CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The search results for Monica Hayes loaded slowly, the field office's aging internet connection struggling under the weight of Isla's impatience.
She scrolled through the first page of hits—obituaries now, mostly, the digital echo of a life cut short.
Memorial posts from friends. A GoFundMe someone had started for her salon employees.
The internet had already begun the process of transforming Monica Hayes from a living woman into a memory, her name becoming synonymous with tragedy rather than the person she'd been.
Isla refined her search, adding keywords: award, recognition, feature, profile. The results shifted, older articles surfacing from before Monica's death, before she'd become another statistic in Duluth's suddenly violent winter.
And there it was.
I love Duluth magazine, the winter edition. "Trending Tresses: Local Stylist Monica Hayes Shows Us the Season's Hottest Looks."
Isla clicked through to the magazine's website, her pulse quickening as the article loaded.
A full-page spread appeared on her screen—Monica Hayes standing in her salon, scissors in hand, surrounded by before-and-after photographs of clients she'd transformed.
The article was puff piece journalism at its finest, all enthusiasm and exclamation points, but what mattered wasn't the content.
What mattered was Monica's face, smiling out from the page. Her light blonde hair. Her warm expression. Her picture was published for anyone in Duluth to see.
"James." Isla's voice came out sharper than she'd intended. "Come look at this."
He was at her side in moments, two fresh cups of coffee in hand—when had he gotten back?—his eyes following her finger to the screen. She watched his expression shift as he processed what he was seeing.
"I Love Duluth," he read. "Local magazine?"
"Quarterly publication. Covers community events, local businesses, human interest stories." Isla was already opening a new tab, her fingers moving across the keyboard with renewed urgency. "Amanda Pierce was Teacher of the Year. If she was featured anywhere, it would be—"
The search results confirmed it before she could finish the sentence.
I Love Duluth, Winter edition. "Making a Difference: Amanda Pierce Named Duluth Teacher of the Year."
Same magazine. Same issue.
Isla felt the pieces clicking into place, that particular sensation of a pattern finally revealing itself after days of chaos.
Two victims, both featured in the same publication.
Both photographed, their faces displayed for the entire city to see.
Both selected by a killer who had somehow found them in those glossy pages.
"Sarah Ramsey," James said, reading her thoughts. "If she's in there too—"
"Then we have our connection."
Isla typed Sarah Ramsey's name into the search bar, adding I Love Duluth to the query. The results populated almost instantly, and she felt her breath catch as the page loaded.
Not an article this time. An advertisement.
"Ramsey Accounting: Making Numbers Beautiful.
" A quarter-page ad featuring Sarah Ramsey's professional headshot, her contact information, her promise of personalized service for small businesses.
The same warm smile Isla had seen in the crime scene photographs, frozen now in a magazine page that had become a death warrant.
Three victims. One magazine. One issue.
"They were all in the same edition," Isla said, the implications cascading through her mind faster than she could process them. "Winter edition, published—" She checked the date on the website. "Four months ago. October."
James set down the coffee cups he'd been holding, his expression grim. "So, the killer got his hands on this magazine and started shopping for victims."
"Not just any magazine. This specific issue.
" Isla stood and walked to the whiteboard, grabbing a marker to add this new connection to their web of evidence.
"Monica Hayes in a feature article. Amanda Pierce in a human interest piece.
Sarah Ramsey in a paid advertisement. Three different sections, three different reasons for appearing—but all in the same publication, all with their photographs prominently displayed. "
"That's a lot of pictures to choose from," James said slowly. "One issue of a local magazine probably features dozens of women. Why these three specifically?"
It was the right question—the question that would unlock everything, Isla was certain of it.
The killer hadn't randomly selected three women from a magazine.
He'd chosen them deliberately, carefully, according to some criteria that went beyond their physical appearance and their presence in those pages.
"There has to be something else," she said, more to herself than to James. "Something that connects these three beyond the magazine. Some reason he picked them out of everyone who appeared in that issue."
She returned to her laptop and navigated to the I Love Duluth website, looking for an archive or a digital edition.
The site was modest—clearly a small operation, the kind of community publication that survived on advertising revenue and local goodwill—but they had a digital subscription option that provided access to past issues.
"I need to see the actual magazine," Isla said. "The full issue. If the killer used it to select his victims, there might be something in the layout, the positioning, something that explains why he chose these three women specifically."
"The library might have physical copies," James offered. "Or we could contact the publisher directly."
"Do both. I want that magazine in my hands within the hour."
James was already reaching for his phone when the conference room door opened. Kate Channing stood in the doorway, her silver-gray hair catching the fluorescent light, her expression carrying the particular intensity that meant she'd heard about their latest lead.
"I got your message," Kate said, stepping into the room and letting the door close behind her. "The magazine connection?"
"All three victims appeared in the same issue of I Love Duluth," Isla confirmed. "Winter edition, published four months ago. Monica Hayes was featured in an article about hair trends, Amanda Pierce in a Teacher of the Year profile, Sarah Ramsey in a paid advertisement for her accounting practice."
Kate absorbed this, her eyes moving to the whiteboard where Isla had begun mapping the new connections. "So he's using the magazine as a catalog. Selecting victims based on their photographs."
"That's our working theory. But there has to be more to it than that. This issue would have featured dozens of women—business owners, community leaders, people photographed at events. Why these three specifically?"
"The physical type," James said. "They all match the profile. Light hair, mid-thirties, similar builds."
"That narrows the field," Isla agreed. "But it doesn't narrow it to three.
There would still be multiple women in any given issue who fit that description.
" She turned back to her laptop, frustration building beneath the excitement of the breakthrough.
"We need to see the full magazine. Every page, every photograph, every—"
She stopped.
The thought that had been forming at the edge of her awareness suddenly crystallized, sharp and clear and terrible.
"The killer isn't just looking for women who fit his type," she said slowly. "He's looking for something specific. Something that makes these three women stand out from all the others who appeared in that issue."
"Like what?"
"I don't know yet." Isla's eyes moved across the photographs of the three victims, searching for the thread that connected them. "But if we can figure out why he chose them, we might be able to figure out who he is."
Kate moved to the whiteboard, studying the web of connections Isla had built over the past three days. "What do we know about the magazine itself? The staff, the publication process?"
"Not much yet. It's a small local operation—probably a handful of employees at most. We'll need to talk to them, find out who has access to the subscriber list, the mailing addresses—"
"And who might have a reason to target women featured in their pages," Kate finished. "I'll get Fritz on it. In the meantime, I want you two focused on that magazine. Find me the connection between these three victims."
She was gone before either of them could respond, the door clicking shut behind her with the particular finality of someone who expected results and expected them quickly.
Isla turned back to her laptop, pulling up the digital archive for I Love Duluth. The Winter edition wasn't available online in full—they'd need the physical copy for that—but the website offered a table of contents, a preview of featured articles, a glimpse of what the issue contained.
She scrolled through the preview, noting the sections: Local Business Spotlight, Community Events, Restaurant Reviews, Profiles in Excellence.
Amanda Pierce's Teacher of the Year article appeared under the last heading, sandwiched between a piece about a retiring firefighter and one about a local artist whose work had been featured in a gallery show.
Monica Hayes's hair trends article was in the Style section, accompanied by photographs of other local stylists and their work.
Sarah Ramsey's advertisement appeared in the Business Directory at the back of the magazine, one of perhaps two dozen similar ads from accountants and lawyers and real estate agents seeking clients.
Three different sections. Three different contexts. The only obvious connection was the magazine itself—and the fact that all three women were blonde, attractive, in their thirties.