CHAPTER TWELVE
The whiteboard in the conference room had become a graveyard of connections.
Isla stood before it with a dry-erase marker in hand, staring at the web of lines she'd drawn between Monica Hayes and Amanda Pierce.
Two photographs anchored the center—their faces smiling out from official headshots, unaware of the terrible fate that awaited them.
Around each photo, Isla had mapped the details of their lives: addresses, workplaces, social circles, habits.
The lines connecting them were few. Too few.
"Different neighborhoods," James said from behind her, reading from his laptop. "Hayes lived in Lincoln Park, and Pierce was in Piedmont Heights. About four miles apart."
"Different banks, different grocery stores, different churches," Isla added another note to the board. "Monica was single, Amanda had a long-term boyfriend who's been out of town for two weeks—already verified his alibi. Monica owned her own business, and Amanda worked for the school district."
"Different social circles entirely."
"Entirely." Isla capped the marker and turned to face her partner. "Two women who lived in the same city for years and, by all accounts, never crossed paths. No mutual friends on social media, no shared professional connections, nothing."
James scrolled through something on his screen. "What about the yoga studio? You mentioned Amanda took classes at Serenity Yoga."
"Monday nights. Her roommate confirmed it was her regular routine." Isla reached for the folder of interview notes Fritz had compiled. "But Monica Hayes—I didn't see any connection to yoga in her background."
"Let me check." James typed for a moment, pulling up the records they'd subpoenaed from Monica's credit card company. "Hayes... Hayes... Here. Serenity Yoga Studio. She made a payment three weeks ago."
Isla felt something shift in her chest—that familiar click of puzzle pieces sliding into place. "She was a member?"
"Looks like a drop-in class. Single payment, twenty dollars." James turned his laptop so she could see the transaction. "January 23rd."
"That's about two weeks before she died." Isla grabbed the marker again and drew a thick line between the two photographs, writing SERENITY YOGA in bold letters along its length. "Different neighborhoods, different jobs, different social circles—but they both walked through the same door."
"It could still be coincidence. Half the women in Duluth probably take yoga somewhere."
"Maybe. But it's the first concrete overlap we've found." Isla was already reaching for her phone. "We need the studio's membership records. Class schedules, sign-in sheets, anything that shows who else was there when both women attended."
"I'll call Fritz, have him coordinate with the studio owner." James stood, already dialing. "What are you thinking—another student? Someone who spotted them both?"
"Or someone who works there." Isla pulled up the studio's website on her computer, scrolling through the sparse information available.
Serenity Yoga Studio, established 2019. Classes offered seven days a week.
Specializing in mindfulness and stress relief.
"The studio would be the perfect hunting ground.
Women coming in regularly, wearing fitted clothing, signing in with their names and contact information.
If the killer had access to that membership database. .."
"He'd have a catalog of potential victims."
The thought sat between them, ugly and accurate. Isla navigated to the staff page and found two faces staring back at her. Greta Lindholm, owner and lead instructor—a wispy woman in her sixties with silver hair and kind eyes. And beneath her, a younger face.
Nathan Cross. Instructor, specializing in beginner and intermediate flow classes.
Isla studied the photograph. He was in his late thirties, maybe early forties, with the kind of lean, sculpted build that suggested someone who practiced what he preached.
Dark hair, strong jaw, eyes that crinkled slightly at the corners in what might have been a smile or might have been something else entirely.
The bio beneath his photo was sparse: "Nathan brings fifteen years of yoga experience and a passion for helping students find their inner strength. "
"James." She turned her monitor toward him as he ended his call with Fritz. "The studio has two instructors. Greta Lindholm and Nathan Cross."
James leaned in to look at the screen. "Cross. Fritz mentioned that name. He's the one who teaches the Monday evening class."
"Amanda's class."
"Right." James's expression sharpened. "And he'd have access to the membership records. Would know which women fit a certain profile, when they'd be coming in, what their routines were."
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves." Isla forced herself to slow down, to remember Miami and the rush to judgment that had cost Alicia Mendez her life. "Right now all we have is a yoga studio that both victims attended. That's not enough to make Cross a suspect."
"But it's enough to make him a person of interest."
"Agreed. We need to talk to him—but carefully.
If he is involved, we don't want to spook him.
And if he's not, we don't want to destroy an innocent man's reputation.
" She pulled up the studio's class schedule.
"He's got an eleven o'clock class this morning.
That gives us about an hour to do some background work. "
"What are you thinking?"
"I want to talk to some of the other members first. Get a sense of who Nathan Cross is from the people who see him regularly.
" Isla reached for the phone records Fritz had sent over—the list of students who'd signed in for the past month's Monday evening classes.
"If there's something off about him, the women who take his classes might have noticed. "
James nodded, pulling out his own phone. "I'll take half the list, you take half. Quick calls—we're just trying to get a read on him."
They divided the names and retreated to their respective desks. Isla dialed the first number—a woman named Susan Hartley who'd attended the Monday class regularly for the past six months.
"Mrs. Hartley? This is Special Agent Isla Rivers with the FBI. I'm hoping you can answer a few questions about Serenity Yoga Studio."
"The FBI?" Susan's voice carried the particular pitch of someone who'd never expected to receive such a call. "Is this about Amanda? We heard what happened—everyone's been so upset. She was such a lovely woman."
"Yes, ma'am. We're investigating Ms. Pierce's death, and we're trying to get a better picture of the studio and the people who work there." Isla kept her voice neutral, professional. "Can you tell me about Nathan Cross? The instructor?"
"Nathan?" A pause. "He's... well, he's a good teacher. Very knowledgeable about yoga, very patient with beginners."
Isla caught the hesitation. "But?"
"I don't want to say anything bad about anyone. Especially with everything that's happened."
"Mrs. Hartley, anything you can tell us might help. Even small details."
Susan was quiet for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice had dropped slightly, as if she were afraid of being overheard.
"He's just... he can be a bit hands-on, you know?
When he's correcting your form. Most instructors will demonstrate or give verbal cues, but Nathan likes to physically adjust people.
Some of the women in class have mentioned it makes them uncomfortable. "
"Uncomfortable how?"
"It's hard to explain. He's never inappropriate, exactly. It just feels like he... lingers. His hands stay a little longer than they need to. And he seems to gravitate toward certain students. The ones who are—" She stopped herself.
"The ones who are what, Mrs. Hartley?"
"Young. Pretty. Blonde, mostly." The words came out in a rush, as if Susan had been waiting for permission to say them. "I know that sounds awful. I'm probably just being paranoid. But after Amanda..."
"You're not being paranoid." Isla made a note on her pad. "Is there anything else you can tell me about him? Anything that struck you as unusual?"
"He watches them. The students, I mean. Even when he's not teaching, when he's just sitting at the front desk—he watches.
And he remembers things. Details about people's lives that they mentioned in passing weeks ago.
" Susan's voice had gone quieter still. "I always thought he was just being attentive.
A good instructor. But now I'm wondering. .."
Isla thanked her and ended the call, her mind already churning through the implications. She glanced over at James, who was just finishing his own conversation, his expression grim.
"What did you get?" she asked.
"Jennifer Morrison. She's been taking classes at Serenity for about four months.
" James flipped through his notes. "Said Cross is 'very good at his job' but there's something about him that makes her uncomfortable.
Couldn't quite put her finger on it. Also mentioned the hands-on corrections—said he adjusted her shoulders once and she could still feel his fingers there an hour later. "
"My contact said the same thing. And that he gravitates toward certain students."
"Let me guess—young, pretty, blonde?"
Isla nodded. "She noticed he watches them. Remembers details about their lives."
They looked at each other across the space between their desks. The air felt different now, charged with the particular electricity of a case that was beginning to coalesce.
"I've got two more calls to make," James said. "You?"
"Three. Let's finish and compare notes."
Isla's next call went to voice mail, but the third reached a woman named Diane Foster—a retired nurse who'd been taking yoga classes to help with her arthritis.
"Nathan Cross?" Diane's voice was sharp, practical, the voice of someone who'd spent decades dealing with life-and-death situations. "He's capable enough as an instructor. But I switched to Greta's morning classes about two months ago."
"Why is that?"
"Because I'm seventy-three years old and I don't need some man half my age putting his hands on my hips to 'adjust my alignment.'" Diane snorted. "I told him once that I didn't like being touched and he apologized, said he understood, but then he did it again the next week. That's when I switched."
"Did you report him to the owner?"
"What was I going to report? He didn't do anything technically wrong.
He was just... persistent." A pause. "Look, I've been around long enough to recognize when a man is testing boundaries.
Seeing what he can get away with. Most of the young women in that class are too polite to say anything, or they convince themselves they're imagining it. But I know what I saw."
"What did you see, Mrs. Foster?"
"The way he looked at them. Like they were.
.. I don't know how to describe it. Not like people.
Like objects. Beautiful objects that he wanted to possess.
" Her voice hardened. "I've seen that look before, Agent Rivers.
In the ER, in the faces of husbands who brought in wives with 'accidental' injuries.
It's the look of someone who sees other people as things that belong to him. "
Isla's pen had stopped moving. She stared at the words she'd written, feeling the weight of them settle into her bones.
"Mrs. Foster, do you remember if Nathan Cross was ever particularly attentive to either Monica Hayes or Amanda Pierce?"
"I don't know those names." A pause. "Wait—Pierce. Was she the teacher? Small woman, light blonde hair, always wore the same purple yoga pants?"
"That's her."
"Oh, God." Diane's voice changed, the sharpness giving way to something softer, sadder.
"She was one of his favorites. He was always finding excuses to help her with poses, to talk to her after class.
I remember thinking she seemed uncomfortable with it, but too nice to say anything.
" Another pause. "Is she the one who died? The woman in the news?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"And you think Nathan..."
"We're just gathering information at this point." Isla's voice was steady, professional, revealing nothing of the certainty that was building in her chest. "Thank you for your time, Mrs. Foster. You've been very helpful."
She ended the call and looked up to find James watching her, his own phone still in his hand.
"My last two calls both mentioned the touching," he said. "One woman said she stopped going because Cross made her feel 'like he was undressing her with his eyes.' Her exact words."
Isla stood and walked back to the whiteboard, where the photographs of Monica Hayes and Amanda Pierce still smiled out at the room. She added a new name below them, circling it twice.
NATHAN CROSS.
"We need to talk to him," she said. "Today.”