Chapter 4 #2
“No, it’s not. Most serial killers have a cooling-off period between kills—weeks, months, sometimes years.
It lets them process what they’ve done, relive the fantasy, build up to the next one.
” Harper’s voice was clinical, professional.
“Two in three days suggests he’s either spiraling out of control, or this was always his plan.
A compressed timeline for a specific reason. ”
“What reason?”
“Maybe he knows we’re hunting him. Maybe he’s running out of time. Maybe he’s building to something bigger.” She paused. “Or maybe he found who he’s really been looking for, and these kills are preparation.”
Silas’s hands tightened on the wheel. “You.”
“It’s possible.”
“You said you didn’t think he followed you here—”
“I said I didn’t know. I still don’t.” Harper’s voice was steady, but Silas could hear the undercurrent of tension.
“But we can’t ignore the timing. I’ve been in Blackridge two months.
He kills for the first time in five years.
Now he’s accelerating. That could be coincidence, or it could mean I’m relevant to his plan. ”
Silas wanted to tell her she was being paranoid. Wanted to dismiss the idea as the kind of egocentric thinking that got agents in trouble. But he’d learned to trust his instincts, and his instincts said she might be right.
Which meant Harper Sinclair wasn’t just a consultant on this case. She might be a target.
“If he is after you,” Silas said carefully, “you need protection.”
“I can handle myself.”
“Can you?” He glanced at her. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re a civilian on leave who’s walking into a situation where a serial killer might be fixated on you. That’s not handling yourself. That’s being reckless.”
Her jaw tightened and she growled out, “I’m aware of the risk.”
“Are you? Because in Chicago—”
“Don’t.” Her voice cut like a knife. “Don’t use Michael to make your point.”
Silas bit back his response. She was right. That was a low blow, even if it was valid. “Fine. But we’re establishing protocols. You don’t go anywhere alone. You stay in public places. And you carry a weapon at all times.”
“I’m not authorized to carry—”
“I’ll get you authorized.” Silas pulled into Riverside Park, where patrol cars and crime scene tape marked another scene of death. “Captain can fast-track it. Consider it done.”
He parked and killed the engine. Through the windshield, he could see the familiar chaos of a fresh crime scene. Officers establishing a perimeter. Crime scene techs suiting up. And in the center of it all, another body.
Another victim of a killer who was just getting started.
Harper reached for her door handle, but Silas stopped her with a hand on her arm. She looked at him, startled.
“If you see something that triggers you,” he said quietly, “tell me. Don’t try to push through it. Don’t try to be tough. Just tell me, and we’ll step away.”
“I’m fine—”
“Sinclair. Harper.” He waited until she met his eyes. “I’ve seen combat veterans have flashbacks. I’ve seen cops freeze up at crime scenes. There’s no shame in it. But I need to know you’ll tell me if you’re not okay, because I can’t have you going down in the middle of an active scene.”
She held his gaze for a long moment. Then she gave a single, sharp nod. “I’ll tell you.”
“Promise.” He held her gaze until she relented.
“I promise.”
Silas released her arm and climbed out of the car. The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of fresh-cut grass and something else—something copper-sweet that his brain automatically catalogued as blood.
They approached the crime scene, Silas flashing his badge at the uniform manning the perimeter. “Detective Kane and FBI Consultant Sinclair.”
The officer lifted the tape. “Second victim, Detective. Found by a jogger about an hour ago. She’s...well, you’ll see.”
They ducked under the tape and walked toward the center of activity. Crime scene techs parted to let them through. And then Silas saw her.
Young woman. Early twenties. Petite, dark-haired. Positioned exactly like Melissa Wagoner—arms above her head at that precise sixty-degree angle, head tilted left, throat exposed. And carved into her skin, those same impossible symbols.
“Jesus,” Silas breathed.
Next to him, Harper had gone very still. Her face was pale, her breathing shallow. Silas watched her carefully, ready to step in if she started to spiral.
But she didn’t. Instead, she crouched beside the body, studying it with that same intense focus she’d shown at Melissa’s apartment.
“Same positioning,” she said quietly. “Same symbols. Same victim type.” She pointed to the woman’s hands. “Look at her fingers. See the defensive wounds? She fought back more than Melissa did. He’s getting sloppier, or she was stronger.”
Silas crouched beside her, seeing what she saw. Scratches on the victim’s wrists. Bruising that suggested she’d struggled against restraints. “She fought.”
“Yes. Which means he’s not completely in control. He’s organized, methodical, but he’s also feeling pressure. The timeline is pushing him. He’s making mistakes.”
“That’s good for us.”
“Maybe.” Harper leaned closer, examining the cuts. “The symbols are identical to Melissa’s. Exactly identical. Which means he’s working from a template or a memory. He’s not improvising. He knows exactly what he wants to create.”
A crime scene tech approached—young woman, maybe late twenties, with red hair pulled back in a tight bun. “Detective Kane? We found her purse about twenty feet away. ID says she’s Amy Thorne, twenty-three, lives in the Westside apartments.”
Amy Thorne. Another name. Another life ended.
Silas stood, making notes. “TOD?”
“Preliminary estimate is between midnight and two a.m. ME will confirm.”
So Melissa Wagoner had been killed two nights ago. Amy Thorne last night. One victim per night. A pattern emerging.
“He’s hunting every night,” Harper said, echoing his thoughts. She’d stood too, was staring at Amy Thorne’s body with an expression Silas couldn’t quite read. “He’s accelerating. One victim per night. If the pattern holds...”
“There’ll be another one tonight,” Silas finished.
The realization settled over both of them like a weight. They didn’t have time to work the case methodically, to chase down every lead, to build a comprehensive profile. They had hours. Maybe less.
“We need to warn people,” Harper said. “Young women, early twenties, dark hair, petite build. They need to know there’s a predator hunting them.”
“Press conference,” Silas agreed grimly. “Holloway will have to do it. We can’t give details about the MO, but we can tell people to be careful, to travel in groups, to report anything suspicious.”
Harper nodded, but her attention was still on Amy Thorne. Silas watched her, saw the way her hands had started to shake slightly. The way her breathing had gotten faster.
“Sinclair.”
She didn’t respond.
“Harper.”
She looked at him, and her eyes were wrong. Too wide, too distant. Like she was seeing something else, somewhere else.
“I need—” She stopped, swallowed hard. “I need a minute.”
Silas took her arm, gentle but firm, and guided her away from the body. Away from the crime scene techs and the officers and anyone who might see an FBI consultant falling apart at an active scene.
They walked to the edge of the park, near a cluster of trees that provided cover from prying eyes. Harper was breathing fast now, her chest rising and falling in rapid succession. Her hands were shaking hard enough that she had to press them against her thighs.
“Sit,” Silas said, pointing to a bench.
“I’m fine—”
“Sit down.” His voice was firm, the same tone he’d used with his Rangers when they were spiraling. Command, not request.
Harper sat. Silas crouched in front of her, putting himself at eye level.
“Look at me,” he said. “Harper. Look at me.”
She raised her eyes to his, and he could see the panic there. The trauma bubbling up. Whatever was happening in her head right now, it wasn’t Riverside Park. It wasn’t this case.
It was Chicago. The warehouse. Michael Ward dying in an explosion while she watched.
“You’re having a panic attack,” Silas said calmly. “Your body thinks you’re in danger, but you’re not. You’re safe. You’re here with me, in Blackridge, at a crime scene. Not in Chicago. Not in that warehouse. Here.”
“I know—” Her voice cracked. “I know where I am, I just—”