"Grace Hyland is going to be okay," James said, shifting the subject."Hospital released her this afternoon.Some bruising, some damage to her throat that'll take a few weeks to heal, but no permanent injury.She's already talking about going back to work."
"Good."Isla finally took a sip of her whiskey, feeling the familiar burn trace a path down her throat."She was lucky."
"She was smart.The way she stopped struggling, conserved her air—she bought herself the seconds you needed to get there."James's blue eyes met hers across the table, carrying something that went beyond professional admiration."And you were fast.Faster than backup, faster than protocol.If you'd waited—"
"If I'd waited, she'd be dead."Isla turned the glass in her hands, watching the whiskey catch the light."I know.I've been running the timing in my head all day.Another thirty seconds and she would have been unconscious.Another minute after that and we'd be planning a fourth funeral instead of celebrating a save."
"You made the right call."
"This time."The words came out before she could stop them, carrying the weight of Miami, of Alicia Mendez, of all the times her judgment had failed when it mattered most."This time I made the right call."
James was quiet for a moment, and she could feel him choosing his next words carefully.They'd worked together for almost three years now, long enough that he knew her history, knew her fears, knew the particular shape of the guilt she carried.
"You can't save everyone," he said finally."Monica Hayes, Amanda Pierce, Sarah Ramsey—their deaths aren't on you."
"I know."Isla looked up at him, at the concern etched in the lines around his eyes, at the steadiness that had become her anchor over these past years."I know that.But knowing it and feeling it—those are different things."
"Yeah."His voice was soft."They are."
The bartender appeared at their table—a broad-shouldered man named Declan who'd been tending the Claddagh since before Isla had arrived in Duluth.He set down a fresh whiskey without being asked, gave them both a knowing nod, and disappeared back toward the bar.They came here often enough that Declan had learned their rhythms, their signals, the particular quality of silence that meant they needed refills but not conversation.
Isla wrapped her hands around the new glass, grateful for the warmth.
"There's something else," James said after a moment."Kate told me this afternoon.The Lake Superior Killer case—it's being transferred."
Isla's hands stilled on the glass."Transferred where?"
"US Marshals.Officially, as of tomorrow morning."James's expression was carefully neutral—the face he wore when he was delivering news he knew she wouldn't want to hear."The Bureau's active involvement is ending.The case stays open, but unless new leads emerge, it's not our investigation anymore."
The words landed like stones dropped into still water, sending ripples through Isla's carefully maintained calm.The LSK.Robert Brune.The Shipwrecker.Two and a half years of her life, two months of waiting and watching and knowing he was still out there somewhere, and now she was being told to let it go.
"It makes sense," James continued, his voice gentle."We don't have the resources to maintain an active manhunt indefinitely.Not with new cases coming in every week.The Marshals have a dedicated fugitive unit—that's what they do.If anyone's going to find him, it'll be them."
"If he's still alive to find."
"Right."James took a sip of his Guinness."That's the other possibility.Two months in this climate, for a man his age, with limited resources and the whole region looking for him...he might have frozen to death in some abandoned building weeks ago.We might never know what happened to him."
Isla shook her head slowly."He's not dead."
"Rivers—"
"I know how it sounds."She met his eyes, saw the concern there mixed with something that might have been resignation.They'd had this conversation before, in various forms, over the past two months."I don't have proof.I don't have evidence.I just have..."She trailed off, searching for the right word.
"Instinct," James finished for her.
"Instinct."She turned the word over, testing its weight."He spent sixty-four years on these shores.His mother drowned in that lake when he was eight years old.Every victim he ever took was a sacrifice to those waters."She thought about the dream that still haunted her—Brune's face in the fog, his voice whispering about what the lake wanted."Men like that don't just leave.They can't.Whatever's inside them is rooted to a place, fed by familiar ground."
"The task force thinks he crossed into Canada."
"The task force is wrong."
James was quiet for a long moment, studying her face with those deep-set blue eyes that seemed to see more than she wanted to show.He'd learned to trust her instincts over the years—even when they defied logic, even when the evidence pointed elsewhere.She'd been right about the yoga studio connection.She'd been right about the magazine.She'd been right about Jamie Thornton, even when their best lead had turned out to be an innocent man with an unfortunate hobby.
"Okay," he said finally.
Isla blinked."Okay?"
"Okay, you think he's still here.I'm not going to argue with you about it."James lifted his glass, something almost like a smile playing at the corners of his mouth."Your instincts have saved my ass more than once.If you say Robert Brune is still in Duluth, then maybe he is.The Marshals can run their manhunt, follow their leads to Canada or Norway or wherever they think he's gone.But if he shows up again—if he surfaces anywhere near Lake Superior—you'll be the first one to know it."
