Chapter 9
Nine
B rad guided Isobel to his car, his hand resting gently on her back as they walked in silence. She looked drained, her steps slower, like the crime scene had settled into her bones. As they approached the car, she hesitated, her eyes glancing back toward the building.
"I can drive myself, Brad," she said. “I drove my car here earlier…”
He shook his head, opening the passenger door for her. “Not tonight, Belle. You’re in no shape to drive.”
“I’ll be fine,” she protested weakly, though the weariness in her voice betrayed her. “I just want to get home.”
“And I’m taking you there,” Brad insisted, his voice deep. “We’ll pick up your car tomorrow. For now, you need to rest.”
Isobel blinked, her hands fidgeting as she glanced at the car again. “I don’t want to be a burden.”
Brad cut her off, his tone softer but leaving no room for argument. “You’re not a burden. But you need to take care of yourself right now. You haven’t eaten, and you definitely need to sleep.”
Isobel's shoulders slumped. “I’m not hungry.”
“When was the last time you ate?” Brad pressed, closing the passenger door and walking around to the driver’s side. As he slid in and started the car, he glanced over at her. “You need to eat something, even if it’s just a little. We’ll grab a quick bite and head home.”
She sighed, staring out the window, but didn’t argue. Brad took that as a victory, even if only a small one.
The drive was quiet, the tension from earlier slowly ebbing away but still lingering in the background. Brad knew Isobel was in distress, still trying to process everything that had happened today. He was sure the memories from four years ago had come rushing back. He also knew pushing her too much right now would only make things worse. But he needed to know how Kathy knew about the death.
After a few minutes, Brad pulled into a family-style restaurant on the edge of town. The lights were bright, and the smell of food wafted through the air as soon as they opened the door. He ordered for both of them, a couple of burgers and some coffee for him and tea for her.
They sat in a booth, and Brad placed the sandwich in front of her. “Just try to eat,” he encouraged, watching as she picked at the bun absently.
Isobel took a small bite, her hands trembling slightly as she lifted the hamburger to her mouth. It was obvious her mind was far away, he assumed trapped in memories of the past crime scene and what they had uncovered today. He took a bite of his own sandwich, keeping an eye on her but not forcing the conversation.
After a few bites, she put the sandwich down and leaned back in the booth, rubbing her eyes. “I just don’t understand,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “Why, if it’s the same killer, why would they repeat the crime?”
Brad leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “We’re going to figure it out, Isobel. You helped today, more than you realize.”
“I don’t feel like I helped,” she muttered, her voice small. “I feel like I’m just... falling apart. My brain is failing to put things together.”
“You’re stronger than you think,” Brad answered her immediately. “You made it through today, and you’ll make it through tomorrow. One step at a time.” He encouraged her to eat another small bite.
Isobel nodded, though her expression remained weary. When it was clear she wasn’t going to eat any more, Brad stood up, gesturing toward the door. “Let’s get you home.”
The ride to her condo was just as quiet, the streets mostly empty under the night sky. When they finally pulled up, Brad parked and got out, walking around to help Isobel out of the car.
“I can make it from here,” she said, though her voice lacked conviction.
“I’m walking you up,” Brad replied, leaving no room for debate.
They climbed the outside stairs in silence, the day still clinging to both of them. Once inside her apartment, Brad paused, watching as Isobel dropped her purse onto the kitchen counter and leaned against it, exhausted.
“You need to sleep, Isobel,” Brad said quietly. “You’re running on fumes.”
Not appearing to notice his formal use of her name, she nodded absently but didn’t move toward her bedroom.
“I mean it.” He stepped closer. “You’re no good to anyone if you don’t take care of yourself. The case can wait till tomorrow. I’ll be here in the morning, and we’ll pick up your car.”
Isobel’s eyes flickered with hesitation, but, finally, she gave a slight nod. “Okay… I’ll try.”
“That’s all I’m asking.” Brad offered a small smile.
He nodded and left, pulling the door closed behind him. Once outside, he let out a deep breath, his mind already spinning with what Brewster had told him. But for now, Isobel needed peace. Tomorrow, the hunt for answers would begin again.
The call came in just after dawn. Brad’s phone buzzed on the nightstand, the shrill tone jarring him awake. He squinted at the screen and saw the name flashing—Larson. He groaned inwardly. Whatever it was, at this hour, it wasn’t good.
“What is it?” Brad answered, voice rough with sleep.
“We’ve got another one,” Larson replied, his tone far too serious for this early in the morning. “You’re gonna want to see this. Crime scene’s at 212 Evergreen Lane. A note was found addressed to Dr. Everhart.”
Brad sat up, suddenly wide awake. “Who’s the victim?”
“Elizabeth Henson. Mid-twenties. Found in her apartment. It’s bad, Brad.”
Brad’s blood ran cold. He knew immediately what Larson was hinting at: the unsettling pattern of crime scenes mimicking cases from Isobel’s past. The fact that there was another one... this fast. It was enough to make his heart pound.
“I’ll be there in twenty,” Brad said, ending the call.
When Brad arrived at 212 Evergreen Lane, the scene was swarming with officers and the familiar glow of crime scene tape. Larson stood just outside the doorway, his expression grim. Brad’s jaw clenched as he walked up, his eyes already scanning for details, looking for anything that would help find the killer.
“What do we have?” he asked as he approached Larson.
Larson glanced back toward the open doorway, his eyes narrowing. “It’s almost a copy of the Brenda West case. Eighteen months ago. You remember that one, don’t you?”
Brad’s stomach churned. Of course he remembered. Brenda West, a twenty-six-year-old artist, had been found strangled in her home, her wrists bound with the cord of her own hairdryer. The words DIE WHORE were written on the wall in her blood. It was brutal, the kind of crime that kept you up at night.
Brad’s voice was low as he asked, “The same method?”
“Down to the finest detail,” Larson confirmed. “Wrists bound, strangled with the cord of her hairdryer. Even the positioning of the body. DIE WHORE in her blood. It’s a complete copy.”
Brad stared at him. “And the note?”
Larson’s lips pressed together into a thin line as he reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a plastic evidence bag. Inside was a small piece of paper with messy handwriting scrawled across it:
You can bind their wrists, but you can't bind their will. The one in control is never who you think.
Brad took the bag from Larson’s hand, reading the words again, the note pulling at him. His grip tightened on the plastic. “It’s about dominance.”
“That’s what I thought too,” Larson agreed, though his tone held an edge of something else. “Isobel’s involvement in these cases can’t be ignored anymore. It’s too close. And now this? The killer’s taunting her specifically. Or she’s…”
Brad exhaled slowly, his mind racing. The idea of dominance... control... The killer wasn’t just mimicking past murders. He was sending a message about power, about submission. Each crime was a reenactment, but with an added layer of twisted psychology. Brad’s mind immediately went back to the connection he’d been making between Isobel’s past and the present-day murders. The killer seemed obsessed with control over her memories, her trauma. Over Isobel.
“I’ll need to bring Isobel in.” Larson’s eyes darkened. “We need her, but—” He hesitated, glancing toward the door as if to make sure no one could overhear them. “Brad, have you noticed something about Isobel?”
Brad’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?” He didn’t have to guess where Larson was heading. He had been dancing around him since he met him, and his application for The Loft had confirmed it. Any experienced Dom would be ninety-nine percent sure Isobel was submissive.
“The way she responds to you. To me. There’s a pattern.” Larson’s voice was low, almost conspiratorial. “She’s scared, sure, but it’s more than that. It’s like she’s... deferring. Submitting, in a way.”
Brad stiffened. He didn’t like where this was going. He didn’t want Larson’s dominance anywhere near Isobel. His Belle. “If she seems off, it’s because she’s dealing with two cases where she’s seen taunting notes, and this makes three. She also keeps a heavy work schedule. There’s trauma in every case she works on.”
“I’m not saying she’s not traumatized by these notes. But I’ve seen this before, Brad. She’s showing signs of... well, submission. You noticed how she just followed your orders without question the other day? You told her to walk back into that crime scene, and she barely put up a fight. And when you told her to eat and go home? She didn’t argue. She obeyed.”
Brad bristled at the word “obeyed.” “You’re reading too much into this. It’s just that I know her.”
“Am I?” Larson pushed, his tone firm. “Think about it. The killer’s leaving notes about control, dominance. And the way Isobel’s been acting—like she’s falling into that role without even realizing it—it’s connected. Is the killer looking for her submission?”
Brad’s throat tightened, a knot forming in his chest as Larson’s words sank in. He hated how much sense they made, hated the way they forced him to confront something he wasn’t ready to admit.
He had always seen Isobel as strong, independent, an Everhart—all the women were forces to be reckoned with. But now, he couldn’t ignore the truth staring him in the face. She was being manipulated, controlled, and it wasn’t just the killer bending her will. What was obvious to this killer—well, he had seen it too, felt it in the moments they were together. Isobel was strong, yes. But unlike her sisters and mom, in the quiet moments, she was submissive.
Now he faced another revelation: she was his . His to protect. His to guide.
Brad cast a glance at Larson, then took a step away from the crime scene. He needed to pull Larson further out of earshot. This wasn’t something he could discuss openly, not here, not now.
“I need to talk to you,” Brad said, his voice low and measured as he led Larson to the side, making sure no one could hear them. “About Isobel.”
Larson followed, his brow furrowed with curiosity. Once they were far enough, Brad turned to face him, his expression guarded, almost reluctant to admit what he was about to say.
“I think you’re right.” The words tasted bitter in Brad’s mouth. “This killer... he’s not just playing with us. He’s manipulating her, using her psychology against her. But Isobel isn’t a suspect. She’s a victim in all of this.”
Larson nodded, though his face betrayed a flicker of surprise at Brad’s admission. “We can’t deny she’s being targeted. Whoever’s behind this knows her, knows how to push her. How to control her.”
Brad’s chest tightened at his words. It was about power, dominance—about bending someone’s will until they broke. “We need to work together on this. I can’t do it alone, and neither can you.”
Larson paused, searching Brad’s eyes for a moment. “You’re serious?”
Brad nodded. “I know about your application to The Loft. You’re familiar with Dominance, but I hope the way the lifestyle intends, not like what happened to these victims. This isn’t just about catching a killer, Larson. We’re dealing with something darker. Something deeper.” His gaze remained sharp. “And Isobel... she’s in the middle of it.”
Larson’s expression hardened. He looked like he was about to argue but then stopped, his eyes narrowing in thought. “I’m with you,” he finally said. “But we need to be careful. She trusts you, Brad. More than anyone. If she breaks, it’s going to be because she loses that trust. You need to protect her.”
“You don’t need to lecture me about trust.” Brad exhaled slowly.
Protect her. It was more than that. He wasn’t just protecting Isobel from the killer; he was shielding her from herself—from the parts of her that were vulnerable, that she hid behind walls of strength. He felt it every time she leaned into him, the way her body softened, her guard lowering just enough to let him in. She sought safety in his presence, even if she wouldn’t say it out loud.
“We need to question her again,” Larson said, his voice steeling. “See if anything else from her past connects the dots.”
“I agree. But I’m not going to push her into a corner.”
Larson gave a slow nod, his expression darkening. “Don’t make me wait too long. She has answers, whether she knows it or not.”
Brad nodded.
On his way to Isobel’s, his thoughts were a storm. He replayed Larson’s warning, the cryptic comment about this being more than just a case of control. Isobel was part of the game now. He was sure she realized it. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep her safe, but one thing was certain—he wasn’t going to let her face this alone.
When Brad arrived at her apartment, the sight of him sent a ripple of unease through Isobel. She had expected him, of course, but seeing him now—with tension carved into his features and heaviness in his eyes—made it all too real. Yet, when his gaze landed on her, it was like the breath left his body. His expression shifted, concern mingling with something deeper. She knew what he saw.
Isobel was a shadow of herself. Her body felt fragile, worn thin by too many sleepless nights and too many unanswered questions. Her once-bright eyes, the ones he used to tease her about for being so full of fire, were now dulled, heavy-lidded with exhaustion.
“Another one?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. She didn’t need him to confirm it; the answer was already written in the lines of his face.
Brad nodded, his shoulders dipping under his unspoken burden. “Like Brenda West.”
The name hit her like a slap. Isobel’s fingers tightened on the edge of the doorframe, her knuckles white as the little color left in her face drained away. “No…” The word came unbidden, trembling on her lips. “No, it can’t be.”
Brad stepped forward, his hand reaching out to rest on her shoulder. The warmth of his touch was steadying, a reminder that he was here, that she wasn’t alone. “I need your help again,” he said softly, his voice coaxing. “This one’s also about control, Isobel. About dominance.”
The shiver that ran through her wasn’t from the chill in the air. She knew exactly what he meant, the kind of dominance that seeped into a person’s life like a slow poison, leaving them helpless, trapped. Her gaze met his, and for a moment, she felt herself leaning into him. It wasn’t intentional, not at first—it was instinct. Her body gravitated toward the strength she felt radiating from him, toward the solace his presence offered.
“You can do this,” he said firmly, his tone soothing but unyielding. “I’ll be right there with you. But I need you to think. Did anything happen in the Brenda West case that wasn’t in the reports?”
Isobel closed her eyes, the memories of that case swirling in the darkness behind her lids. The room felt smaller, the air thicker, as she forced herself to dig through the details she had tried so hard to forget. Her breath hitched. “There was… something,” she murmured, her voice a whisper. “Brenda had a boyfriend. He was controlling, abusive. But, according to her friends, she was too scared to talk about it.”
Brad’s posture straightened, his focus sharpening as her words took shape. “Do you remember his name?”
Her mouth felt dry as she nodded, the name coming to her reluctantly, like it had been hiding in the corners of her mind. “Thomas Gray. But the police proved he wasn’t involved.”
The air between them grew heavier, but Brad’s hand didn’t leave her shoulder. If anything, his grip tightened slightly, a silent reassurance. “You did good, Belle,” he said gently. “I’m going to take care of you.”
Her breath caught. As if something inside her finally gave way, Isobel let herself lean fully into him, her head just brushing his chest. His hand moved slightly, almost instinctively, anchoring her.