Page 12 of Whispers in the Night

The conference room was silent. Holloway looked troubled. Silas’s expression was unreadable.

“In Nevada,” Harper continued, “I theorized he was building toward something. That the three victims were practice. That he was working up the courage or skill to kill the real target—the woman he actually wanted.”

“And you think he’s still building?” Holloway asked.

“Or he’s found her.” Harper met Silas’s eyes. “He stopped for five years. That kind of cooling-off period usually indicates one of three things: he was imprisoned for another crime, he moved and had to establish himself in a new location, or he found a substitute that satisfied his needs temporarily.”

“You think he moved here.” Silas’s voice was hard. “To Blackridge.”

“I think he’s been here for a while. He’d need time to scout locations, select victims, plan the logistics. This isn’t impulsive. He’s organized, methodical. The kind of killer who plans every detail.” Harper paused. “The question is why Blackridge? Why now? What changed?”

“Maybe nothing changed,” Silas offered. “Maybe he just got bored and decided to start killing again.”

“Serial killers don’t work like that—”

“Don’t.” Silas’s voice cracked like a whip. “Don’t lecture me on how killers work. I’ve hunted plenty of them.”

“Then you know that cooling-off periods this long always have a reason—”

“What I know,” Silas interrupted, standing abruptly, “is that we’re wasting time theorizing when we should be working the evidence. Victim’s apartment needs to be searched. Coworkers need to be interviewed. We need to establish her movements in the days before her death, identify potential suspects, canvas the area around the paper mill—”

“All of which I agree with,” Harper cut him off, keeping her voice calm. “But understanding the psychology is just as important as working the physical evidence.”

“Is that what you told Michael Ward before he died?”

The words landed like a slap. Harper felt her face go hot, then cold. Around the edges of her vision, the room seemed to dim.

“Kane!” Holloway’s voice was sharp. “That’s out of line.”

“Is it?” Silas turned to the captain, a storm brewing in his eyes and he pointed an accusing finger in her direction. “You brought in a consultant who ignored protocol and got her partner killed. You want me to trust her judgment on this case? Fine. But I’m going to say what everyone else is thinking—how do we know she won’t make the same mistakes again?”

Harper’s hands were shaking. She pressed them flat against the table, willing herself to stay calm, to stay professional. “You don’t,” she said quietly.

Both men went silent and looked at her.

“You don’t know I won’t make mistakes,” Harper continued, forcing herself to meet Silas’s hostile gaze. “Because I’m human, and humans make mistakes. Yes, I made a call that went wrong in Chicago. Yes, my partner died because I assessed the situation incorrectly and moved too fast. And yes, I live with that every single day.”

She stood, matching Silas’s posture, refusing to back down or appear weak. “But I’m also the only person in this room who’s seen this killer’s work before. I’m the only one who’s studied his patterns, his psychology, his methods. I spent a year chasing him in Nevada. I know how he thinks. I know what he wants. And I know that if we don’t stop him now, Melissa Wagoner won’t be his last victim.”

“Agent Sinclair—” Holloway started.

“I don’t need Detective Kane to like me,” Harper cut him off. “I don’t even need him to trust me. But I need him to work withme. Because right now, there’s a killer in your city who’s just getting started, and we’re the only ones who can stop him.”

Silence filled the conference room. Harper could hear her own heartbeat, feel the adrenaline singing through her veins. She’d said too much. Revealed too much. But she was so tired of people looking at her like she was broken, like she was damaged goods, like Michael’s death was a scarlet letter she’d wear forever.

Holloway cleared his throat. “Detective Kane, step outside with me. Now.”

Silas looked like he wanted to argue, but something in Holloway’s expression stopped him. He followed the captain out, and through the glass door, Harper could see them having an intense, quiet conversation in the hallway.

She sank back into her chair, suddenly exhausted. This was a mistake. She should have told Ellery no. Should have stayed in her cabin, stayed hidden, stayed away from a job that had cost her everything.

But then she looked at Melissa Wagoner’s photo on the screen. Smiling. Alive. Someone’s daughter, someone’s friend, someone who’d deserved better than to die scared and in pain on a concrete floor.

Harper owed her. Owed Sarah and Jessica and Pamela too. Owed them justice, even if she couldn’t give it to Michael.

The door opened. Holloway came back in alone.

“Where’s Detective Kane?” Harper asked. She hadn’t seen him leave.