Page 35 of Whispers in the Night
And she’d never seen it. Had investigated three murders in Nevada, written a profile, given press conferences, and never once realized the victims all resembled the profiler hunting him.
“Harper.” Silas’s hand was on her arm now, steadying her. “Look at me.”
She couldn’t. Couldn’t look away from Nicole Merrin’s face—her face—lying on the cold ground with symbols carved into the skin.
“Harper.” Silas’s voice was firmer now, commanding. “Look at me. Right now.”
She looked up, met his pale-blue eyes. They were intense, focused, worried.
“This is not your fault,” he said.
“Eight women are dead because of me—”
“Eight women are dead because a psychopath is killing them. Not because of you. You didn’t ask for this. You didn’t cause this. He’s sick, and he fixated on you, and that’s on him. Not you.”
Harper wanted to believe him. But all she could see were the faces—Sarah, Jessica, Pamela, Melissa, Amy, Nicole. Six womenshe knew about. Probably more she didn’t. All dead because she’d appeared on television during the Nevada investigation. Because she’d been good at her job. Because a killer had seen her and decided she was worth obsessing over.
“We need to go back through everything,” Harper said, forcing herself to focus. To think like a profiler instead of a victim. “The Nevada case. I was on television—local news, maybe national. Press conferences, interviews. He saw me then. That’s when he fixated.”
“Makes sense,” Silas said. “Killers often fixate on investigators. Bundy did it. BTK did it. They want to be seen, understood, caught by someone they respect.”
Harper pulled out her phone, already dialing Ellery. He answered on the second ring, groggy with sleep.
“Sinclair, it’s two a.m.—”
“I need everything from the Nevada case. Every press conference I did, every interview, every time my face appeared in connection with the investigation. He saw me then. That’s when this started.”
“Jesus.” Ellery was awake now. “You think he’s been obsessed with you for five years?”
“I think all the victims look like me,” she pressed on. “I think he’s been killing surrogates, working up to taking me.” Harper’s voice was clinical, detached. Easier to treat this like any other case than to acknowledge what it meant for her personally. “I need to know where he saw me, how he learned about me, everything.”
“I’ll pull it together and send it over within the hour.”
Harper hung up and turned back to the crime scene. Dr. Reynolds had arrived, was examining Nicole’s body with her usual professional efficiency. Harper watched her work, forcing herself to see this as evidence, not as a preview of her own potential death.
“Time of death?” Silas called out.
“Preliminary estimate, between ten p.m. and midnight.” Dr. Reynolds looked up, her eyes finding Harper’s. There was sympathy there, and something else. Understanding, maybe. “Same cause of death as the others. Same symbols. But Detective Kane, Agent Sinclair…you should see this.”
They approached. Dr. Reynolds pointed to Nicole’s hand, positioned carefully above her head in that familiar sixty-degree angle. Clutched in her fingers was a piece of paper, folded neatly.
Harper’s blood went cold.
Another note.
Dr. Reynolds carefully extracted it with tweezers, unfolding it inside an evidence bag. The same precise block letters as before:
GETTING CLOSER, HARPER. DO YOU SEE IT NOW? DO YOU UNDERSTAND? THEY’RE ALL PRACTICE. YOU’RE THE MASTERPIECE. I’LL BE READY SOON. WILL YOU?
The words blurred in front of Harper’s eyes. She felt Silas’s hand on her arm again, anchoring her to reality.
“We need to get you somewhere safe,” Holloway said. “Now. Agent Sinclair, I’m ordering protective custody—”
“No.” Harper’s voice was stronger than she felt. “That’s what he wants. He wants me scared, hiding, waiting for him to come. I won’t do it.”
“Harper—” Silas started.
“I said no.” She pulled away from his grip, straightening her spine. “We use this. We use his obsession against him. He wants me? Fine. Let’s give him the opportunity. Under controlled conditions. With backup.”
