Chapter Twenty
The Profile
Rachel Williams
The compound feels wrong when we return. Too quiet. Too still. Without all the rangers here, it feels like an empty shell.
Shaw is already gone. Transported to the tiny local hospital fifteen miles down the road, chained to a bed and sedated. They didn’t take chances. Not after what he did. Not after the way he came at us in those caves.
But the moment he was wheeled out, the real problem settled over us.
We don’t know if he’s the one. And we won’t be able to question him until he wakes up…if he wakes up.
We have to operate under the assumption that it’s not him until we know for sure.
He’s an asshole. That doesn’t make him a killer.
I sit at the long metal table in the operations room, staring at the scattered files, the maps, the photos of victims. Bishop stands across from me, arms folded, jaw tight.
Beth paces in the corner like motion is the solution to all her problems.
David leans against the wall, rubbing his temples like he’s trying to keep his skull from splitting open.
The fluorescent lights buzz overhead. The air smells like coffee and cold metal.
“We need next steps,” Bishop says, voice low, controlled. Too controlled. He’s still wound tight from the caves.
“We can’t wait for Shaw to wake up. We build the profile now.”
Beth stops pacing. “Based on what? We barely know anything.”
“We know enough,” Bishop says.
I meet his eyes. “We know his victims. Couples. Always couples. And always the men,” I add. “He kills the men. He takes the women.”
Beth shivers. “Why? What does he want with them?”
I exhale slowly. “That’s the motive we need to understand.”
Bishop steps closer to the table, bracing his hands on the metal. “Start with what we know. He’s isolating couples. He’s targeting relationships. He’s eliminating the male partner.”
I frown. “So… jealousy? Possessiveness? But jealousy alone doesn’t escalate into ritualistic hunting. And we don’t know for certain he’s keeping he women.”
Bishop’s eyes flick to me; sharp, focused. “What’s the trigger?”
I sift through the photos. The victims. The locations. The patterns.
“He’s choosing couples who are isolated,” I say. “Cabins. Campsites. Remote trails. Places where they’re alone together.”
Beth swallows hard. “He’s stalking them.”
“He’s watching them,” Bishop corrects. “Long enough to know their routines. Their dynamic.”
I nod. “Long enough to decide which ones fit whatever fantasy he’s built.”
David pushes off the wall. “So he sees a couple. He fixates. He follows. He waits until the man is vulnerable.”
“And then he removes him,” I say. “Violently.”
Beth’s voice trembles. “And the women?”
I look at the photos of the missing women. The ones we haven’t found.
“He’s keeping them,” I say quietly. “Or killing them somewhere else.”
Bishop’s jaw tightens. “He’s reenacting something.”
I meet his eyes. “A trauma. A loss. A moment where he felt powerless.”
David nods slowly, his expression bleak. “Something involving a woman.”
“And another man,” I add. “Someone he saw as competition. Someone he hated.”
Beth whispers, “So he’s repeating it. Over and over.”
Bishop’s voice drops. “He’s hunting the men because, in his mind, they’re the threat.”
I swallow hard. “And he’s taking the women because he thinks they’re his? That sounds like a leap. If the trigger is jealousy, he would kill both.”
The fluorescent lights buzz louder. The air feels colder.
David sinks into a chair. “Jesus.”
Beth hugs herself. “So Shaw… if it is Shaw… what happened to him?”
I shake my head. “We won’t know until he wakes up.”
Bishop steps closer to me, voice low. “Our unsub is suffering from either a psychotic break or a delusion that he is a werewolf, especially during full moons. And if it’s not Shaw…”
I finish the thought for him.
“Then we have no idea who or where he is.”
Bishop nods once, slow. “And he knows we’re looking.”
Then an awful thing occurs to me.
“What if the women aren’t a prize? What if he’s taking them to reassert dominance? If by taking them he’s punishing them for whatever the trigger is? In that scenario, he would have to kill them.”
I look to David. “The unsub we are looking for would possibly have had a recent relationship that ended badly. Do any of the rangers here have a recent breakup?”
“But all the rangers left.” He reminds me.
I shake my head. “Or they want us to think they left. What if this whole thing isn’t to inspire fear? What if he killed his girlfriend, covered it up as a missing persons and then realized he liked it? Keeps living it out?”
Bishop stares at me like he’s never seen me before.
“It would fit the profile.” I insist. “Why he left the suit. Why he wants the women. All the rest is just to get us to chase our own tails. Sociopath not psychopath.”
The room feels smaller. The shadows feel heavier. And somewhere deep in my chest, a cold certainty settles:
This has only just begun..
“Let’s check Shaw’s cabin. See if he left anything behind. We could at least rule him out.” Bishop offers.
Beth, shifting nervously sits down finally. “Im staying here.”
“I’ll show you the way” David offers.
Bishop walks ahead of me, shoulders tense, jaw locked. David leads us down the narrow trail toward Shaw’s cabin, flashlight beams cutting through the dusk.
Beth still seated and staring at nothing. I don’t blame her. I’m not sure I should be out here either, but the certainty in my chest won’t let me stop.
We need answers. We need proof. We need to know if Shaw is the killer or if the real one is still breathing down our necks.
But what other reason could he have for being at the caves?
The cabin appears through the trees. Dark, sunken, abandoned-looking. David unlocks the door with a spare key, hesitating before pushing it open.
“Shaw hasn’t been here in days,” he says quietly. “Maybe weeks.”
Bishop steps inside first. “Stay behind me.”
I do. Not because I’m scared, but because he’s still wound tight, still dangerous, still carrying the weight of that cave on his shoulders. I can feel it radiating off him and I don’t want to add to it by worrying him unnecessarily.
The cabin smells like damp wood and stale sweat. Dust coats everything. The sink is full of dishes. The bed is unmade. Clothes are scattered across the floor.
But none of that matters.
What matters is the wall.
A single wall covered in photos.
Women. Dozens of them.
Some printed from social media. Some taken with a phone. Some clearly taken without the women knowing: through windows, from trails, from behind trees.
My stomach drops.
David whispers, “Oh God…”
Bishop steps closer, scanning the photos with a cold, controlled fury. “He’s been watching them.”
I swallow hard. “Not just watching. Fixating.”
One photo is larger than the rest. Centered, framed, almost reverent. A woman in her late twenties. Dark hair. Bright smile with an arm around her waist- the man cut out.
Bishop points at it. “This one.”
David nods. “His girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend. They broke up last year.”
My pulse spikes. “How did she go missing?”
David’s face pales. “She didn’t. She moved away. At least… that’s what he told us.”
I step closer to the photo. The woman’s smile looks wrong now. Too bright, too unaware of the danger standing beside her. Or maybe Im just imagining it.
“What if she didn’t move?” I whisper. “What if he killed her? Covered it up? And realized he liked it?”
Bishop turns toward me slowly, staring like he’s seeing me for the first time. “Rachel…”
“It fits the profile,” I insist. “Why he left the suit. Why he wants the women. Why he kills the men. All the rest is just noise. A distraction. A way to make us chase shadows.”
David sinks onto the edge of the bed, staring at the wall. “He’s been spiraling for months. Maybe longer.”
Bishop’s voice is low, dangerous. “This confirms it. Shaw is our unsub.”
I nod, though the certainty tastes bitter. “We wait until morning. Check on him at the hospital. When he wakes up, we get the truth.”
David exhales shakily. “I’ll stay at the compound tonight. Keep Beth calm.”
Bishop looks at me. “You should rest too.”
I shake my head. “I won’t sleep.”
He steps closer, voice dropping. “You need to try.”
I look back at the wall of women; at the obsession, the delusion, the violence simmering beneath every photo.
“No,” I say quietly. “I need to be ready.”
Bishop doesn’t argue. He just nods once, slow, like he understands exactly what I mean.