Chapter 7
Seven
T he late afternoon sun shone through the blinds of Isobel's apartment. She sat at her kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee that had long gone cold. The events of the past days bothered her terribly, and sleep had been elusive. Fear and uncertainty burned in her gut, leaving her feeling vulnerable and exposed.
Ruth promised to protect her when there was something to protect her from. Detective Larson compounded her feeling when he failed to share details of the new deaths, and even her sister Molly had been ordered not to share details of the autopsies. And she thought of her client, sweet Emma—if she made the wrong decision, she wouldn’t be able to live with herself. Not to mention, the living room conversation with Brad left her confused.
As she sat, lost in thought, her phone buzzed, jolting her back to the moment.
"Dr. Everhart, a call came into the office. You need to get to the psych hospital. There's been an incident. It’s... it’s like the Vernon case,” her assistant, Kathy, informed her.
Isobel worked two days per week in the Waverly County psychiatric facility. An hour later, she made her way through the hallways of the hospital. A chill ran down her spine as she approached Room 312. Pushing the door open, she was greeted by a view that sent a wave of nausea through her.
The scene before her was far too familiar. The young woman’s body was arranged meticulously, almost ritualistically, with a deliberate precision that ignited an old, buried fear inside her. This was a chilling echo of her first paid consulting job, the Vernon case.
Her heart hammered in her chest as she took a deep breath, stepping into the room. Each detail drew her back to that other day.
The Vernon case was Isobel’s introduction to the grim realities of forensic psychology. She had been fresh out of her schooling, eager and determined to prove herself. Nothing could have prepared her for what she encountered, but highway patrol was there. Brad was there. The Spring Hill Police chief called them in instead of Waverly County. They didn’t make that jurisdictional mistake this time.
The victim, Anna Vernon, was found posed in an eerily peaceful manner, her hands folded over her stomach, her eyes wide open, as if staring directly at her assailant. The bruising around her neck and the subtle lacerations and marks on her wrists were indicative of a restraint used for control, but it was the unnatural arrangement of her body that had disturbed Isobel the most.
The scene was macabre in its precision, set within the sterile, hauntingly quiet confines of an abandoned hospital room. The victim lay on a hospital bed, the frame rusted at the edges but still upright, as though it had been waiting for this grim purpose. The body was positioned deliberately, arms outstretched and legs straight, evoking an eerie symmetry. A white hospital sheet covered most of the body, but it had been meticulously folded down to expose the chest and arms, creating an unsettling sense of ritualistic care.
Isobel had spent weeks piecing together every detail of the case, combing through reports, analyzing photos, and revisiting the crime scene in her mind. Searching for patterns, for the hidden motive that would make it all make sense. And then it had struck her: dominance. The entire crime, from the method of murder to the way the body was displayed, reeked of one thing: a desperate need for power and control. It was as though the killer had to prove something, not just to the victim but to the world, as if they were screaming, “I am in charge.”
The room itself had been transformed into a grotesque display of this assertion. Around the hospital bed, the floor bore a perfect circle drawn in a thick, dark substance, its gleaming texture suggesting it wasn’t paint. Inside the circle, smaller geometric patterns were etched, some resembling alchemical symbols, others jagged and chaotic, as though etched in frenzy. The stark lines clashed with the clinical surroundings, their presence a defiant intrusion into the once-orderly space—a visual proclamation of the killer’s control over the scene, over the victim, over reality itself.
At the head of the bed, a crude wreath had been crafted from twisted wires and hospital tubing, mounted above the victim’s head like a grotesque halo. Above it, scrawled across the peeling white wall, in the same dark substance, was a single word in sharp, aggressive strokes: "Judged." The lettering was large, bold, and uneven—more than a label, it felt like a declaration, an unmistakable assertion of authority.
At the bedside stood a makeshift shrine, cobbled together from objects scavenged from the hospital. A tarnished IV stand had been repurposed to hold a cluster of hanging talismans—broken syringes, bloodied gauze, and surgical tools tied together with red hospital tape. Below it, the rolling tray table had become an altar. On it sat a small, broken alarm clock frozen at 3:12, a handful of wilted flowers arranged carefully in a kidney dish, and a worn leather Bible open to the Book of Judges. Each item seemed symbolic, yet the meaning felt just out of reach, an unsettling game of power and misdirection.
Even the lighting of the room felt like part of the killer’s control—the dim, flickering fluorescent overhead casting shifting shadows across the walls, making the symbols and artifacts appear alive, their shapes stretching and writhing in the half-light.
Isobel couldn’t shake the feeling that the entire crime had been a stage play, performed for an unseen audience. The methodical placement of the body, the circle, the symbols—it was all designed to convey power, to claim ownership over not just the victim, but the entire narrative of the crime. The victim wasn’t simply killed; they were dominated, rendered helpless in every conceivable way. It was a desperate, primal cry of control from a person who felt powerless in their own life, a perverse attempt to force the world to see their authority.
She stepped closer to the bed in her memory, her mind circling back to the details. The body. The symbols. The chilling word scrawled above the victim. Whoever did this didn’t just want to kill; they wanted to leave no doubt about who held the reins. They wanted the world to bow to their narrative, to see their actions and feel their power.
And in that realization, Isobel felt the killer’s psyche—a terrifying blend of fragility and rage. This wasn’t just a murder; it was a performance. A horrifying declaration of control.
Isobel’s mind began to spin with possibilities. Was this the same killer resurfacing? Or was it a copycat, someone who knew about the Vernon case and was recreating it? Either way, the message was clear. This was about control, about power, just like before.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps behind her. Kathy stood in the doorway, her face as pale as ever.
"I don’t understand why anyone would do this," Kathy whispered, her voice barely audible. “I brought you the file.” She handed it to Isobel.
Isobel didn’t answer right away. She took the file and slipped it into her large bag, but her eyes remained locked on the body.
Her breath caught in her throat as she noticed a small piece of paper placed delicately on the bedside table folded in the shape of a swan. “Has this been photographed?”
Detective Larson came up behind her, and she bit back a startled cry. Wordlessly, he handed her a pair of gloves and held open an evidence bag. She slipped on the gloves, and with trembling hands, she picked it up and unfolded it.
Dr. Everhart, do you remember this one? You couldn’t save her. Can you save the next one?
The words were like a punch to the gut, sending her reeling. She stumbled back, her vision blurring with tears. The killer was not just replicating her past case; they were taunting her.
The room was filled with other police officers from multiple divisions, the atmosphere tense and charged. A patrol officer, Mark Dillon, stood near the door logging in the persons entering the scene, his expression neutral.
Detective Larson moved to stand beside her. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the room before settling on Isobel. The tension in the air was palpable. He tilted his head, his brow furrowing in suspicion. "How did you hear about this?" he asked. "You beat me to the scene."
Isobel felt a rush of heat to her face. Her heart pounded in her chest, and it grew hard to breathe. She avoided his gaze for a moment, focusing instead on the victim's lifeless form. The gruesome details were a temporary refuge from Larson’s question.
She gulped, forcing herself to maintain a steady tone. “My assistant called me at home. I—I didn’t ask how she knew.” Her voice wavered slightly, betraying the unease growing inside her. "You'll have to ask her."
Larson’s eyes didn’t leave her face. He had a way of studying people that made Isobel uncomfortable, like he could see through the thin layers of composure she was desperately clinging to. She shifted from foot to foot, trying to remain calm, but the sharpness in his gaze felt like it was peeling back her defenses.
“Your assistant called you?” Larson repeated, his voice laced with a faint skepticism, as though he was already doubting her explanation. "Strange thing, don’t you think?"
Isobel’s throat felt tight, and she clutched the strap of her bag. Larson’s unspoken questions hung in the air. He was suspicious. It wasn’t like her to rush to a scene like this, especially not before official channels requested her.
The truth was, she didn’t know why her assistant, Kathy, had called her. She hadn’t even questioned it in the moment. She reacted on instinct, driven by dread more than reason.
But Larson wouldn’t accept that as an answer.
“I don’t know,” she said finally. “It’s...not something I can explain right now.”
Larson stepped closer, whispering, “You’re shaking, Isobel. Are you afraid of the dead body, or are you afraid of me?”
She could feel his warm breath against her ear. Her body betrayed her. She hadn’t realized it was that obvious. The tremors running through her, the slight unsteadiness in her breath. She was barely keeping her fear under control.
“I’m fine.” She knew she wasn’t convincing either of them.
“You’re not,” he retorted.
Isobel swallowed hard, nodding slightly. The room seemed to close in around her as the memory of the Vernon case and John Larson’s behavior tightened its grip on her mind. She had fought to put that case behind her, but now, thanks to this and John Larson, it was all flooding back with terrifying clarity.
And she knew Larson sensed something deeper.
“We’ll get to the bottom of this,” Larson said. “But I’ll need all the pieces. Everything you know.”
Isobel nodded again, but her mind was miles away, trapped between the present and the past. The familiar staging of the body, the echo of the Vernon case, the unshakable feeling that someone was taunting her. None of it made sense yet. And then there was John Larson. She would have to face him, no matter how much he terrified her. She had no choice.
“I’ll talk to Kathy,” Larson added, his eyes still on her. “But you should talk to her too. If there’s something she’s not telling us…”
Isobel’s stomach twisted. Something was wrong, and the uneasy suspicion that her assistant knew more than she was letting on chewed at the edges of her mind.
Brad tipped back the last of his beer, savoring the cool bitterness as it slid down his throat. The Loft was quiet, a rare moment of peace, but as soon as he stepped outside, the soft buzz of his phone shattered the calm. His screen flickered to life with a stream of messages, and he sighed, swiping through them absently as he walked toward his truck.
As he slid into his seat, he leaned back, sifting through his messages. One from his brother made him laugh—a lighthearted invitation to Monday Night Football, and the usual banter between them. Then a message from his mom, reminding him about Thursday family dinner. He smiled at that, shaking his head. Thursday dinner was a regular event, but she still called every week to remind him, as if he’d ever forget.
The next message, from an unfamiliar number, made him pause. His fingers hovered over the screen, a sense of alarm creeping up his spine. The text was short, blunt, but it sent a shudder through him:
“Murder at psych hospital, Room 312. Larson is lead. Isobel Everhart is here.”
Brad clenched his jaw, turning over the ignition. His mind raced, piecing together the fragments of information. Dillon. It had to be Dillon who sent the message. No one else would give him a heads-up like that.
But then he saw it. The missed call and phone message from Isobel.
He thumbed over it, his stomach tightening. Her voice, usually composed and sharp, was frantic, almost panicked. She was trying to hold it together, but he could hear the tremor in her words, the fear just beneath the surface. Belle was afraid.
Brad cursed under his breath, flipping on the lights of his truck as he peeled out of the parking lot. He headed straight for the psych hospital. He prayed the room number was a coincidence. He remembered a case from four years earlier. A young nurse was murdered. Isobel had written her first report. The scene was clear of any usable physical evidence. It went down as unsolved.
Waverly County's detective bureau handled cases in neighboring Spring Hill, a smaller department that leaned on them for major crimes. In another miscue, HPB was called. He’d briefly been there. But it wasn’t his case four years ago, and it wasn’t his case now. This case belonged to Waverly County. This case belonged to John Larson.
The body must have just been found. Why was Belle there? His gut twisted at the thought of Larson being anywhere near her.
Brad didn’t trust him, not because Larson was bad at his job, but because of something else. He knew Larson’s type. He saw it in the way the man carried himself, the subtle yet unmistakable aura of control that clung to him. Brad’s instincts told him Larson wasn’t just a lead detective. He was a member of Bliss—he was a Dominant. Brad suspected a sadistic Dominant. And, if Larson got too close to Isobel, he’d pick up on the fact that she was naturally submissive... It could complicate everything.
He needed to reach out to a guy he went to an FBI academy training with. He had heard through the grapevine that he was one of the house Doms at Bliss. He needed to know what he knew about John Larson.
Brad’s jaw tightened. It felt like he was a bull about to lock horns with Larson, the tension already brewing in his chest. The idea aggravated him, and suddenly, Jesse’s words replayed in his mind.
Was Belle his?
It was a question he hadn’t been ready to answer, not then. Not now, either, if he was being honest. But as he pressed down harder on the gas, racing toward the psych hospital, the thought refused to leave his head.
Was Belle his?
If she was, that complicated things even more. He wasn’t just up against the case. He wasn’t just dealing with whatever trauma Isobel was reliving. He was about to face Larson and possibly more than one kind of battle.
Brad pulled into the hospital’s squad car-filled parking lot. He hadn’t even stepped inside, but he already felt the confrontation coming.
Unwrapping a mint and sucking on it, Brad approached the hospital doors with heavy footsteps. His gold badge hung around his neck, catching the harsh fluorescent lights. The crisp air outside had done little to ease the tension in his chest, and now, with every step closer to Room 312, that knot of unease only tightened.
As Brad turned the corner toward the room, his steps faltered. There, in the hallway, was Isobel, sitting on the cold, tiled floor with her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. Her head hung low, her hair falling in messy strands around her face. Though her posture screamed defiance against the emotion threatening to overtake her, Brad could hear the faint sound of uneven breaths—the kind that came from fighting tears she didn’t want anyone to see.
Brad’s chest ached at the sight. Isobel wasn’t someone who let herself fall apart easily. She was spunky, sharp-tongued, always quick with a retort or a biting observation. But now, the fear she worked so hard to hide seeped through the cracks.
He slowed his pace, careful not to startle her. “Belle,” he said softly.
She jerked upright, her body stiffening in alarm. Her eyes were wide and wild as she scrambled to her feet, fists clenched defensively. “What—?” Recognition swept over her, and in the next moment, she deflated, her hands falling to her sides. “Oh. It’s you.”
“It’s me,” he confirmed, his voice steady, calming. He stepped closer, arms open slightly in reassurance. “It’s just me.”
Before he could say more, she closed the distance between them in a rush, her small frame colliding against his. Her arms wrapped around his waist tightly, and she buried her face in his chest. Brad felt her trembling against him, her rapid breaths brushing through his shirt. She wasn’t breaking down, not fully, but she was rattled—shaken in a way he’d seen once before. When she read the note at the pond. Was there another note?
He held her without hesitation, one hand smoothing over her hair while the other settled firmly on her back, grounding her. “It’s okay,” he murmured, rocking her gently. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
Isobel let out a breath that was almost a laugh, though it cracked under her fear. “Safe?” she muttered, her voice muffled. “Not likely.”
Brad didn’t argue, didn’t push. He just held her, waiting as her breathing evened out. Slowly, she leaned back, her grip on his jacket remaining firm even as she tilted her head to look up at him. Her hazel eyes, always so bright and full of spark, were shadowed with fear.
“What happened?” He brushed a strand of hair from her face. “What’s got you this shaken?”
Isobel swallowed hard, her gaze darting toward the closed door behind her as if it were a living thing ready to strike. “It’s the same,” she said, her voice low but fierce. “The same as the Vernon case. Room 312, the way she’s posed, the marks—everything. But this time…” Her voice broke, and she took a sharp breath. “This time, they left me a note.”
Brad’s stomach twisted. “A note? For you?”
She nodded, her lips trembling. “I don’t know how to stop this, Brad. I don’t even know why it’s happening. How do you fight something when you don’t even know what the hell it wants?”
Brad tightened his grip on her shoulders, bending so his eyes were level with hers. “Belle, listen to me. You’re not alone in this. We’re going to figure it out, together. You hear me?”
Her gaze flicked back to the door, fear rippling across her face. “Larson’s in there,” she whispered. “He’s been inside for a while. He’ll know—he’ll see I’m—” She cut herself off, biting her lip hard.
Brad frowned. He could feel the undercurrent of dread in her words, her fear, not just of the situation but of Larson himself. He didn’t need her to explain. Larson was the kind of man who thrived on finding people’s vulnerabilities and exploiting them. Isobel wouldn’t just be another witness or investigator to him—she’d be a puzzle to pick apart.
“I’m going to talk to him,” Brad said, his tone firm but calm.
Isobel’s eyes widened. “No, Brad, please… it’s his case. He’ll use this—he’ll use me.”
Brad placed a steadying hand on her shoulder, giving her a reassuring squeeze. “I know who he is, and I know what he’s like. But I’m not leaving you, Belle. I’ll handle Larson. You stay here, okay?”
She hesitated, her lip trembling as she searched his face for any sign of doubt. Finding none, she gave a reluctant nod.
Brad leaned down, pressing his forehead gently to hers. “You’re not alone,” he said again, his voice a low murmur. “You’ve got me. Always.”
Her breath hitched, and she nodded again, this time with more conviction. Brad lingered a moment, feeling her pulse still rapid against him, then he straightened and turned toward the door.
Inside, the room was dimly lit, the fluorescent bulb overhead buzzing faintly. The hospital bed dominated the space, and on it lay the victim, posed with chilling deliberation. Brad’s stomach churned at the sight. Standing over the body was Larson, hands casually in his pockets, his stance almost nonchalant.
Larson glanced up as Brad entered, his face breaking into a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “Killian,” he drawled. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Bullshit,” Brad muttered under his breath, keeping his voice steady. “I heard about the case. Thought I’d offer the state’s resources.”
Larson’s smirk deepened. “Your resources?” His tone was mocking. “Appreciate the gesture, but it’s my jurisdiction. We’ve got it handled.”
Brad crossed his arms, standing his ground. “This scene mirrors the Vernon case. Isobel’s connected to both. If someone’s targeting her, it’s bigger than your jurisdiction. We need to work together.”
Larson’s eyes gleamed, the smirk never leaving his face. “And what’s your interest, Killian? Protecting Isobel? Or something else?” His tone was light, but the insinuation was sharp.
Brad didn’t rise to the bait. He took a step closer, his voice calm but unyielding. “You want to trade barbs, fine. But don’t lose sight of what matters here. Someone’s escalating, and they’re using Isobel to send a message. You can play your power games later. Right now, we’ve got a killer to stop.”
Larson’s smirk faded slightly, his gaze sharpening. Brad held his ground, the tension thick between them. Whatever this case brought next, he wasn’t backing down—not for Larson, and certainly not for anyone threatening Isobel.
After a long minute, Larson let out a slow breath. "Fine," he said, his tone losing its edge. "I’ll share what we have so far. But make no mistake, Killian, this is MY CASE. I’m the lead, and you don’t get to take over just because you’re playing the concerned friend."
Brad nodded. "Not here to step on toes, Larson. I’m here because this case has echoes of something from our past. I want to help, not interfere." Keep telling yourself that, Killian.
Larson's eyes lingered on him for a moment longer, as if searching for something unspoken. Finally, he turned back toward the body, his tone all business again. "The victim was found a little after three, posed just like the Vernon case. I had someone bring me the original crime scene photographs. Same positioning, same markings. Preliminary look shows signs of asphyxiation. First canvas showed no one noticed anything unusual. We’re waiting on family for a confirmatory ID. We believe she was a medical student. In the Vernon case, it was a nurse. The only thing that was different is the killer left a note.” He picked up the evidence bag. “It was addressed to Isobel.”
Brad nodded, absorbing the details. It was exactly what he feared, a pattern, a deliberate recreation. "You think it’s the same killer?"
Larson shrugged. "Could be. Or it could be a copycat. Too early to tell. But the fact that Isobel is here, and this case mirrors your old one? That’s a complication I don’t like."
Brad crossed his arms, his brow furrowing. "It’s not a complication. It’s a connection. We need to figure out why this is happening now."
“Hmm, I also need to know how Isobel beat me to the crime scene. According to her, she received a call from her assistant, Kathy, telling her about the murder, yet no one I spoke to called Kathy. I’ve put in a request for the phone records.” Larson turned to face him directly, this time with a more serious expression. "And what exactly do you think you’ll get out of this, Killian? Closure? Some sense of peace about the Vernon case?” His voice lowered. “Or are you playing the concerned friend to get a piece of Isobel Everhart’s very fine ass?"
Brad took a step forward, ready to strangle Larson. He was furious. Behind him, something clattered loudly to the floor, causing him to turn. Officer Dillon had dropped his clipboard. It saved Brad from killing Larson.
He turned back to the smug detective. "This isn’t about closure. It’s about preventing someone else from getting hurt. Whoever’s doing this—they’re sending a message. And if we don’t figure it out, this isn’t going to stop." He took a breath. “And if you say anything derogatory about Isobel Everhart again, I will bury you.”
Larson was silent for a beat, then gave a small nod, "Alright. But remember—this is my case.”
Brad met his gaze with a determined look. "I’m not going anywhere, Larson. Not until we stop this."