Chapter 27
Twenty-Seven
T he next morning, Isobel awoke to the cold emptiness of the bed beside her, the absence palpable. The sheets, cool against her skin, offered no solace. She reached out instinctively, hoping to find the warmth of Brad's presence, but there was only silence.
Her heart fluttered with unease as she sat up, brushing her tangled hair from her face. She slipped on her silk robe, the familiar fabric hugging her as she padded barefoot across the wooden floor. The house was still, the quiet unnerving.
She found Brad in his office, asleep, slumped over his desk. The morning light crept through the half-drawn curtains, casting long shadows over his tired form. Papers were scattered, half-written notes and numbers jotted down in a frenzy. His laptop screen blinked with notifications, a digital echo of the stress consuming him.
Isobel’s chest tightened at the sight of him like this—exhausted, his body folded in on itself, surrendering to his responsibilities. She moved closer, the faint scent of coffee and ink mingling in the air. Gently, she reached out, her fingers brushing against the back of his hand, feeling the rough edges of his knuckles, the pulse beneath his skin. "Brad," she whispered softly, her voice tender, full of concern.
He startled awake, his body jerking upright nearly sending Isobel tumbling to the floor. She let out a startled scream, more from the shock of his abrupt movement than anything else.
Brad’s face crumbled into instant regret. "God, Belle, I'm so sorry," he muttered, standing up too quickly, his hands fumbling to steady her. "I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you come in."
Tears of frustration stung Isobel’s eyes, but she quickly blinked them away. "It’s okay," she tried to soothe him, even though her pulse raced. "You just startled me. That’s all."
He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, his eyes rimmed with the sleeplessness she had come to know too well. "I shouldn’t be working like this. I know it’s too much." His voice cracked.
Isobel placed her hand on his cheek, her thumb brushing lightly against his stubble. "Brad, you can’t keep going like this," she pleaded, her voice filled with the quiet desperation of someone watching the person they love slowly slip away. "You have to rest. You’re working yourself to the bone, and it’s not just for your job anymore. It’s about him, isn’t it? Malcolm Hale is eating away at you."
Brad’s eyes darkened at the mention of Hale. He nodded but didn’t say a word, his silence a heavy confirmation.
"I know what he's doing," she continued, her voice growing stronger. "But you can’t let him destroy you from the inside out. Your family needs you. I need you."
For a moment, Brad’s resolve seemed to crumble, his shoulders sagging. Her words had broken through the walls he had built around himself. "I know," he whispered, his voice so quiet she almost didn’t hear him. "But I have to keep going. I have to take care of you… of us. I have my work, but Hale… Larson and I have to find him and end this."
Isobel swallowed the lump in her throat, realizing the truth in his words. She knew how hard he had been working, the strain pulling at the very threads of his sanity. But she had always seen him as the one who held her together. Now, she understood—he needed to be taken care of too.
They shared a quiet breakfast that morning, a fragile peace settling between them like a soft mist. The rain outside had begun to fall lightly, pattering against the windows, the gray sky casting a melancholy glow over the house.
Afterward, Brad gently walked her to the car, their hands entwined, their silence saying more than words could. He was taking her back to Sophie’s house, following the protocol he had established for her safety.
Arriving at Sophie and Tristan’s home, she saw the weariness in his eyes, the lines of stress etched deep into his brow. "Please be careful today and call me when you get in,” she whispered as she kissed him goodbye, holding on just a little longer than usual.
"I will," he promised, his hand lingering on hers before he got into the car. But even as he said the words, something in his voice wavered.
She watched him drive away, her heart heavy with a foreboding she couldn’t shake. The rain had started to fall harder, the sky thick with storm clouds. As his car disappeared around the bend, Isobel stood there, arms wrapped around herself, trying to shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong.
She returned to the house, her laptop bag over her shoulder. After checking in with her sisters, she asked if she could use Tristan’s office. She couldn’t run scared anymore. She had to help Brad.
Isobel let out a slow breath, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. The photograph stared back at her from the screen, taunting her with its familiarity. Malcolm Hale. The name sent a chill down her spine, dredging up memories she’d buried long ago—memories of long nights poring over data, of a case that had consumed her professor Stuart Murdoch’s life. And that face, half-smiling in his curriculum vitae photo, exuded confidence. No, not confidence—arrogance.
She remembered the case, the media circus that overshadowed everything. Her part in the research was small but significant. The one analysis she contributed helped her professor prove Hale wrong. She couldn’t sit on the sidelines anymore.
Leaning back, she ran a hand through her hair and scanned the screen again. Hale’s academic papers, scattered across journals and archives. One caught her eye—a co-authored piece from his time at Berkeley. She clicked on it and scrolled to the bottom, noting the list of acknowledgments.
There it was. A name. Carter Brooks.
A flicker of recognition sparked. Carter was a friend she’d met at a Seattle conference years ago. They’d stayed in touch sporadically. Back then, he’d mentioned working under Hale, but she hadn’t given it much thought. Now, it felt like a lifeline.
She pulled up her phone and searched her contacts, quickly finding Carter’s number. Her thumb hesitated over the call button. What if he didn’t want to talk? What if this opened old wounds?
No. She didn’t have time to second-guess herself. With a resolute nod, she pressed the button and held the phone to her ear.
“Isobel? Hey, it’s been a while. What’s up?” Carter answered.
“Carter, hey. Sorry for the out-of-the-blue call. I… I need your help. It’s about someone you worked with a long time ago. Malcolm Hale.”
He paused. “Hale? Yeah, Malcolm Hale.” He sighed. “Why are you asking about him?”
“It’s… complicated. Let’s just say his name’s come up again, and I need to know everything about him. I remember you mentioning once that you worked with him back at Berkeley. Anything you can tell me could help.”
Carter took a deep breath. “Look, Isobel, that was years ago. I was just a kid, eager to make a mark, and Hale… well, he was the kind of guy who could make or break your career. But working for him? It wasn’t what I thought it’d be.”
“What do you mean? Was he tough to work for?”
He chuckled darkly. “Tough? That’s putting it lightly. In the beginning, he was all about discipline and structure. Everything had to be perfect—reports, presentations, even how you addressed him. At first, I thought it was just his way of maintaining high standards. But then I started noticing patterns.”
Her stomach rumbled. “What kind of patterns?”
“The women. He went through female research assistants like you wouldn’t believe. If they were strong—women who stood up to him or challenged his ideas—he’d systematically tear them down. Humiliate them. Make them miserable until they quit. And if they were more submissive? They didn’t last long either. They were terrified of him.”
Submissive? “That’s... unsettling. Did he ever… cross a line?”
“Not overtly. At least, not that I saw. But the man had this presence, you know? It was like he thrived on control. The way he’d talk to people, corner them in debates, always needing to prove he was the smartest one in the room. It was more psychological than anything, but it worked. He broke people. But there was a party he invited us to…”
“What do you remember about it?”
"God, it was a nightmare," Carter muttered. "Uncle Phineas Phillips. Couldn’t forget that name if I tried. Real piece of work. The kind of guy who’d stare too long at the waitstaff and think it was charming. The estate’s this sprawling mansion in the Hollywood Hills. I figured going to a party there wouldn’t be a big deal. He was a professor and all. I mean, I’d been to other professors’ events." He exhaled sharply. "But that night got out of hand. Way out of hand."
Isobel frowned, her stomach twisting. "Out of hand how?"
Carter hesitated, then explained, "What started as a run-of-the-mill cocktail party turned into something else. Some of the people there—guys Hale introduced the guests to—they… pushed things. Turned it into a free-for-all. I thought it was just drugs, you know? People losing control. But it wasn’t just that." His voice grew quieter. "It was like they planned it. The whole thing. The abuse, the frenzy... it wasn’t random."
She swallowed hard. "Did you ever see him involved directly? Or know if he had... other properties where this kind of thing happened?"
"I didn’t want to know," Carter admitted, his voice tinged with guilt. "After that night, I tried to stay as far away from him as possible. I heard whispers about him having events out in the desert, maybe up in wine country, but I never saw anything myself. Just rumors. And honestly? I didn’t care enough to check. I was too busy trying to pretend it didn’t happen."
“And you? How did you survive?”
“I kept my head down and my mouth shut. I wasn’t going to let him ruin my career before it even started. But things changed when he got involved in that high-profile case.”
“The Hollywood kid? I remember that case. The Dominant theory… He was trying to prove that the whole lifestyle could turn someone into a killer.”
“Yeah. That case changed him—or maybe just brought out who he really was. Hale had this obsession with proving his point. He was convinced he could tie Dominance, sadism, all of it, to homicide. He thought if he could prove it, he’d make his name in both psychology and law. But…”
“But?”
“The data didn’t back him up. Every study, every analysis, even the sadistic Dominants in the sample—none of it pointed to violence or homicidal tendencies. The opposite, actually. He hated that. And that’s when he started… cooking the research.”
Isobel inhaled sharply. “He falsified the analysis.”
“Yeah. It was subtle at first. Small adjustments here and there, enough to skew the results. But then it got worse. He’d cherry-pick cases, throw out data that didn’t fit, even manipulate stats outright. He was desperate to make the numbers tell his story.”
“And no one caught on?”
“Not until Professor Murdoch. You know him?”
“I know him. He proved him wrong. I was part of the statistical analysis for his paper,” she whispered.
“That was you? Small world. Yeah, Murdoch tore his work apart. It was a clean takedown too—methodical and thorough. After that, Hale’s credibility took a hit, but he spun it as jealousy from the academic community. Said they were out to get him.”
“Of course he did. What happened after that?” she asked under her breath.
“He left academia. After the scandal, just… disappeared. I heard he went into consulting or something. But, Isobel, why are you digging this up now? What’s going on?”
She grew tense. “Let’s just say I can’t sit on the sidelines anymore. Hale’s in the middle of something dangerous, and I need to figure out exactly what he’s capable of.”
“Be careful, Isobel. If Hale’s involved, you’re stepping into a minefield. He doesn’t just go away quietly. If he’s resurfaced, it’s because he has something to prove. And he won’t stop until he does.”
If you only knew. Isobel’s jaw tightened. "Thank you for being honest with me," she said, forcing a measure of calm into her voice. "You’ve given me a place to start."