CHAPTER THREE
Samuel McCrae.
The man who'd had to process her transfer paperwork nearly three years ago, his disappointment palpable even as he maintained professional courtesy. She hadn't spoken to him since those final, awkward days of packing up her desk while avoiding everyone's eyes.
"I need to take this," Isla said, already standing. James looked up from his sandwich, curiosity flickering across his face, but he simply nodded.
She moved into the hallway, pulling the door partially closed behind her before answering. "McCrae."
"Agent Rivers." His voice was exactly as she remembered—deep, measured, carrying the trace of a Georgia accent that decades in South Florida hadn't quite erased. "I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time."
"I'm in the middle of a manhunt for a serial killer, so it depends on your definition of bad." Isla immediately regretted the sharp tone. "Sorry. It's been a long couple of weeks."
"So I've heard." There was something in his voice—not quite pride, but close to it. "The whole Bureau's been following your work on the Lake Superior case. Identifying a killer who'd been operating undetected for decades? That's exceptional investigative work, Isla."
She leaned against the wall, suspicious of the compliment. McCrae had never been one for idle flattery. "Is there something I can help you with?"
"Actually, I'm calling to help you." A pause, and she could picture him in his Miami office, probably standing at his window overlooking Biscayne Bay. "How would you feel about coming home?"
Isla's breath caught. "What?"
"We have an opening for a supervisory special agent position," McCrae continued, his words gaining momentum.
"Elevated GS grade, your own team, opportunity to work major cases.
Your work in Duluth has more than demonstrated your capabilities, and frankly, Isla, we never should have lost you in the first place. "
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Somewhere down the hall, a phone rang. Isla's mind went blank, then flooded with too many thoughts at once.
Miami. A promotion. Recognition for her work.
Everything she'd dreamed of when they'd exiled her to Duluth with its brutal winters and small-town pace that felt like punishment after Miami's intensity.
"I..." She struggled to form coherent words. "This is unexpected."
"I know the timing isn't ideal, with your manhunt ongoing," McCrae said.
"But I wanted to reach out personally before the official paperwork starts moving through channels.
You'd be coming back as a success story, Isla.
Not as the agent who made a mistake, but as someone who took a difficult situation and turned it into a career-defining investigation. "
Alicia Mendez's face flashed through her mind—dark eyes wide with terror in that last photograph, the one they'd found at the killer's apartment. The woman, Isla, had failed to save because she'd been so sure, so confident in her profile of the wrong suspect.
"The Mendez case—" she started.
"Is history," McCrae interrupted firmly. "What matters now is your record since then. Fifteen homicides solved, a serial killer identified, patterns recognized that no one else saw. That's what the Bureau will remember. That's what I'll make sure they remember."
Isla pressed her free hand against the cool wall, grounding herself. This was everything she'd wanted. Vindication. Proof that she was more than her worst mistake. A chance to return to the career trajectory she'd been on before everything fell apart.
"I don't know what to say," she managed.
"Say you'll think about it." McCrae's tone gentled slightly.
"I know Duluth has probably grown on you—it tends to do that to people.
But Isla, you're meant for bigger things than processing cargo theft and the occasional homicide.
Miami has the cases that match your talents.
Major organized crime, complex investigations, the kind of work that actually challenges you. "
Through the partially open door of her office, she could see James still sitting at her desk, waiting patiently. His broad shoulders were angled toward the window, giving her privacy while remaining present. Dependable. Solid. Everything she'd come to rely on over the past three years.
Her heart constricted painfully.
"I need to think about it," Isla said, her voice steadier than she felt. "The manhunt—I can't just leave in the middle of—"
"Of course not. Take your time. The position won't be officially posted for another month." She heard papers rustling on his end. "But I wanted you to know first, Isla. You deserve this opportunity."
They exchanged a few more pleasantries before ending the call. Isla stood in the hallway for a long moment, phone still clutched in her hand, trying to process what had just happened.
A promotion. Miami. Home.
Except when had she started thinking of Duluth as home?
She took a breath, squared her shoulders, and pushed back into her office. James looked up immediately, his blue eyes searching her face with the perceptiveness that made him such a good investigator.
"Everything okay?" he asked.
"Fine." The lie came easily, practiced. "Just a follow-up from an old case."
If James suspected otherwise, he didn't press. He simply nodded and took another bite of his sandwich, giving her space to settle back at her desk.
Isla unwrapped the remainder of her turkey on rye, but her appetite had vanished. She forced herself to eat anyway, mechanically chewing while her mind raced.
She couldn't tell him. Not yet. Not until she'd figured out what she actually wanted.
The afternoon passed in a blur of reports and phone calls. More sightings, more dead ends. The Marshals were coordinating with Canadian authorities now, expanding the search grid. Border patrol had Brune's photo at every crossing point. It was only a matter of time.
Except Isla couldn't shake the feeling that they were looking in all the wrong places.
By five o'clock, James started packing up his things, shooting her meaningful looks that she pretended not to notice.
"Emma has a piano recital tonight," he said finally. "I need to leave by five-thirty."
"Go." Isla waved him off. "I'll be here if anything breaks."
"Isla—"
"I'll leave at a reasonable hour," she promised, though they both knew it was a lie. "Tell Emma to knock 'em dead."
James hesitated at the door, looking like he wanted to say something more. Then he simply nodded and left, his footsteps fading down the hallway.
Isla worked until seven, then eight. The office gradually emptied around her until she was alone with the hum of fluorescent lights and the glow of her computer screen. She pulled up the map one more time, studying the scatter of red pins representing Brune sightings.
Thunder Bay. Duluth. Superior. Ashland. They formed a loose circle around the western tip of Lake Superior, but there was no clear pattern, no logical progression.
Because he's not running, Isla thought. He's hiding. Somewhere close.
At eight-thirty, she finally admitted defeat for the day. She gathered her things, locked her office, and made her way down to the parking garage. The December air hit her like a physical force as she stepped outside—sharp, cold, smelling of snow that hadn't quite fallen yet.
Her apartment was only a fifteen-minute drive, a small one-bedroom in a converted warehouse building near the waterfront. She'd chosen it partly for the location—close to the office and the docks—and partly because it reminded her of her place in Miami, back when everything had seemed possible.
The building's lobby was quiet, just the night security guard offering a friendly wave as she passed. Isla rode the elevator to the fourth floor, her footsteps echoing in the empty hallway as she approached her door.
Inside, the apartment was dark and cold. She'd forgotten to adjust the thermostat again before leaving that morning. Isla dropped her bag on the small table by the door, hung her blazer over a chair, and moved through the familiar space by muscle memory.
The apartment was spartan—functional furniture, minimal decoration. She'd never quite gotten around to making it feel like home, always telling herself this was temporary. Just until she could return to Miami, to the career she'd built, to the life she'd left behind.
Except now Miami was offering her exactly that, and all she could think about was James's blue eyes across her desk, the way he brought her coffee without being asked, the unspoken connection that had grown between them over three years of partnership.
Isla poured herself a glass of wine and moved to the window.
Four floors up, she had a decent view of Lake Superior stretching toward the horizon.
The water was dark under the clouded sky, restless with winter's approach.
Somewhere out there, Robert Brune was hiding.
Listening for the lake's whispers. Planning his next move.
Maybe he was even watching her.
And here she was, contemplating abandoning the case—abandoning everything—for a promotion in Miami.
Her phone rang, and this time when she saw the name on the screen, she felt only relief.
"Dr. Delgado."
"Isla." Her mentor's warm voice filled her ear, steady and familiar as a lighthouse. "I heard you got a call from Samuel today."
She shouldn't have been surprised that he knew. Delgado still had connections throughout the Bureau, still heard the gossip and the backroom discussions even in his semi-retirement.
"News travels fast," she said.
"It does when it's about one of my best students." A pause. "He offered you supervisory?"
"Yes."
"And you're conflicted."
It wasn't a question. Delgado had always been able to read her better than anyone except maybe Claire. Isla sank onto her couch, curling her legs beneath her.