from the spiral of investigation."Something that's been bothering me since we found Amanda."
Isla looked up."What?"
"The timing."He leaned forward, elbows on knees."Monica Hayes was killed sometime between Thursday and Saturday.We found her Monday morning.Less than forty-eight hours later, Amanda Pierce is dead, too."His blue eyes met hers."That's not a normal escalation pattern.That's someone who's been planning this for a while and finally started executing."
"Or someone who's decompensating.Losing control."
"Maybe.But the posing is too careful for someone out of control.The location selection is too deliberate.Everything about these killings says patience and planning—except the timeline."
Isla considered this.James was right; the rapid succession of victims didn't match the meticulous nature of the crimes themselves.Killers who took this much care with their victims usually savored the intervals between.They liked to relive the experience, to stretch out the satisfaction.Two kills in less than a week suggested urgency, pressure, some external force pushing the killer to move faster than he normally would.
"Something triggered him," she said."Something recent.Maybe—" She stopped, another thought surfacing."Valentine's Day."
James's expression shifted."Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow."Isla pulled up a calendar, though she didn't need it—the date had been lurking at the edge of her awareness since she'd woken up."Two women killed in the days leading up to Valentine's Day.Both posed with care, with tenderness.Both left in places where they'd be found."
"He's giving them to someone."
The thought sent a chill through her that had nothing to do with the February cold seeping through the office windows.Gifts.These women were gifts, offered up to some absent recipient on the most romantic day of the year.
"Or taking them from someone," Isla said quietly."Punishing the world for something he's lost.Something that happened around Valentine's Day."
"We need to look at significant dates.Both victims' backgrounds—were there any major events in their lives connected to February?Anniversaries, deaths, anything that might connect them to the killer's timeline."
"I'll add it to the list."Isla's voice came out steadier than she felt."Fritz is pulling everything he can on both women.We should have comprehensive backgrounds by this afternoon."
James nodded and stood, reaching for his coat."I'm going to head over to Lincoln Elementary.Talk to Amanda's colleagues, see if anyone noticed anything unusual in the days before she died.Someone watching her, a new face in the pickup line, anything."
"Take the Teacher of the Year angle, too.That kind of public recognition puts her face out there.If our killer is hunting women who fit a certain profile, an award ceremony with press coverage would be an easy way to spot potential victims."
"Good thinking."James paused at the edge of her desk, something shifting in his expression."Rivers."
She looked up.
"When's the last time you slept?"
The question caught her off guard.She had to think about it—actually think, counting back through the blur of hours since the case had started.The answer wasn't flattering.
"I'll sleep when we catch him."
James's jaw tightened, but he didn't push.They'd had this conversation before, in various forms, over the nearly three years they'd worked together.He knew better than anyone that she couldn't turn it off, couldn't step back, couldn't stop thinking about the victims and the killer and the terrible geometry of violence that connected them.
But there was something else in his expression now—something that had been there more often lately, in the quiet moments between crises.A concern that went beyond professional courtesy.
"At least eat something," he said."Real food.Not vending machine garbage."
"You're starting to sound like my mother."
"I'm starting to sound like someone who doesn't want to scrape you off the floor when you collapse."He softened the words with something that was almost a smile."The Claddagh does lunch.I'll pick something up on my way back from the school."
"Sullivan—"
"That wasn't a request, Rivers."
