Page 24 of Whispers in the Night

“We should head back to the station,” Silas said. “Review the case files, see if we can find any connection between you and the killer. Maybe there’s something in the Nevada investigation that’ll give us a clue.”

“Okay.”

They drove in silence, Harper staring out the window at Blackridge passing by. It was a beautiful city, she thought. The kind of place where people came to feel safe, to raise families, to escape the chaos of bigger cities. And now it had a serial killer stalking its streets, hunting young women who looked like her.

She’d brought this here. Not intentionally, but the result was the same. The killer had followed her to Blackridge, and people were dying because of it.

Everyone I love dies,she thought not for the first time.Everyone I touch gets hurt.

At the station, they settled into Silas’s office—a small, neat space with a desk, two filing cabinets, and walls covered in case boards. Harper noted the lack of personal touches. No photos, no decorations, nothing that revealed anything about her new partner beyond his job.

It reminded her of her own apartment in Chicago. Before Michael died, she’d had photos everywhere—friends, family, colleagues. After, she’d taken them all down. Packed them away. She couldn’t stand looking at smiling faces and remembering what it felt like to be happy.

Silas pulled out the Nevada case files—thick folders that Ellery had sent over digitally and Silas had printed out. “Let’s start from the beginning. Walk me through everything.”

So Harper did. She spread the files across his desk and talked him through the investigation. Sarah Henderson’s murder in the parking garage. The weeks spent chasing leads that went nowhere. Jessica Paul’s body found in an abandoned warehouse. The growing media attention, the press conferences, the tips that flooded in but never led anywhere solid.

Then Pamela Gibson, the third victim. Found in a park, just like Amy Thorne had been. Same symbols. Same positioning. Same precise violence.

“And then he stopped,” Harper said. “Just...vanished. We kept working the case for another year, but there was nothing. No more victims, no new leads, no witnesses. It was like he’d never existed.”

“Or like he’d left Nevada,” Silas suggested.

“Maybe. But where did he go? What did he do for five years? That’s a long time to go dormant.”

“Maybe he was in prison for something else. Maybe he moved overseas. Maybe he found some other outlet for his needs.” Silas leaned back in his chair, studying the crime scene photos with narrowed eyes. “Or maybe he was still killing, just being more careful about it. Hiding bodies better. Choosing victims who wouldn’t be reported missing.”

Harper had thought of that. Had spent sleepless nights wondering if there were women out there who’d died at this killer’s hands, women whose names she’d never know because their bodies had never been found.

“Let’s assume he stayed active,” Harper said. “How do we find victims who were never reported?”

“Missing persons databases. Cold cases. Jane Does.” Silas started typing on his computer. “I’ll put in a search query—young women, early twenties, dark hair, petite build. Deaths or disappearances in the western United States over the past five years that match the profile but were never solved.”

It was a long shot, but it was something. Harper watched him work, noting the efficiency of his movements, the focus in his expression. He was good at this. Really good. The kind of investigator who didn’t miss details, who followed every lead, who wouldn’t quit until he’d found answers.

She understood why Holloway had put him on this case. And she was starting to understand why he’d been so hostile to her. It wasn’t just about Michael, about her judgment. It was about control. About working alone because when you worked alone, nobody got hurt because of your mistakes.

She recognized that impulse. Had felt it herself over the past six months. The safest thing was to stay isolated, stay closed off, never let anyone close enough to be hurt by your failures.

But that wasn’t living. That was just surviving. And Harper was tired of just surviving.

Hours passed. The sun set outside Silas’s window, casting long shadows across the office. Harper’s eyes burned from staring at files, her back ached from hunching over the desk, and her head pounded from information overload.

“We should take a break,” Silas said finally, glancing at his watch. “It’s almost nine. When’s the last time you ate?”

Harper tried to remember. Breakfast? Had she eaten breakfast? “I’m not hungry.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I’m fine—”

“Sinclair.” He stood, stretching. Harper heard his spine pop. “You’re running on adrenaline and coffee. That’s not sustainable. We’ll think better if we eat something.”

He was right, even if she didn’t want to admit it. “Fine. But nothing heavy. My stomach’s been off since the morgue.”

“There’s a diner two blocks away. Good sandwiches, quiet enough we can talk without being overheard.” Silas grabbed his jacket. “Come on.”

The diner was exactly what Harper expected—vinyl booths, checkered floors, a waitress who looked like she’d been working there since the eighties. They slid into a corner booth, and Silas ordered a burger while Harper settled for soup and crackers.