Page 19 of Whispers in the Night

The realization settled over both of them like a weight. They didn’t have time to work the case methodically, to chase down every lead, to build a comprehensive profile. They had hours. Maybe less.

“We need to warn people,” Harper said. “Young women, early twenties, dark hair, petite build. They need to know there’s a predator hunting them.”

“Press conference,” Silas agreed grimly. “Holloway will have to do it. We can’t give details about the MO, but we can tell people to be careful, to travel in groups, to report anything suspicious.”

Harper nodded, but her attention was still on Amy Thorne. Silas watched her, saw the way her hands had started to shake slightly. The way her breathing had gotten faster.

“Sinclair.”

She didn’t respond.

“Harper.”

She looked at him, and her eyes were wrong. Too wide, too distant. Like she was seeing something else, somewhere else.

“I need—” She stopped, swallowed hard. “I need a minute.”

Silas took her arm, gentle but firm, and guided her away from the body. Away from the crime scene techs and the officers and anyone who might see an FBI consultant falling apart at an active scene.

They walked to the edge of the park, near a cluster of trees that provided cover from prying eyes. Harper was breathing fast now, her chest rising and falling in rapid succession. Her hands were shaking hard enough that she had to press them against her thighs.

“Sit,” Silas said, pointing to a bench.

“I’m fine—”

“Sit down.” His voice was firm, the same tone he’d used with his Rangers when they were spiraling. Command, not request.

Harper sat. Silas crouched in front of her, putting himself at eye level.

“Look at me,” he said. “Harper. Look at me.”

She raised her eyes to his, and he could see the panic there. The trauma bubbling up. Whatever was happening in her head right now, it wasn’t Riverside Park. It wasn’t this case.

It was Chicago. The warehouse. Michael Ward dying in an explosion while she watched.

“You’re having a panic attack,” Silas said calmly. “Your body thinks you’re in danger, but you’re not. You’re safe. You’re here with me, in Blackridge, at a crime scene. Not in Chicago. Not in that warehouse. Here.”

“I know—” Her voice cracked. “I know where I am, I just—”

“Breathe with me. In for four counts.” He demonstrated, making sure she saw his chest rise. “Hold for four. Out for four. Can you do that?”

She nodded, tried, failed. Her breath hitched.

“It’s okay. Try again. In—two—three—four.” He counted slowly, watching her struggle to match his rhythm. “Hold—two—three—four. Out—two—three—four.”

It took three cycles, but gradually her breathing started to even out. The panic in her eyes receded slightly. Her hands stopped shaking quite so badly.

Silas had done this before. In Afghanistan, with soldiers who’d seen too much and broke down in the middle of operations. Later, in Blackridge, with witnesses who’d watched loved ones die. The technique was always the same—ground them in the present, control the breathing, talk them through it.

“That’s good,” he said. “You’re doing good. Keep breathing with me. In—two—three—four.”

“I’m sorry,” Harper whispered.

“Don’t apologize. This is normal. You’re dealing with trauma, and you’re at a crime scene that’s probably triggering that trauma. There’s nothing to apologize for.”

“I should be able to handle this—”

“You are handling it. You recognized what was happening, you told me, and now we’re managing it together.” Silas kept his voice steady, calm. “That’s exactly what you should do. That’s strength, not weakness.”