Chapter 3 #3
Silas looked like he wanted to refuse, but Holloway spoke first. “Good. Coordinate with Detective Kane on access. Anything else we need to cover?”
“The press,” Harper said. “They’re going to be all over this once word gets out about the ritualistic nature of the murder. We need a unified message. No details about the symbols, the positioning, or the connection to the Nevada cases.”
“Agreed,” Holloway said. “I’ll handle press relations. You two focus on the investigation.” He stood. “Silas, Agent Sinclair, I expect you to work together like professionals. Put aside personal feelings and catch this killer. Can you do that?”
“Yes, sir,” they said in unison.
Holloway looked between them, clearly not entirely convinced. “I’ll be checking in regularly. Daily briefings at six p.m. unless something breaks earlier.” He gathered his laptop. “And for what it’s worth, I think you’re both excellent at what you do. Try to remember you’re on the same team.”
After he left, Harper and Silas sat in awkward silence. The crime scene photos were still projected on the wall—Melissa Wagoner’s body, the symbols, the careful positioning.
Finally, Silas spoke. “Victim’s apartment is in the Riverside complex, about ten minutes from here. We should head over now before the scene gets compromised.”
“Okay.”
He stood, moving toward the door. Harper gathered her things and followed. In the hallway, he walked fast enough that she had to hurry to keep up.
“Detective Kane—”
“It’s Silas.” He didn’t look at her. “If we’re going to work together, you might as well use my first name.”
“Okay. Silas.” Harper caught up to him at the stairs. “Look, I know you don’t want me here—”
“You’re right. I don’t.” He stopped on the landing, finally looking at her directly. His eyes were cold. “I don’t trust agents who break protocol. I don’t trust people who make reckless calls. And I especially don’t trust anyone whose mistakes get other people killed.”
The words stung, but Harper forced herself to hold his gaze. “Then it’s a good thing you don’t have to trust me. You just have to work with me.”
“Yeah. Captain made that clear.” Silas started down the stairs again.
“But understand this, Sinclair—if you make one move I don’t like, if you ignore my authority for even a second, if you do anything that puts this case or anyone else at risk, I will have you removed so fast your head will spin.
I don’t care what Holloway says. This is my case, my jurisdiction, and my rules. ”
“Fine by me.”
They reached the parking lot. Silas headed toward an unmarked sedan, black and anonymous. “We’ll take my car.”
Harper followed him, climbing into the passenger seat. The interior smelled like coffee and leather. The center console was neat—just a coffee cup in the holder, a notepad, a phone charger. No personal items. No photos. Nothing that revealed anything about who Silas Kane was outside of being a cop.
He drove in silence, navigating the morning traffic with practiced ease.
Harper stared out the window, watching Blackridge slide past. It was a pretty city—mountains in the distance, the river running through downtown, tree-lined streets with local shops.
The kind of place people moved to for a quieter life.
The kind of place where a serial killer could hide in plain sight.
“Tell me about the Nevada cases,” Silas said abruptly. “Everything. Start to finish.”
Harper took a breath and began talking. She told him about Sarah Henderson, found in that parking garage with symbols carved into her skin. About the eight-month investigation, the dead ends, the growing frustration. About Jessica Paul and Pamela Gibson, each murder more refined than the last.
She told him about the profile she’d built—organized offender, likely male, intelligent, patient. Someone who blended in. Someone who could hunt without drawing attention.
She told him about the year she’d spent chasing leads that went nowhere. About the way the case had consumed her, driven her, haunted her.
And she told him how the killer had simply stopped, vanishing as if he’d never existed, leaving three families without answers and Harper with a case that would never close.
Silas listened without interrupting. When she finished, he was quiet for a long moment.
“You think he moved here,” he finally said. “To Blackridge specifically.”
“I think it’s possible. The cooling-off period was five years. That’s long enough to relocate, establish a life, plan his next move.” Harper paused. “The question is whether he knew I was here.”
Silas glanced at her sharply. “You think he followed you?”
“I don’t know. It seems crazy, but...” Harper shrugged. “The timing feels too convenient. I’ve been in Blackridge for two months. He kills for the first time in five years. That’s either coincidence or it’s not.”
“Serial killers don’t follow FBI agents around.”
“Usually not,” she agreed. “But we’re not dealing with a garden variety killer.
” Harper looked at the crime scene photo she’d saved on her phone.
“Those symbols mean something. The positioning means something. Everything he does is deliberate. What if part of his fantasy involves me? The investigator who couldn’t catch him? ”
Silas’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “That’s a theory.”
“It’s just speculation right now. But it’s worth considering.”
They pulled into the Riverside apartment complex—a cluster of modern buildings overlooking the river. Crime scene tape marked one unit on the second floor. Two patrol cars sat in the parking lot.
Silas killed the engine and looked at her. “Ground rules. You don’t touch anything. You observe, you advise, but I’m lead on scene. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“And Sinclair?” His voice was quieter now, almost reluctant.
“What you said in there, about living with it every day. I get that. I do. But this case is too important for me to let empathy override judgment. So I’m going to be hard on you.
I’m going to question your calls. And I’m not going to cut you slack because you’re dealing with trauma. ”
Harper met his eyes and admitted honestly, “I wouldn’t want you to.”
Something flickered in his expression—surprise, maybe, or respect. Then the mask came back down and he was out of the car, moving toward the crime scene.
Harper followed, her heart pounding. This was it. This was where the real work began. Where she’d have to prove she could still do this job. Where she’d have to show Silas Kane—and herself—that she wasn’t broken beyond repair.
Melissa Wagoner’s apartment waited. And somewhere in that space would be clues. Patterns. Evidence that would help them understand who’d taken her life and why.
Harper pulled on latex gloves and stepped through the door.
Time to hunt.