Isla considered the question as she navigated the gray streets of Duluth, the February sky pressing down like a weight.Nathan Cross was many things—boundary-pushing, perhaps even predatory in his attention to certain students—but a killer?The man she'd just interviewed didn't have the control, the patience, the particular coldness required to strangle two women and arrange their bodies with care.He was too reactive, too transparent, too obviously shaken by the news of their deaths.
"I think the studio is a hunting ground," she said slowly."But not for Cross.For someone else.Someone who watched Monica Hayes and Amanda Pierce without their knowledge, learned their schedules, their routines.Someone patient enough to wait for the right moment."
"The man Cross described."
"Maybe.Or maybe that was just some random person and we're grasping at shadows."Isla tightened her grip on the wheel."But the yoga studio connection feels real.Both women attended, both fit the same general profile—light hair, mid-thirties, attractive.If the killer was looking for a certain type of victim, a yoga studio would be a perfect place to find them."
"A lot of yoga studios in Duluth."
"And we need to check them all.See if any other women matching the profile have reported being followed or approached by a stranger."Isla merged onto the highway, heading back toward the field office."I also want to pull the membership records from Serenity Yoga.Everyone who's attended in the past six months.Cross said the man didn't sign up for classes, but maybe he gave a fake name to get on a mailing list.Something."
James pulled out his phone and started typing."I'll have Fritz get started on the records.And the security footage from the Mobil station—we need to verify Cross's alibi for Monday night."
"Do that."Isla felt the weight of the case pressing down on her—two dead women, a killer who posed his victims with care, and now a possible sighting that might lead nowhere."And James?"
"Yeah?"
"The description Cross gave—late thirties, average build, dark hair or blonde, baseball cap.That's half the men in Minnesota."
"I know."
"We need more."She took the exit toward the FBI field office, the familiar buildings rising against the gray sky."The victims' connection to the yoga studio might be coincidence.Cross's romantic history with Amanda Pierce might be coincidence.But somewhere in all these coincidences, there's a killer who's choosing his victims deliberately.Who's finding them somewhere."
"And posing them in freezers."
"And posing them in freezers."Isla pulled into the parking lot and killed the engine, but she didn't move to get out.Instead, she sat for a moment, staring at the building where the whiteboard waited with its photographs and its lines and its growing web of connections that still hadn't coalesced into a pattern she could read.
"We can't rule Cross out completely," she said finally."Keep him on the board.But widen the focus.I want to know about every gray sedan registered within fifty miles of Duluth.I want to know about every man who's been reported for suspicious behavior near yoga studios or gyms or anywhere women in their thirties might gather.”
James nodded.
They had a lot more work to do if they were to keep the women of Duluth safe for another night.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The numbers on Sarah Ramsey's screen had started to blur.
She blinked, rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands, and reached for the coffee that had gone cold an hour ago.The mug—a ceramic thing printed with "World's Okayest Accountant"—was a gift from her sister, meant as a joke, but Sarah had adopted it with the ironic sincerity of someone who knew she was considerably better than okay.Her client list had tripled in the past eighteen months.The feature inI Love Duluthmagazine had brought in more business than she'd ever anticipated.World's okayest, indeed.
Her office occupied a corner of the third floor in a building on Superior Street that had once been a department store, back when department stores still existed.The space was small but well-appointed—a mahogany desk she'd found at an estate sale, two leather chairs for clients, a window that looked out over the street where pedestrians hurried past with their collars turned up against the February cold.Sarah had painted the walls a soft sage green and hung her CPA certificate in a frame that cost more than the certificate itself.Image mattered.She'd learned that early.
The phone rang, pulling her attention from the Peterson file she'd been wrestling with since nine o'clock.
"Ramsey Accounting, this is Sarah."
"Ms.Ramsey?"The voice on the other end was male, slightly rough, carrying the particular tension of someone who'd been working up the courage to make this call."I'm hoping you can help me.I'm in a significant financial situation and I need advice.Professional advice."
Sarah straightened in her chair, her mind automatically shifting into client-acquisition mode.New business was always welcome, even when her schedule was packed to bursting."I'd be happy to discuss your situation.Can you tell me a bit about what you're dealing with?"
"It's complicated."A pause, the sound of breathing on the line."I've made some mistakes with my taxes—nothing illegal, but I'm worried I might be facing an audit.Some investments that didn't pan out the way I expected.I need someone who can look at everything and tell me how bad it really is."
"That's exactly the kind of work I do."Sarah pulled up her calendar on the computer, scanning the blocks of color that represented her day.Back-to-back meetings until five, then a stack of returns that needed to be filed before the fifteenth."I should let you know, though—my schedule is pretty full today.The earliest I could fit you in would be sometime next week."
"Next week?"The disappointment in his voice was palpable."I was really hoping to talk to someone sooner.The anxiety is—" He broke off, laughed a little."Sorry.I know that sounds dramatic.It's just been keeping me up at night."
Sarah understood that particular brand of financial anxiety better than most.She'd seen it countless times—the sleepless nights, the stomach-churning dread, the way money problems could consume every waking thought until they felt like physical weight pressing down on your chest.It was part of why she'd gone into this line of work.Numbers she could fix.Numbers made sense.
"I wish I could help you sooner," she said, and meant it."But I'm completely booked through the end of the day."
