Page 17 of Whispers in the Night

Silas looked at her sharply. She’d been close enough to hear Holloway’s voice through the phone.

“What?” Holloway asked.

“Put me on speaker,” Harper said.

Silas hesitated, then did. “You’re on.”

“Captain, this is Agent Sinclair. If he’s taken two victims in three days, he’s not cooling off between kills. He’s on a compressed timeline. He’s killing to a schedule, which means he’s either been triggered by something specific, or he’s building toward an endgame.”

“What kind of endgame?”

“I don’t know yet. But we need to see the second victim immediately. We need to determine if the pattern holds, if he’s accelerating or if this is the pace he’s planned all along.”

Silas was already moving toward the door. “Captain, we’re heading to Riverside Park now. What’s the address?”

Holloway rattled off the location—the north end of the park, near the playground. Silas knew it. Knew it was public, visible, the kind of place where dumping a body took massive balls or complete desperation.

“Get there fast,” Holloway said. “And Silas? The press is already circling. This is going to blow up.”

The call ended. Silas was out the door, Harper right behind him. They took the stairs two at a time, hitting the parking lot at a run.

In the car, Silas drove faster than he should, weaving through traffic with the kind of controlled aggression that came from years of tactical driving. Harper braced herself against the dashboard but didn’t complain.

“Two victims in three days,” Silas said, more to himself than to her. “That’s not normal.”

“No, it’s not. Most serial killers have a cooling-off period between kills—weeks, months, sometimes years. It lets themprocess what they’ve done, relive the fantasy, build up to the next one.” Harper’s voice was clinical, professional. “Two in three days suggests he’s either spiraling out of control, or this was always his plan. A compressed timeline for a specific reason.”

“What reason?”

“Maybe he knows we’re hunting him. Maybe he’s running out of time. Maybe he’s building to something bigger.” She paused. “Or maybe he found who he’s really been looking for, and these kills are preparation.”

Silas’s hands tightened on the wheel. “You.”

“It’s possible.”

“You said you didn’t think he followed you here—”

“I said I didn’t know. I still don’t.” Harper’s voice was steady, but Silas could hear the undercurrent of tension. “But we can’t ignore the timing. I’ve been in Blackridge two months. He kills for the first time in five years. Now he’s accelerating. That could be coincidence, or it could mean I’m relevant to his plan.”

Silas wanted to tell her she was being paranoid. Wanted to dismiss the idea as the kind of egocentric thinking that got agents in trouble. But he’d learned to trust his instincts, and his instincts said she might be right.

Which meant Harper Sinclair wasn’t just a consultant on this case. She might be a target.

“If he is after you,” Silas said carefully, “you need protection.”

“I can handle myself.”

“Can you?” He glanced at her. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re a civilian on leave who’s walking into a situation where a serial killer might be fixated on you. That’s not handling yourself. That’s being reckless.”

Her jaw tightened and she growled out, “I’m aware of the risk.”

“Are you? Because in Chicago—”

“Don’t.” Her voice cut like a knife. “Don’t use Michael to make your point.”

Silas bit back his response. She was right. That was a low blow, even if it was valid. “Fine. But we’re establishing protocols. You don’t go anywhere alone. You stay in public places. And you carry a weapon at all times.”

“I’m not authorized to carry—”