Chapter 1 #2
“Because I worked the case. I’ve been hunting this bastard for five years, and he just turned up in my backyard.” Harper wrenched her arm free. “So you can either work with me or waste time, Detective. But that woman on your floor? She’s not his last. He’s just getting started again.”
Something flickered in Silas ‘s expression—calculation, maybe, or recognition. “Harper Sinclair,” he said slowly. “The profiler.”
The way he said it made her skin prickle. There was knowledge there. The wrong kind.
“Yes,” she said carefully.
“The profiler whose partner died six months ago.” His voice was colder now. “The one who made the call that got him killed.”
The words hit like a physical blow. Harper felt her face go numb, her chest tighten. Of course he knew. Everyone knew. The FBI’s failure had been splashed across every news outlet. Agent Michael Ward killed in botched operation. Questions raised about lead profiler’s judgment.
“That’s not—” she started.
“I read the report,” Silas cut her off. “You ignored protocol. Went in without backup. Your partner followed you and died for it.” He stepped closer, and now his expression was pure contempt. “And you think I’m going to let someone with that kind of judgment anywhere near my case? My victim?”
Harper’s hands curled into fists at her sides. She wanted to scream at him, to explain that it wasn’t that simple, that Michael had made his own choices, that she lived with the guilt every second of every day. But she’d learned that explanations didn’t matter. People had made up their minds.
“Fine,” she said through gritted teeth. “Enjoy solving your case alone. But when the body count rises—and it will—remember that you had help and turned it down.”
She spun on her heel and stalked toward the exit.
“Agent Sinclair.”
She didn’t stop.
“The FBI is sending a consultant liaison,” Silas called after her. “Someone who apparently thinks we need help. When they arrive, I’ll be sure to tell them your professional opinion isn’t welcome here either.”
Harper froze.
Oh no.
Oh no.
She turned slowly. “When’s the consultant arriving?”
“Later today, apparently. Some hotshot profiler your SAC thinks can solve this.” Silas’s smile was sharp and humorless. “Why? Worried about the competition?”
Harper’s stomach dropped to somewhere around her feet. Ellery, that absolute bastard. He’d played her. Called her about the case, let her go to the scene, knowing full well that she was the consultant he’d already arranged.
“I’m the consultant,” she said flatly.
Silas’s expression went blank. Then understanding dawned, followed immediately by rage. “Like hell you are.”
“Ellery—SAC Ellery—is my former supervisor. He’s the one coordinating FBI assistance.” Harper felt a perverse satisfaction in watching Silas’s face cycle through emotions. “Apparently, someone at your department requested federal help. The feds said yes. And I’m who they sent.”
“No.” Silas shook his head. “Absolutely not. I’ll call Seattle, I’ll call DC, I’ll call the goddamn director if I have to—”
“You requested a profiler with specific experience in ritualistic homicides,” Harper interrupted.
“That’s me. I have more expertise in this particular killer than anyone else in the Bureau.
So unless you want to explain to your captain why you turned down the best chance at catching this guy because of personal feelings... ”
She let the sentence hang.
Silas stared at her with undisguised loathing. A muscle ticked in his jaw. She could practically see him running through scenarios, calculating whether he could find a way out of this.
Finally, he spoke, each word clipped and precise. “If you contaminate my scene, ignore my authority, or make one wrong call that puts anyone at risk, I will have you yanked off this case so fast you’ll get whiplash. Are we clear?”
“Crystal,” Harper said, matching his tone.
“The FBI might have sent you, but this is my investigation. My rules. My jurisdiction. You’re a consultant. That means you consult. You don’t touch evidence, you don’t interview witnesses without me present, and you sure as hell don’t go rogue.”
“Understood.”
“I mean it, Sinclair.” He moved closer, invading her space the way he had earlier, but this time there was something else in his expression.
Something darker. “I know what happened to Michael Ward. I know you made a judgment call that got him killed. That tells me everything I need to know about your decision-making. So you’ll forgive me if I don’t trust you worth a damn. ”
The words were designed to wound, and they did. But Harper had spent six months learning how to take emotional hits. She lifted her chin and met his eyes.
“You don’t have to trust me, Detective Kane. You just have to work with me. And lucky for both of us, I’m very good at working with people who hate me.” She smiled without humor. “I’ve had lots of practice lately.”
A long moment passed. The crime scene techs had stopped working, watching the standoff with undisguised interest. The wind whistled through the loading dock, carrying the scent of blood and decay.
Silas broke eye contact first. “Be at the station at oh-eight-hundred. Captain Holloway will want to meet you. We’ll review the case file and establish ground rules.” He paused. “And Sinclair? Next time you show up at my crime scene without authorization, I’ll have you arrested. FBI or not.”
“Looking forward to it,” Harper said sweetly.
She turned and walked away, keeping her spine straight and her stride confident until she reached her SUV. Only when she was inside with the door closed did she let herself sag against the seat.
Her hands were shaking.
She’d come to Blackridge to hide, to heal, to escape the job that had cost her everything. And now she was diving back into the darkness—partnered with a man who despised her, hunting a killer who’d haunted her for five years.
Harper started the engine and pulled out of the lot. In her rearview mirror, she could see Silas Kane standing in the loading dock entrance, silhouetted against the work lights, watching her go.
This was going to be a disaster.
But as she drove through the pre-dawn streets toward her empty cabin, Harper felt something she hadn’t felt in six months: purpose. The nightmare that woke her every night was Michael’s death, her failure. But this—this case—was something she could actually do something about.
Even if it meant working with Detective Silas Kane and his razor-sharp contempt.
Even if it meant facing her demons all over again.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Ellery: Play nice with the locals.
Harper’s laugh was bitter. “Too late for that,” she muttered, and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat.
The sky was starting to lighten, purple giving way to gray. Another sleepless night nearly over. Another day beginning.
And in just four hours, she’d be walking into Blackridge PD to officially start a partnership with a man who’d already decided she was responsible for her partner’s death.
Harper gripped the steering wheel tighter and pressed the accelerator.
She’d faced worse. She’d survived worse.
She could survive Silas Kane.
Probably.