Or was he exactly what he appeared to be—a man blindsided by terrible news, struggling to process the deaths of two women he'd known?
The answers were waiting inside.Isla could feel them, hovering just out of reach, ready to be uncovered.
She stepped out of the car and followed Nathan Cross into the studio.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The studio smelled of sandalwood and something greener beneath it—eucalyptus, maybe, or the particular scent of rubber yoga mats that had absorbed years of sweat and effort.Isla stepped inside and let her eyes adjust to the soft lighting, the exposed brick walls, the careful arrangement of crystals and plants that was meant to project calm but felt, in this moment, like camouflage.
Nathan Cross led them past the empty reception desk and into a small office at the back of the building.The space was cluttered but organized—stacks of paperwork on a desk, a laptop with its screen dark, a bulletin board covered in class schedules and inspirational quotes.A window looked out onto the parking lot where their vehicles sat side by side, the gray Honda and the FBI sedan, an unlikely pair.
"Please."Cross gestured toward two chairs that faced his desk.His voice had steadied since the restaurant, the initial shock giving way to something more controlled."Sit.I'll tell you whatever you want to know."
Isla took one of the chairs, positioning herself so she could watch both Cross and the door.James settled into the other, his notebook already in hand.The silence stretched as Cross moved behind his desk, not quite sitting, his hands gripping the back of his chair as if he needed something to hold onto.
"Start with Monica Hayes," Isla said."How did you know her?"
Cross exhaled slowly, and she watched the tension in his shoulders shift but not release."She was a student.Started coming to classes about—" He paused, calculating."Eight months ago, maybe nine.Drop-in at first, then she bought a membership.She liked the Tuesday evening intermediate flow.And sometimes she'd come to my Monday class, too."
"The same class Amanda Pierce attended."
"Yes."The word came out tight, constricted."They were both regulars.Amanda more than Monica—she'd been coming for over a year."
"Did they know each other?Monica and Amanda?"
Cross shook his head."I don't think so.Not beyond nodding at each other in class.They ran in different circles.Monica was—" He stopped, swallowed."She was a hairdresser.Owned her own salon.Amanda was a teacher.I don't think they had much in common beyond yoga."
James looked up from his notes."What can you tell us about your relationship with Amanda Pierce?"
Something flickered across Cross's face—too fast to identify, there and gone like a shadow passing behind glass."What do you mean?"
"We've spoken to several of your students," James said, his voice carrying that deceptively casual tone that Isla had learned to recognize as a trap being laid."They mentioned you paid particular attention to certain women in your classes.Amanda Pierce was one of them."
The silence that followed was heavy, charged with something Isla couldn't quite name.Cross's grip on the chair tightened until his knuckles went white.
"I'm a yoga instructor," he said finally."Part of my job is paying attention to my students.Making sure their form is correct, that they're not going to hurt themselves."
"That's not what they described."
Cross's jaw worked.For a long moment he didn't speak, and Isla watched the calculations happening behind his pale eyes—what to admit, what to deny, how much they already knew.
"Okay," he said."Okay.You want the truth?Amanda and I went out a few times.Three dates, maybe four.It was—" He released the chair and ran a hand through his dark hair."It was nothing serious.We grabbed coffee, saw a movie.She was nice.Pretty.I thought maybe something could develop."
"And?"Isla prompted.
"And nothing."Cross finally sat, dropping into his chair with the particular heaviness of someone who had stopped fighting."She wasn't interested.She was polite about it—Amanda was always polite—but she made it clear she didn't see me that way.Just wanted to be friends, the whole speech."A muscle in his cheek twitched."I was disappointed, but I respected it.That was the end of it."
"Yet she kept coming to your classes."
"Yes.She said she didn't want things to be awkward, and I didn't want to lose a good student.We were adults about it."Cross met Isla's eyes, and she saw something in his expression that might have been genuine pain."She was a sweet person, Agent Rivers.Kind.The sort of woman who remembered everyone's name and asked about their kids.When you told me she was dead—" His voice cracked, and he had to stop and collect himself."I can't imagine anyone wanting to hurt her."
Isla let the silence stretch, studying Cross's face for any sign of deception.The grief seemed real—the slight redness around his eyes, the way his hands trembled almost imperceptibly on the desk.But she'd been fooled before.She'd looked at the wrong man in Miami and seen guilt where there was none, and by the time she'd corrected her mistake, Alicia Mendez was dead.
"What about Monica Hayes?"James asked."Did you pursue her as well?"
Cross shook his head, and this time the denial felt more solid."No.Monica was—we barely spoke outside of class.She'd say hello, I'd make small talk about her form or the weather.That was it."
"You never asked her out?Never suggested coffee or dinner?"
