Page 53 of Whispers in the Night

Two to three hours. While Harper had been at the cabin, pacing and drinking tea and trying to convince herself that the note was just psychological warfare, the killer had been here. Taking his time. Making his point. Carving his message into a dead woman’s body with the patience of a craftsman.

“The message,” Silas said, his voice tight. “That’s new.”

“Not just new. It’s explicitly personal.” Dr. Reynolds looked at Harper with something that might have been pity. “He’s not talking to law enforcement generally. He’s talking directly to you, Agent Sinclair.”

“I can see that,” Harper said tightly.

Captain Holloway approached from the outer perimeter, his weathered face haggard in the harsh fluorescent light. He looked like he’d aged ten years in the past six days. “Security footage?”

Morris consulted his tablet. “Cameras in this section were disabled. Cut cables, very professional job. He knew exactly where to cut to kill the feed without triggering an alert. But we’ve got footage from the main entrance showing a figure entering at11:47 p.m. Male, approximately six feet, medium build, wearing a dark hoodie that obscures his face. He kept his head down, knew where the cameras were.”

“When did he leave?” Harper asked.

“3:12 a.m.”

Harper did the math. “Three hours and twenty-five minutes. Time to kill her, time to carve all the symbols, time to position the body perfectly, time to carve the message.”

“He wasn’t rushed,” Silas observed, his detective’s eye scanning the scene. “He knew he had time. Plenty of time.”

“Because he knew exactly where we were,” Harper said, the realization hitting her like ice water. “He left us that note at the cabin. He knew we’d find it, knew we’d call it in, knew we’d be occupied with forensics and reports and planning. He gave himself a clear window to work.”

Holloway’s jaw tightened. “He’s been watching you closely. Knows your patterns, your responses, your standard procedures.”

Harper forced herself to look at Jennifer’s face again. She was young—younger than Harper by at least five years. Pretty, with delicate features and dark hair that curled slightly at the ends. She’d had her whole life ahead of her. Career, maybe marriage someday, maybe kids. All the normal things people got to have.

Dead because a monster had decided Harper was worth punishing.

“Can I have a minute?” Harper asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “Alone with the scene?”

Holloway hesitated, clearly weighing whether that was a good idea given Harper’s obvious emotional state. Then he nodded. “Five minutes. Don’t touch anything.”

The others stepped back, giving her space. All except Silas, who stayed at her side like a silent sentinel. Harper was grateful for that. She wasn’t sure she could do this alone.

Harper approached the body slowly, studying every detail with the trained eye of a profiler. The symbols were identical to the Nevada case—the interlocking circles she’d spent five years trying to decode, the geometric patterns that meant something to the killer even if Harper couldn’t crack the code. The medical examiner back in Nevada had theorized they represented some kind of belief system, some personal mythology the killer had constructed.

But it was the message that held Harper’s attention now. YOUR FAULT HARPER. Just those three words, carved so deep she could see the white gleam of rib bone beneath.

“He wanted to make absolutely sure I knew,” Harper said quietly. “That this death is on me. That I’m responsible.”

“You’re not,” Silas said, his voice firm.

“She died because I set a trap. Because I tried to catch him at that coffee shop and he saw through it. Because I failed.”

“She died because a serial killer murdered her.” Silas stepped closer, forcing Harper to look at him instead of the body. “That’s on him, Harper. Not you. He made the choice to kill. He cut her throat. He carved those symbols. Those are his actions, his choices, his evil. Not yours.”

“But the message—”

“Is him trying to manipulate you. Trying to make you feel exactly what you’re feeling right now—guilty, responsible, like you caused this.” Silas’s eyes were intense, focused entirely on her. “Don’t give him that power. Don’t let him win.”

Harper wanted to argue. Wanted to explain that he didn’t understand, that Jennifer really would be alive if Harper had just been smarter, faster, better. But looking into Silas’s eyes,she saw that he did understand. He’d carried the same guilt over his team in Afghanistan. He knew exactly what this felt like.

“You’re exactly where he wants you,” Silas continued, his voice gentle now. “Drowning in guilt, blaming yourself, thinking you’re somehow responsible for his actions. But this woman deserves better than that. She deserves justice. And you falling apart doesn’t help her get it.”

Harper took a shaky breath. He was right. She hated that he was right, but he was. She could fall apart later. Right now, she needed to be the FBI agent who caught serial killers. Not the traumatized woman staring at her own failure carved into dead flesh.

“Okay,” she said, straightening her shoulders. “Okay. What do we do next?”

“We work the case. We find the pattern he’s following. We figure out what he’s building toward.” Silas glanced back at the body. “And we catch the bastard before he does this again.”