Chapter 9
Brooklyn Sloane
Orange embers drifted upward from the burning logs in the small fireplace, spiraling lazily in the air before vanishing into the draft above.
The stale air carried the rich scent of woodsmoke, tinged with the faint sweetness of pine sap.
It was the crackle from the fire, with the occasional pop of resin, that Brook found mentally soothing.
She adjusted her position on the bed. Her back protested, leaving a dull ache that spread between her shoulder blades after hours of work.
She rolled her neck to ease the stiffness while her gaze drifted over to the single coffee maker on the small side table.
She'd been modifying the profile since dinner, and a hot cup of coffee would certainly hit the mark.
Unfortunately, such a task would require her to move her laptop, her tablet, and the file of crime scene photos that were currently spread out over the thick comforter.
She glanced down at her tablet and tapped her stylus against the edge in agitation.
Something wasn’t fitting together properly.
The established profile had already asserted that the unsub stopped killing either because he was dead, incarcerated, or physically unable to continue.
But after her conversation with the Moores this morning, she found herself questioning that assumption.
Her laptop chimed, the sound abrupt in the quiet cabin.
Brook set her tablet aside and reached for the computer, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as Graham's name appeared on the incoming video call. She clicked to accept, adjusting the screen's angle against the uneven surface of her lap.
“Hi,” Brook greeted as Graham's handsome face filled the screen. The background behind him was the interior of a private jet. “I thought you were leaving earlier today.”
Graham shifted slightly, the faint movement causing the video to pixelate before smoothing out again.
The glitch was on her end. Bit had warned her that their connection would hiccup every now and then.
The satellite modem and router that powered the team’s connection were in his cabin, the signal bouncing through a series of range extenders he’d planted around the property.
It wasn’t perfect, but it kept the team online in the middle of nowhere—and that was all that mattered.
“…meeting at Quantico ran longer than expected.” Graham’s voice came through before finally matching his motions. “How are things on your end?”
“Cold.” Brook gave a small shrug. “And not just the weather. Fortunately, I think we made some headway with the Moores today.”
“And the unconventional accommodations?”
“Rustic is the polite term.” Brook gestured vaguely at the space around her. “But the generator hasn't failed yet, which I'm counting as a win. The place smells like it survived several floods and a couple of mold outbreaks, but the fireplace works.”
“I see you brought your own creature comforts.” Graham’s gaze drifted toward the side of his screen. She didn’t need to follow it to know he was referring to the Keurig.
“I have my priorities,” Brook replied with a small smirk. “I spoke with Arden before leaving the city yesterday.”
“Can we not discuss this while I'm trapped in a metal tube on a runway?”
Brook couldn’t contain her laugh, and she was suddenly glad that he’d reached out to her before leaving the country.
“Fair enough,” Brook conceded, understanding that they would need to circle back to the topic sooner rather than later. It was obvious that he wasn't opposed to the relationship so much as he was uncomfortable acknowledging it. “How long before you take off?”
“A few minutes probably,” Graham replied as he glanced toward the front of the plane. “The pilot is already running through his checklist. How's the case coming along?”
“I'm currently making revisions to my profile. The established one suggested that the unsub stopped killing because he was dead, incarcerated, or physically incapable of continuing. Initially, I agreed, but I’m beginning to suspect that isn’t the case at all.”
“Wouldn’t that put him in a rare category? Serial killers don't typically stop voluntarily unless forced to by external circumstances.” Graham gave her a half smile. “See? I do listen to you when we’re both working in my home office.”
“I’m not so sure that he stopped so much as evolved,” Brook amended as she shifted her position, the bedsprings creaking under her movement.
“I believe there is a good chance that he redirected his obsession. Every victim had significant artistic connections that were missed during the initial investigation. Not just casual interests—deep, defining passions.”
“I thought one of the victims was a bank teller?”
“Shannon Bedford, but Bit was able to discover through her social media that she painted in her spare time. I’m not sure why that wasn’t included in the initial reports.
” Brook lifted her knees slightly to raise the laptop.
“Heather Moore was an elementary school art teacher, but she was also a skilled sketch artist. Her parents gave us her sketchbook today. Her work was remarkable.”
“And the others?” Graham prompted.
“Wendy Logue was a bartender with a passion for making pottery. She converted her garage into a studio.” Brook thought back to her phone conversation with Beth and Jared Hartman this evening. “Lila was a florist, but her boss described her work as ‘living art’.”
“And you're thinking the unsub himself has an artistic background?”
“If we view his crimes as a progression, as his version of an art project, then maybe he didn't stop creating. He just changed his medium. Serial killers often kill until they're caught or die, but their compulsions can sometimes find other outlets.” Brook leaned forward, lifting the laptop as she moved so she could set it on the comforter. She adjusted the screen so she was still front and center. “We’ll figure it out. In the meantime, you have a long flight ahead of you.”
“I have another minute,” Graham said, delaying the inevitable. “I’m not sure when I’ll be able to touch base after this.”
That was Graham’s way of letting her know that he would be out of communication for at least a few days, if not weeks. She outwardly stemmed her concern, understanding such a display would only add to his stress.
“Theo and I will drive out to the elementary school, where some of Heather’s colleagues still teach.
” Brook leaned over and slid a coffee pod into the Keurig.
Shoving her mug underneath, she pressed the brew button before settling back on the bed.
“Sylvie has lunch scheduled with Heather's childhood friends, and Bit is going to stay behind and comb through the material that he’s been able to gather online.”
Graham was listening to her, but she also detected a strange quietness that had settled over him. The change was so slight that most people wouldn't have noticed, but Brook had learned to read the minute adjustments in his features.
“Go ahead.” Brook was glad that she’d opted for a cup of coffee. She now understood his reason for not wanting to end the call just yet. “Say it, Graham.”
“Your unsub in Ohio isn't the only one who's evolved, Brooklyn. I understand why you won't send a private team to Alaska, but you're his target now. Not those around you—you.”
“I'm aware,” Brook replied, her tone even.
“And in the meantime?”
Brook chose her words with care.
“Bit is keeping his finger on the pulse.”
“Understood,” Graham said quietly. His focus shifted away momentarily, his head tilting as if listening to someone off camera. When he brought his attention back to her, it was clear he had more to say. “I don’t believe it’s enough.”
Brook wasn’t going to address his opinion. One, there wasn’t enough time. It was obvious that the plane was getting ready to depart the runway. Two, she’d already made up her mind, and she didn’t want to end their conversation with a disagreement.
“I’ll take it under advisement. In the meantime, be careful,” Brook asked of him. Whatever or whoever needed his presence in Qatar wouldn’t have sent such a request unless absolutely necessary. “Touch base with me when you can.”
“Be safe, Brooklyn.”
His farewell ritual was both familiar and comforting. She pressed her fingers to her lips and held them up to the screen. Shortly thereafter, their connection was severed, leaving her alone on the bed. She slowly closed the laptop with a soft click.
Graham’s warning echoed in her mind, but it wasn’t his voice she heard over the hiss of the fire.
It was Jacob’s.
“You don't get to be the normal one, Brook.”
She stood and crossed to the window. Parting the curtain with two fingers, she couldn’t suppress the shiver in reaction to the bitter cold that seeped through the pane.
Somewhere out there, beneath that same cold sky, Jacob was thinking about her. She sensed it in the quiet pull at the back of her mind, that tether that had never truly broken.
“I’m waiting for you, Jacob.”