CHAPTER ONE
The coffee in Isla's mug had gone cold an hour ago, but she lifted it to her lips anyway, more out of habit than desire.
The bitter liquid matched her mood as she stared at the computer screen, scrolling through the latest report from the U.S.
Marshals Service. Another dead end. Another sighting that led nowhere.
Possible visual confirmation, truck stop outside Fargo. Subject departed before law enforcement arrival.
She rubbed her eyes, feeling the familiar burn of too many late nights and too little sleep.
The fluorescent lights of the Duluth FBI field office hummed overhead, a constant drone that had become the soundtrack to her days since they'd identified Robert Brune as the Lake Superior Killer two weeks ago.
Two weeks.
It felt like both a lifetime and no time at all.
Isla clicked to the next tab, where a map displayed reported sightings across Minnesota, Wisconsin, North Dakota, and even a few in Canada.
Red pins clustered around the border towns, each one representing someone who thought they'd seen him—the grizzled fisherman with dead eyes who'd been drowning people in Lake Superior for decades, making each death look like an accident.
Her mind drifted to that night two weeks ago when she'd caught him stalking his next victim near the North Pier.
The way he'd moved through the shadows with the practiced ease of someone who knew the docks as intimately as his own reflection.
The cold certainty in his expression when she'd finally cornered him, her weapon drawn, her voice steady despite the adrenaline flooding her system.
He'd smiled at her. Actually smiled, as if they were old friends meeting for coffee rather than predator and hunter facing off in the dark.
And then he'd run.
Isla's fingers tightened around her mug. She'd been so close. Close enough to see the weathered lines of his face, the gray in his beard. Close enough to end this.
But close wasn't good enough.
The office door opened behind her, and she heard James's familiar footsteps—measured, solid, dependable.
He'd been trying to get her to leave the office at reasonable hours, reminding her that the Marshals had the manhunt well in hand, that she needed rest. As if rest were possible when a serial killer she'd identified was still out there, free to kill again.
"Any updates?" James asked, setting a fresh cup of coffee on her desk. The steam rose in lazy spirals, and despite herself, Isla felt a flicker of gratitude.
"Same as the last twenty updates," she said, not looking away from the screen. "A lot of maybes and almosts, but nothing solid. It's like he's a ghost."
James pulled up a chair beside her, his broad shoulders angled toward the monitor.
At six-two, he had to hunch slightly to see the screen properly, and Isla found herself distracted by the familiar scent of his aftershave mixed with the cold air that still clung to his clothes. He must have just come in from outside.
"The Marshals know what they're doing," he said quietly. "They'll find him."
Isla finally turned to look at him. His blue eyes held concern, and something else she didn't want to name. Something that had been growing between them over the almost two years they'd worked together—a connection that neither of them had acknowledged out loud.
"They're searching in the wrong places," she said, voicing the thought that had kept her awake for fourteen consecutive nights.
"Everyone assumes he ran—headed for Canada or went to ground in some small town where nobody knows him.
But he's lived in Duluth his entire life.
The lake is everything to him. He believes it whispers to him, James. That it demands sacrifices."
"You think he's still here?" James's voice was carefully neutral, but she could see the wheels turning behind his eyes.
"I don't know." Isla pushed back from the desk, standing and moving to the window.
Beyond the glass, Lake Superior stretched vast and gray under December's weak morning light.
Somewhere out there, beneath the surface, were the victims who would never be found.
The ones Robert Brune had fed to the water he considered sacred.
"But I walk the docks every night, and I can't shake the feeling that he's closer than we think. "
James was quiet for a moment. "You've been going to the docks? Alone?"
There it was—the note of worry she'd been expecting. Isla crossed her arms, still staring out at the lake. "I'm armed, trained, and careful. And before you lecture me about procedure, I'm not conducting any investigation. I'm just... walking."
"Isla—"
"I know what you're going to say." She turned back to face him, leaning against the windowsill.
The cold seeped through the glass behind her, but she welcomed it.
It kept her sharp. "But I can't just sit at home while he's out there.
Not after Sarah Sanchez. Not after all the others, we didn't even know were victims until I found the pattern. "
James stood, closing the distance between them with a few steps. For a moment, she thought he might reach for her hand, but he stopped just short, his expression torn between frustration and understanding.
"Nobody's questioning what you accomplished," he said. "You identified a serial killer who'd been operating undetected for decades. You saved whoever his next victim was going to be. The Director called Kate personally to commend you. That's—"
"Not enough," Isla finished. "Not while he's still out there."
The words hung between them, heavy with the weight of her Miami failure. She didn't have to say Alicia Mendez's name for both of them to know that's where her mind had gone. The woman who died because Isla had misread a profile, chased the wrong suspect, arrived too late to save her.
She'd promised herself it would never happen again.
James seemed to recognize the shift in her mood, the way her jaw tightened and her amber eyes went distant. He took a step back, giving her space.
"The press conference is at ten," he said, changing the subject. "Kate wants you front and center. This is your case, Isla. Your victory."
"It's not a victory until he's in custody." She returned to her desk, pulling up the next report. "And sitting in front of cameras while he's still free feels more like a performance than investigative work."
"It keeps the public aware. Keeps people looking." James moved toward the door, then paused. "For what it's worth, I think you're right. About the docks. About him staying close to what he knows." He met her eyes. "But please, don't go out there alone anymore. Not while he's in the wind."
Isla wanted to argue, but something in his expression stopped her. Concern, yes, but also something deeper. Something that made her chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with the case.
"I'll think about it," she said, which they both knew wasn't a promise.
James nodded once and left, the door clicking softly behind him.
Isla turned back to her computer, but the words on the screen blurred together.
She thought about Robert Brune out there somewhere—a man who'd spent forty years as a fisherman, who'd grown up in the foster system after his mother drowned when he was eight, who'd somehow twisted that childhood trauma into a decades-long killing spree.
The lake whispers to him, she thought. Demands sacrifices.
What kind of message was it giving him now, with law enforcement searching for him across multiple states? Was he listening to it, even now? Planning his next move?
Her phone buzzed with another alert—another possible sighting, this one in Thunder Bay.
She pulled up the details, already knowing what she'd find. Vague description, unconfirmed visual, no follow-up possible. The same pattern repeated endlessly, like waves against the shore. She’d been obsessively watching whatever security footage she could get access to along shorelines to see if she’d spot him herself, but no luck yet.
The morning crept forward with agonizing slowness. Isla reviewed reports, cross-referenced sightings with known associates from Brune's past, and tried to find patterns in the chaos of the manhunt. But every lead felt thin, every connection tenuous. It was like trying to catch smoke.
At nine-thirty, she stood and moved to the small mirror mounted near the filing cabinets.
Her reflection stared back—dark wavy hair pulled into its usual practical ponytail, though several strands had escaped to frame her face.
The amber eyes that had seen too much looked tired, shadows beneath them that no amount of coffee would erase.
The faint freckles across her nose and cheekbones, remnants of her Miami years, seemed to have faded even more in Duluth's winter gloom.
She adjusted her blazer, checking that her badge was properly clipped to her belt and her service weapon sat secure in its holster. The tailored pantsuit was professional, appropriate for facing cameras. She looked like an FBI agent who had everything under control.
If only that were true.
A sharp knock interrupted her thoughts, and Kate Channing's voice followed immediately. "Isla? You ready?"
The door opened before Isla could respond, and her boss stepped into the office with the commanding presence that made her seem taller than her five-nine frame.
Kate's silver-gray hair was perfectly styled, her designer suit impeccable despite the early hour.
The gray-blue eyes that missed nothing swept over Isla with the practiced assessment of someone who'd spent twenty-five years reading people.
"The press is outside," Kate said, her tone brisk but not unkind. "They're ready to start the conference, so you better look sharp."
Isla smoothed down her blazer one more time, a nervous gesture she immediately regretted. Kate noticed everything.
"I'm ready," Isla said, though she wasn't sure she believed it.
Kate's expression softened slightly, and she stepped further into the office, lowering her voice. "I know this isn't easy. Standing up there while he's still at large. But the public needs to see that we're making progress, that we have a face and a name for the threat. You gave us that."
"Progress would be him in handcuffs," Isla said, unable to keep the edge from her voice.
"Yes, it would." Kate's response was matter-of-fact, no platitudes or empty reassurances.
It was one of the things Isla respected most about her boss—Kate never sugarcoated reality.
"But until the Marshals find him, this is what we have.
Your work identified him, and the public deserves to know who to look for. That's not nothing."
Isla nodded, swallowing the frustration that threatened to rise in her throat. Kate was right, of course. She usually was.
"The Marshals will have someone there, too," Kate continued, moving toward the door.
"They'll handle questions about the manhunt logistics. You focus on the profile—why he kills, how you identified him, what people should watch for. You know this better than anyone. We can’t hold off on the press release any longer. "
That's what worries me, Isla thought. She knew Robert Brune's profile intimately now.
Knew his patterns, his triggers, his psychology.
She'd spent weeks reconstructing his life from scattered records and witness statements, building a picture of a man shaped by tragedy and isolation into something dark and twisted.
But knowing him also meant understanding how difficult he would be to catch.
He knew the region like the back of his hand.
He'd spent forty years working the water, learning every inlet and cove, every abandoned building and hidden access point.
He was patient, methodical, and utterly convinced of his purpose.
He wouldn't make careless mistakes.
"Isla?" Kate's voice pulled her back to the present. "We should go."
Isla grabbed her phone and the case file she'd prepared for reference, though she had the details memorized. Every victim, every timeline, every piece of evidence that had finally connected the dots and revealed the Lake Superior Killer's true identity.
She followed Kate out of the office and into the hallway, where James waited near the elevator. He'd changed into a fresh shirt and tie, his practical flannel and worn suit replaced with something more camera-appropriate. His blue eyes met hers, and he gave a small nod of encouragement.
They rode the elevator down in silence, the only sound the mechanical hum of descent. Isla focused on her breathing, on the mental preparation she'd learned from Dr. Delgado back at Georgetown. Compartmentalize. Focus on what you can control. Present the facts clearly and professionally.
Don't think about Alicia Mendez.
The elevator doors opened onto the ground floor, and immediately Isla heard the buzz of conversation from outside.
Through the glass doors of the building's entrance, she could see the assembled press—cameras, reporters, microphones.
A small podium had been set up with the FBI seal displayed prominently.
Kate straightened her already-perfect posture. "Remember—confident, clear, professional. You've got this."
Isla adjusted her suit one final time, then squared her shoulders. She'd faced down killers in darkened alleys. She'd processed crime scenes that would haunt her for years. She'd stood over Alicia Mendez's body and made a silent promise to do better.
She could handle a press conference.
Kate pushed open the doors, and December's cold air rushed in, carrying with it the weight of expectations and the relentless pressure of an unsolved case. The cameras turned toward them like hungry eyes.
Isla took a breath, lifted her chin, and followed her boss out into the light.