CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Isla stood at the whiteboard in the conference room, staring at the three photographs she'd pinned there an hour ago—Derek Paulson, Jennifer Hayes, Robert Yamada.
Three faces. Three scenic overlooks. Three bodies staged behind cameras like grotesque monuments to an art form someone had decided to corrupt.
The coffee in her hand had gone cold twenty minutes ago, but she kept holding it anyway, the weight of the mug grounding her while her mind raced through possibilities she couldn't quite connect.
"Wells checks out so far."
She turned to find James in the doorway, his tablet tucked under one arm, his expression carrying the particular frustration of someone who'd been chasing leads that kept dissolving into dead ends.
He moved into the room and settled into one of the chairs around the conference table, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand.
"Her employment records are clean," he continued. "Eight years with the State Park system, mostly positive evaluations until about six months ago when her supervisor noted some concerns about focus and reliability. But nothing that suggests violence, nothing that connects her to the victims."
"What about her father? Ray Wells?"
"I've got someone tracking him down. Lives in a trailer park outside Silver Bay, apparently. Keeps to himself, works odd jobs when his health allows." James consulted his tablet. "The physical description doesn't quite match Brune—wrong age, wrong build—but I want to rule him out anyway."
Isla nodded, her eyes drifting back to the photographs on the whiteboard.
Catherine Wells had been a promising lead, but the more they dug, the less she fit the profile.
The killer they were hunting wasn't acting out of generalized grief or territorial rage—they were making a specific statement about photography, about art, about something Isla couldn't yet see clearly.
The door opened again, and Kate Channing entered with the purposeful stride of someone who had news to deliver.
Her silver-gray hair was slightly less immaculate than usual—a sign of the pressure that had been building since the first body was found—and the lines around her eyes seemed deeper than they had yesterday.
"Update from the shipyard search," Kate said without preamble.
"They've finished the second sweep of the industrial district.
Every warehouse, every container, every abandoned building within the original grid.
" She paused, and Isla already knew what was coming.
"Nothing. If Brune was there, he's not anymore. "
The words landed like stones dropped into still water. Isla felt James shift beside her, the same frustration she was feeling reflected in the set of his shoulders.
"We knew he'd been there three weeks ago," Isla said. "Mitch Connelly found him, and Brune killed him to keep his hiding spot secret. But that was before we identified the location. He's had time to relocate."
"The question is where." Kate moved to the window, her silhouette framed against the gray March sky. "The Marshals are asking whether to continue the search or reallocate resources. They can't keep forty agents on the ground indefinitely, especially when the photographer case is pulling focus."
"We can't just let Brune go."
"No one's suggesting we let him go. But we need to be strategic about where we look." Kate turned to face them, her gray-blue eyes sharp despite the exhaustion that lined her face. "The shipyard was our best lead, and it's come up empty. What's the next best option?"
James leaned forward, pulling up something on his tablet.
"There's an old scrapyard on the city's outskirts—northeast edge, past the industrial corridor.
We dismissed it initially because it seemed too remote, too far from Brune's known territory.
But if he was hiding near the shipyard before and needed to relocate somewhere equally isolated. .."
"He'd look for somewhere similar," Isla finished. "Abandoned infrastructure, access to the waterfront, minimal foot traffic."
"The scrapyard fits all of those criteria. It's been out of operation for almost a decade—the company that owned it went bankrupt in 2016, and the property's been tied up in legal proceedings ever since. No security, no regular patrols, plenty of places to hide."
Kate nodded slowly, processing. "How big is the area?"
"About fifteen acres, mostly rusted machinery and abandoned vehicles.
There are some shipping containers on the property too—the previous owners used it as overflow storage before they went under.
" James pulled up an aerial image on his tablet and turned it so Kate could see.
"It would take a full day to search thoroughly, maybe longer. "
"Do it." Kate's voice carried the weight of a decision made. "Coordinate with the Marshals, get a team out there as soon as possible. If Brune found a new hiding spot after leaving the shipyard, the scrapyard is as good a guess as any."
"I want to be there when they search." The words came out of Isla before she'd fully thought them through, but she meant them.
Robert Brune had been her case for almost a year—the monster she'd been chasing since she'd first started connecting the drowning "accidents" along the lakeshore.
She'd looked him in the eye once, back when she'd almost caught him.
She wanted to be there when they finally brought him in.
Kate's expression softened slightly, something that might have been understanding flickering in her eyes. "I need you on the photographer case, Rivers. Three bodies in two days—that takes priority."
"I know. But—"
"But nothing." Kate's voice was gentle but firm. "Sullivan can coordinate with the scrapyard search. You focus on finding whoever's killing photographers before they strike again." She glanced at the whiteboard, at the three faces staring back at them. "We can't afford to lose anyone else."
Isla wanted to argue. Wanted to point out that Robert Brune had been feeding bodies to Lake Superior for decades, that every day he remained free was another day someone might die in the cold waters that had claimed so many.
But Kate was right. The photographer case was active, urgent, claiming victims faster than Brune ever had.
Three people in less than thirty-six hours.
"Fine," she said finally. "But I want updates. Every hour, on the hour. If they find anything at the scrapyard—"
"You'll be the first to know." Kate moved toward the door, then paused. "And Rivers? Get some sleep tonight. That's not a suggestion."
She left before Isla could respond, her heels clicking against the floor with the deliberate rhythm of someone who had too many fires to put out and not enough water.
James was quiet for a moment after Kate's departure, his eyes fixed on the aerial image of the scrapyard still displayed on his tablet.
Isla could see him running through logistics—search patterns, personnel requirements, the particular challenges of clearing fifteen acres of abandoned industrial equipment.
"I'll head out there this afternoon," he said finally. "Make sure the search teams know what they're looking for, coordinate with the Marshals on coverage."
"You don't have to—"
"Yes, I do." He looked up, meeting her eyes with an intensity that caught her off guard. "You've been carrying both cases for almost a year, Isla. The LSK investigation, now this. Let me help."
The words landed somewhere in her chest, warming a place that had been cold for longer than she wanted to admit.
James had always been steady—a rock she could anchor herself to when the current threatened to pull her under.
But there was something different in his voice now, something that went beyond professional partnership.
She pushed the thought aside. There would be time for that later, after the monsters were caught.
"Call me if you find anything," she said. "Even if it's just a hint. I want to know."
"You will." He stood, gathering his tablet and his coat, his movements carrying the particular efficiency of someone preparing for a long day. "What are you going to do?"
Isla turned back to the whiteboard, to the three photographs that had become her obsession over the past two days.
Derek Paulson. Jennifer Hayes. Robert Yamada.
Three photographers who had captured beautiful images of this region, who had won awards and built careers and believed they were safe in the landscapes they loved.
They'd been wrong. And somewhere out there, the person who'd killed them was already planning the next composition.
"I'm going to figure out what connects them," she said. "Beyond the obvious—beyond being photographers, beyond working at scenic locations. There's something specific the killer is targeting, some thread I'm not seeing yet."
"The historical photographs. The compositions."
"That's part of it. But there's more." Isla frowned at the whiteboard, trying to articulate the intuition that had been nagging at her since Gooseberry Falls.
"Kramer talked about photographers who 'steal' other people's visions—who recreate compositions without crediting the original artists.
What if that's what the killer is punishing?
What if the victims weren't just photographers, but plagiarists? "
James considered this, his brow furrowing. "That would explain why Kramer's philosophy seems to be driving the murders, even though he's not the one committing them. Someone absorbed his worldview—his anger at modern photographers who build careers on derivative work."
"And they're acting on it. Turning the thieves into part of the landscapes they stole." Isla's voice hardened with certainty. "I need to find the connection. The specific images these victims were accused of copying, the specific photographers they allegedly plagiarized."
"That's going to take research. A lot of it."
"Then I'd better get started."
James moved toward the door, then paused with his hand on the frame. "Be careful, Isla. Whoever's doing this—they're smart. Organized. They've been planning this for a long time."
"I know."
"And they're still out there. Still watching."
The words sent a chill down her spine that had nothing to do with the temperature. James held her gaze for a moment longer, something unspoken passing between them, then nodded once and disappeared into the hallway.
Isla turned back to the whiteboard. Three faces. Three crime scenes. Three compositions that referenced photographs taken decades ago.
The answer was in the images. She just had to learn how to see it.