Page 29 of Whispers in the Night

“Don’t get used to it,” Silas said gruffly, then pulled out of the cabin’s driveway, navigating the winding forest road. “Morris called this morning. He found something interesting in the victims’ backgrounds.”

“What kind of something?”

“Both Melissa Wagoner and Amy Thorne were members at the same gym. Summit Fitness on the west side. And they both frequented the same coffee shop—The Daily Grind, where Melissa worked.”

Harper sat up straighter. “That’s his hunting ground. He’s not finding them randomly. He’s going to places where he knowshis victim type congregates. Watching them. Learning their routines.”

“That’s what I thought.” Silas turned onto the main road. “We’re heading to Summit Fitness now. They open at six, so the morning crowd should be there. I want to talk to the staff, see if anyone noticed someone paying unusual attention to young women matching our victim profile.”

“We should also pull their security footage. If he’s been watching them there, he might be on camera.”

“Already requested it. Manager’s pulling the last month of footage.” Silas glanced at her. “How was the drive back last night? Any problems?”

“No. Quiet. Dark.” Harper wrapped her hands around the coffee cup, soaking in its warmth. He turned up the blowers a couple notches. “Thanks for making sure I texted you. I know I’m not your responsibility—”

“You’re my partner on this case. That makes you my responsibility.” The words came out more forceful than he intended. “Whether I trust your judgment or not, I’m not letting a serial killer get to you on my watch.”

“Partner,” Harper repeated softly. “You keep using that word.”

“Yeah, well. Captain’s orders, remember?” But even as he said it, Silas knew it was more than that now. Something had shifted last night at the diner. He still didn’t trust her—not completely—but he was starting to understand her. And understanding was the first step toward something he’d sworn he wouldn’t feel again.

Connection.

Summit Fitness was a modern facility with floor-to-ceiling windows and enough equipment to outfit a small army. At seven-thirty a.m., it was packed with people getting their workouts in before heading to jobs. Silas scanned thecrowd automatically, noting exits, identifying potential threats, cataloging faces.

Old habits from Afghanistan. They’d saved his life more than once overseas. Now they just made him exhausting to be around.

The manager was a woman named Christine Valdez—mid-thirties, athletic build, with the kind of professional demeanor that suggested she ran a tight ship. She met them in her office, a small space overlooking the main workout floor.

“Detective Kane, Agent Sinclair.” She shook their hands. “I pulled the footage like you asked. I also went through our membership records. Both victims were members for about a year. Melissa came in three times a week, usually in the evenings. Amy was here almost every morning before work.”

“Different schedules,” Harper noted. “So if the killer was watching them both, he’d have to be here at varying times. Morning and evening.”

“Or he works here,” Silas suggested.

Christine’s face paled. “You think one of my staff—”

“We’re not ruling anything out,” Silas cut her off before she could get carried away or draw attention. “I’ll need a list of all employees, plus any contractors or vendors who have regular access to the facility.”

“Of course. I’ll get that for you right away.”

They spent the next two hours reviewing security footage. Silas sat next to Harper in the small office, their shoulders almost touching, both of them scanning screens for anything unusual. The proximity was oddly comfortable. He’d expected to feel claustrophobic working this close with someone, but Harper had a way of being present without being intrusive. She didn’t fill silences with unnecessary chatter. Just worked quietly, efficiently, occasionally pointing out something on screen.

“There,” Harper said, pausing the footage. “That’s Melissa. See her on the treadmill?”

Silas leaned closer. Melissa Wagoner, alive and healthy, running on a treadmill near the window. She had earbuds in, was focused on her workout. Nothing unusual.

“Keep watching,” Harper said, advancing the footage frame by frame.

In the background, barely visible in the mirror reflection, was a man. Average height, dark hoodie, positioned at a weight machine where he had a direct line of sight to Melissa. He wasn’t working out—just sitting there, watching.

“Son of a bitch,” Silas breathed. “Can you zoom in?”

Harper tried, but the resolution was too poor. The man’s face was hidden by the hoodie, his features indistinct. But his posture, his positioning—it was deliberate. He was watching Melissa.

“What’s the timestamp?” Harper asked.

“Three weeks ago. Tuesday evening.” Silas made notes. “Let’s scan through other dates when Melissa was here. See if our mystery man shows up again.”