CHAPTER SIX
The sandwich sat untouched on Isla's desk, its plastic wrapper still sealed.
She'd grabbed it from the vending machine during what was supposed to be a lunch break, but the break had lasted approximately four minutes before she'd found herself back at her computer, fingers moving across the keyboard with a mind of their own.
Turkey and Swiss on wheat. It had seemed like a good idea at the time.
Now it was just another casualty of the investigation.
The FBI field office hummed around her—phones ringing, keyboards clacking, the distant murmur of conversation from the break room—but Isla had tuned it all out.
Her focus had narrowed to the screen in front of her, to the records she'd been pulling for the past hour, to the picture of Vincent Carlisle that was slowly emerging from the digital breadcrumbs of his shattered life.
Medical records. The words glowed on her monitor, clinical and cold. She'd had to pull some strings to get access this quickly—patient privacy laws being what they were—but Kate had made a call, and doors had opened. Now, Isla almost wished they hadn't.
St. Mary's Psychiatric Center. Admitted June 15th of last year. Discharged August 3rd. Reason for admission: severe depression with suicidal ideation following the deaths of his wife and daughter.
Lakeview Behavioral Health. Admitted October 22nd. Discharged November 30th. Patient experiencing prolonged grief disorder complicated by possible psychotic features. Prescribed antipsychotic medication.
Northland Recovery Center. Admitted January 8th of this year. Discharged February 6th.
February 6th. Isla did the math in her head, feeling something cold settle in her stomach.
Dr. Henley had estimated Monica Hayes's time of death at forty-eight to seventy-two hours before the body was discovered on Monday morning.
That put the killing somewhere between Thursday evening and Saturday evening.
Vincent Carlisle had been released from his third psychiatric facility just three days before the earliest possible time of death.
She sat back in her chair, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands.
The timeline was damning. A man spiraling through institutions for the better part of a year, a man grappling with grief so profound it had required multiple hospitalizations, suddenly released back into the world—and within days, a woman who looked like his dead wife turned up murdered in his former restaurant.
But something still didn't fit.
She thought about the man she'd met that morning.
The unwashed clothes, the tower of newspapers, the way he'd barely been able to summon the energy to stand.
Vincent Carlisle was a man who had given up on living, not a man planning anything.
The psychiatric records confirmed what her instincts had already told her: this was someone fighting to survive each day, not someone capable of the careful staging, the deliberate positioning, the almost tender arrangement of Monica Hayes's body in that freezer.
Unless. The word inserted itself into her thoughts, unwelcome but insistent unless the hospitalizations weren't about depression at all.
Unless the psychotic features mentioned in his file had twisted his grief into something darker.
Unless losing Maria and Lily had broken something fundamental in Vincent Carlisle, something that made him see his dead wife's face in a stranger and decide—
Decide what? To kill her? To preserve her? To make her look peaceful in death the way Maria probably hadn't looked after a semi-truck crossed the median at seventy miles per hour?
Isla shook her head, frustrated with herself. She was building narratives without evidence, crafting stories to fit the facts rather than letting the facts speak for themselves. It was the same mistake she'd made in Miami, the same rush to judgment that had cost Alicia Mendez her life.
The memory surfaced before she could stop it: standing in that apartment, gun drawn, absolutely certain she had the right man. And behind her, blocks away, the real killer was already—
She pushed the thought away, hard. That was then. This was now. And now, she needed facts, not assumptions.
"Rivers."
She looked up to find James approaching her desk, two cups of coffee in hand and a look on his face that suggested news. He set one of the cups in front of her—black, the way she liked it—and settled into the chair across from her workspace.
"You look like you found something," he said.
"Maybe." She turned her monitor so he could see. "Carlisle's been in and out of psychiatric facilities for the past year. Three separate admissions—the most recent one ended February 6th."
James's jaw tightened as he processed the dates. "That's—"
"Three days before the earliest estimate for time of death. I know."
He was quiet for a moment, reading through the records on her screen. "Psychotic features," he said finally. "That's concerning."
"It's a flag, not a conviction." Isla reached for the coffee, grateful for its warmth.
"Plenty of people experience grief-related psychological breaks without becoming violent.
And even with the timeline, I can't square what I saw in that house with someone capable of planning and executing a murder. "
"People surprise us."
"They do." She took a sip, let the bitter heat settle her. "But I've been wrong before about rushing to judgment. I'd rather take my time and be right."
James didn't respond to that—he knew her history, knew what she was referencing—but something in his expression softened. After a moment, he pulled out his notebook.
"Well, if it helps, I've got background on the victim. Monica Hayes wasn't a real estate agent."
Isla blinked. "What?"
"The LinkedIn profile was outdated. She left real estate two years ago.
" James flipped through his notes. "Monica Hayes, thirty-four, owned and operated a hair salon called The Looking Glass on East Superior Street.
Had it for about eighteen months. By all accounts, the place was doing well—steady clientele, good reviews, recently expanded to a second chair. "
A hairdresser. Isla turned this new information over in her mind, trying to see how it fit. "Any connection to the restaurant? To Carlisle?"
"Nothing obvious. Different part of town, different circles.
" James set his notebook on the edge of her desk.
"I talked to her family—mother lives in Hibbing, father passed a few years back.
The mother was a wreck, as you'd expect.
Kept saying she didn't understand, that Monica was a good girl, that everyone loved her. "
"Everyone loved her."
"According to everyone I spoke with, yeah.
" James's voice carried the particular flatness that meant he'd spent the morning listening to grieving family members and was trying not to let it show.
"She was engaged once, but it ended amicably about a year ago.
No stalkers, no threats, no disgruntled ex-boyfriends.
Her employees at the salon described her as kind, professional, the type of boss who brought in donuts on Fridays and remembered everyone's birthdays. "
"So no obvious enemies."
"None that anyone knows about. The salon's regular clients were devastated when they heard—apparently one of them is the one who reported her missing when she didn't show up for work Saturday morning.
" He paused. "Rivers, from everything I've gathered, Monica Hayes was exactly what she seemed to be: a successful small business owner, well-liked by her community, no drama, no secrets.
The kind of person who slips through life without making enemies. "
And yet someone had strangled her and left her body in a freezer, posed like a sleeping princess waiting to be woken.
Isla stared at her coffee, watching the steam curl and dissipate.
"So we have a victim with no enemies and no connection to the crime scene.
A former restaurant owner with a psychiatric history and a timeline that's uncomfortably close.
And a current restaurant owner who seems genuinely panicked but also conveniently absent when the body was placed. "
"That about sums it up."
She set the coffee down and stood, needing to move, to think. The office felt too small suddenly, the fluorescent lights too bright, the hum of activity around her too loud. She walked to the window that overlooked the parking lot—not much of a view, but it was something.
"What if we're looking at this wrong?"
James came to stand beside her. "How so?"
"We've been assuming the restaurant matters.
That whoever killed Monica Hayes chose Bella Ristorante because of some connection—to Carlisle, to DiMatteo, to the history of the place.
" Isla watched a car pull into the lot below, its headlights cutting through the gray afternoon light.
"But what if the restaurant was just... convenient? "
"Convenient how?"
"It was closed. Shut down by the health department, empty, no one coming or going.
" She turned to face him. "If you needed a place to leave a body—a place where it wouldn't be found immediately but would eventually be discovered—a shuttered restaurant with a working freezer would be almost perfect.
Cold enough to preserve the body, isolated enough to avoid witnesses, but not so abandoned that she'd never be found. "
James considered this, his brow furrowing. "So the killer knew the restaurant was closed. Knew about the salmonella shutdown."