CHAPTER TWENTY
The break room at the Duluth FBI field office smelled of burnt coffee and institutional despair—a combination Isla had come to associate with mornings that started too early after nights that ended too late.
She stood at the counter, watching the ancient Bunn drip machine struggle through its cycle with the kind of mechanical wheeze that suggested imminent failure, and tried to remember the last time she'd slept for more than three consecutive hours.
Friday. It was Friday, April seventeenth.
She had to remind herself of that, had to anchor the day in something concrete because the past week had blurred into a continuous stream of crime scenes and interviews and bodies pulled from cold water.
The clock on the wall read eight-twelve AM, and through the window she could see Lake Superior stretching toward the horizon under a sky the color of old pewter.
The lake looked calm this morning, almost serene—a liar's face hiding the violence that had been done on her waters.
James sat at one of the small tables near the television mounted in the corner, his hands wrapped around a mug that was more for warmth than consumption.
His flannel shirt was wrinkled, his jaw shadowed with stubble that had progressed past fashionable into genuinely disheveled.
They'd both been at the marina until after six AM, processing the Midnight Crossing, coordinating with the Coast Guard, and making arrangements for Madeline Holmes to be transported to a hospital where she could be properly evaluated and protected.
Madeline. Nineteen years old. Kidnapped from a parking lot in Marquette and locked in a soundproofed cabin while men planned to sell her to the highest bidder.
The memory of her green eyes—wide with terror, desperate with hope—had followed Isla through the few hours of rest she'd managed to steal before returning to the office.
"She's going to be okay," James said, as if reading her thoughts. "Physically, anyway. The doctors said there was no evidence of... of assault. She was being transported, not..." He trailed off, unable or unwilling to complete the sentence.
"Being transported to someone who would assault her," Isla finished, her voice flat. "That's not exactly a happy ending, James."
"Thank God we stopped that from happening." He took a sip of his coffee, grimacing at the taste.
The coffee maker completed its wheezing cycle, and Isla poured herself a cup that looked like motor oil and probably tasted worse.
She carried it to James's table and sank into the chair across from him, feeling the exhaustion in her bones like a physical weight.
The bruise of sleeplessness had taken up permanent residence beneath her eyes, and she'd stopped bothering to hide it with makeup days ago.
“Well, we know it wasn’t Sterling,” Isla said. “The yacht kills were fresh—happened while we had him under watch.”
“I know. We can’t spare the men to keep watching him. Let’s just hope he wasn’t involved in another way.”
“If he was, we’ll find out.”
The television droned in the corner, playing what appeared to be a local morning news program.
Isla had been ignoring it, letting the generic chatter of anchors and weather forecasters wash over her like background noise.
But something in the broadcast changed—a shift in tone, a sharpening of energy—and she found her attention drawn to the screen despite herself.
"—breaking news this morning in the ongoing Lake Superior maritime crisis," the anchor was saying, her expression carefully calibrated between concern and excitement.
"A young woman has been recovered alive from the yacht Midnight Crossing, the third vessel found drifting on the lake this week.
Sources tell us that the woman, identified as nineteen-year-old Madeline Holmes, a Northern Michigan University student, was being held captive aboard the vessel by human traffickers when an unknown attacker killed her captors and left the yacht adrift. "
Isla's coffee cup paused halfway to her lips.
She watched as the screen filled with file footage of the Midnight Crossing being towed into the marina, her pristine white hull catching the emergency lights that had strobed through the pre-dawn darkness.
Then cut to a stock photo of Madeline—smiling, healthy, unaware of the nightmare waiting in her future—next to a more recent image that showed her being helped into an ambulance by EMTs, a thermal blanket draped over her shoulders.
"This marks a dramatic shift in the investigation," the anchor continued, "with many now viewing the mysterious 'phantom' behind these attacks in a very different light.
While authorities have been searching for what they initially described as a dangerous serial killer targeting maritime operations, the rescue of Madeline Holmes has prompted an outpouring of support on social media for whoever is responsible for these incidents. "
The screen shifted to show a montage of social media posts—Twitter threads, Facebook comments, TikTok videos with text overlays. Isla felt something cold settle in her stomach as she read the words scrolling past.
Hero of Lake Superior saves trafficking victim. The system failed her. Thank God someone didn't.
Whoever's doing this is doing what the cops won't. Clean up the lake, one dead smuggler at a time.
They're not killing innocent people. They're killing CRIMINALS. Big difference.
The phantom is a hero. Change my mind.
"Jesus," James breathed, staring at the screen.
The anchor returned, her expression now carrying a hint of something that might have been sympathy for the killer.
"Local reaction has been mixed, with many residents expressing support for the unknown individual or individuals responsible for what some are calling 'vigilante justice' on Lake Superior.
A social media hashtag, #LakeSuperiorHero, has been trending nationally since early this morning. "
Isla set her coffee cup down with more force than she'd intended, the ceramic striking the table with a sharp crack. "Turn it off."
James reached for the remote, but he didn't press the button immediately. Instead, he stared at the screen, his weathered face unreadable. "They're not entirely wrong, you know."
"Excuse me?"
"The people on social media. They're not entirely wrong.
" He finally muted the television, but his eyes remained fixed on the silent images playing across the screen.
"Madeline Holmes is alive because someone killed the men who were planning to sell her.
The Northern Dawn was carrying weapons that would have ended up in the hands of criminals.
The Storm Runner was moving meth that would have destroyed families.
" He turned to face Isla, and she saw the conflict written in the lines around his eyes.
"I'm not saying what this person is doing is right.
But I understand why people are calling them a hero.
The public gets confused about cases like this. "
Isla wanted to argue. She wanted to list all the reasons why murder was murder, regardless of who the victims were.
She wanted to remind James that they were federal agents, sworn to uphold the law, and that the law didn't have exceptions for vigilantes who happened to kill people everyone agreed deserved it.
But the words caught in her throat, tangled up with the memory of Madeline Holmes gripping her wrist and asking if they would find whoever had saved her.
The truth was more complicated than Isla wanted to admit.
The truth was that part of her—a small, dark part that she kept locked away in the deepest corners of her professional conscience—understood exactly why people were celebrating.
"Those men on the Northern Dawn," she said slowly, "they were running weapons that would have killed people.
The Storm Runner's crew was poisoning communities.
And Vance's people..." She shook her head, feeling the weight of it settle on her shoulders.
"They were monsters, James. All of them.
Monsters who operated with impunity because the system couldn't touch them. "
"But?"
"But we can't let someone appoint themselves judge, jury, and executioner.
No matter how justified it might seem. No matter how much good it might accidentally do.
" Isla pushed back from the table, suddenly unable to sit still.
She moved to the window, staring out at the lake that had become the backdrop for so much violence.
"If we let this stand—if we allow someone to murder criminals and call it justice—where does it end?
Who decides which criminals deserve to die?
What happens when they get it wrong and kill someone who was actually innocent? "
"You're thinking about Miami," James said quietly. It wasn't a question.
Isla's reflection stared back at her from the glass—amber eyes, dark hair, the face of a woman who knew exactly how wrong things could go when someone made a mistake about who deserved to live or die. "I'm always thinking about Miami."
Alicia Mendez. Twenty-eight years old. Elementary school teacher.
Dead because Isla had been certain she knew who the killer was, had been absolutely convinced that her profile was correct.
The real killer had had time to claim one more victim while she chased the wrong man.
She'd arrived at Alicia's apartment just in time to see the light leave her eyes.
That was the cost of certainty. That was what happened when someone decided they knew better than the system, better than the rules, better than everyone else.