Chapter 5 #2
“No.” The word came out sharper than she intended. “Ellery, I’m the only one who knows this killer. I’m the only one who’s been hunting him for five years. If you pull me now, more people will die.”
“If you stay, you might die.”
“I’ve been dying for six months,” Harper said quietly. “At least this way, my death would mean something.”
“Harper—”
“I’m staying on the case. Holloway wants me here. The local PD needs me. And I’m not leaving until this bastard is caught.” She softened her tone slightly. “I know you’re worried. I appreciate it. But I need to do this. I need to prove—” She stopped, aware that Silas was probably listening.
“Prove what?” Ellery asked gently.
She squeezed her eyes shut briefly then confessed, “That I can still do the job. That Michael’s death didn’t break me.” Harper took a breath. “Please, Ellery. Trust me on this. Let me finish what I started in Nevada.”
A long silence. Then, “I’ll fast-track the DNA. And I’ll send a protective detail—”
“No protective detail,” she said, shaking her head emphatically even though he couldn’t see it. “It’ll spook the killer. He’s watching. If he sees federal agents following me around, he’ll go to ground.”
“Then you work with Detective Kane. You don’t go anywhere alone. You stay armed at all times. And you check in with me twice a day. Deal?”
Harper blew out a resigned breath. “Deal.”
“And Harper? Be careful. This one’s personal for him. That makes him more dangerous.”
After she hung up, Harper found Silas watching her with an unreadable expression.
“Personal for him,” Silas repeated. “Ellery’s right. Killers who fixate on specific people are unpredictable. They don’t follow normal patterns.”
She met his intense stare with one of her own. “I know.”
“Which means we need to figure out why he’s fixated on you. What you represent to him. Because that’s the key to understanding his endgame.”
Harper nodded, but inside, her stomach was churning.
She’d been trying not to think about it.
About what it meant that a serial killer knew her name, had apparently followed her career, maybe even followed her to Blackridge.
It was the kind of thing that kept you up at night, made you jump at shadows, made you question every interaction you’d ever had.
Was he someone she’d interviewed in Nevada? Someone she’d passed on the street? Someone who’d watched her on the news coverage of the case?
Or was he someone closer? Someone who’d inserted himself into her life in ways she hadn’t recognized?
“We should head back to the station,” Silas said. “Review the case files, see if we can find any connection between you and the killer. Maybe there’s something in the Nevada investigation that’ll give us a clue.”
“Okay.”
They drove in silence, Harper staring out the window at Blackridge passing by.
It was a beautiful city, she thought. The kind of place where people came to feel safe, to raise families, to escape the chaos of bigger cities.
And now it had a serial killer stalking its streets, hunting young women who looked like her.
She’d brought this here. Not intentionally, but the result was the same. The killer had followed her to Blackridge, and people were dying because of it.
Everyone I love dies, she thought not for the first time. Everyone I touch gets hurt.
At the station, they settled into Silas’s office—a small, neat space with a desk, two filing cabinets, and walls covered in case boards. Harper noted the lack of personal touches. No photos, no decorations, nothing that revealed anything about her new partner beyond his job.
It reminded her of her own apartment in Chicago. Before Michael died, she’d had photos everywhere—friends, family, colleagues. After, she’d taken them all down. Packed them away. She couldn’t stand looking at smiling faces and remembering what it felt like to be happy.
Silas pulled out the Nevada case files—thick folders that Ellery had sent over digitally and Silas had printed out. “Let’s start from the beginning. Walk me through everything.”
So Harper did. She spread the files across his desk and talked him through the investigation.
Sarah Henderson’s murder in the parking garage.
The weeks spent chasing leads that went nowhere.
Jessica Paul’s body found in an abandoned warehouse.
The growing media attention, the press conferences, the tips that flooded in but never led anywhere solid.
Then Pamela Gibson, the third victim. Found in a park, just like Amy Thorne had been. Same symbols. Same positioning. Same precise violence.
“And then he stopped,” Harper said. “Just...vanished. We kept working the case for another year, but there was nothing. No more victims, no new leads, no witnesses. It was like he’d never existed.”
“Or like he’d left Nevada,” Silas suggested.
“Maybe. But where did he go? What did he do for five years? That’s a long time to go dormant.”
“Maybe he was in prison for something else. Maybe he moved overseas. Maybe he found some other outlet for his needs.” Silas leaned back in his chair, studying the crime scene photos with narrowed eyes.
“Or maybe he was still killing, just being more careful about it. Hiding bodies better. Choosing victims who wouldn’t be reported missing. ”
Harper had thought of that. Had spent sleepless nights wondering if there were women out there who’d died at this killer’s hands, women whose names she’d never know because their bodies had never been found.
“Let’s assume he stayed active,” Harper said. “How do we find victims who were never reported?”
“Missing persons databases. Cold cases. Jane Does.” Silas started typing on his computer. “I’ll put in a search query—young women, early twenties, dark hair, petite build. Deaths or disappearances in the western United States over the past five years that match the profile but were never solved.”
It was a long shot, but it was something. Harper watched him work, noting the efficiency of his movements, the focus in his expression. He was good at this. Really good. The kind of investigator who didn’t miss details, who followed every lead, who wouldn’t quit until he’d found answers.
She understood why Holloway had put him on this case. And she was starting to understand why he’d been so hostile to her. It wasn’t just about Michael, about her judgment. It was about control. About working alone because when you worked alone, nobody got hurt because of your mistakes.
She recognized that impulse. Had felt it herself over the past six months. The safest thing was to stay isolated, stay closed off, never let anyone close enough to be hurt by your failures.
But that wasn’t living. That was just surviving. And Harper was tired of just surviving.
Hours passed. The sun set outside Silas’s window, casting long shadows across the office. Harper’s eyes burned from staring at files, her back ached from hunching over the desk, and her head pounded from information overload.
“We should take a break,” Silas said finally, glancing at his watch. “It’s almost nine. When’s the last time you ate?”
Harper tried to remember. Breakfast? Had she eaten breakfast? “I’m not hungry.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I’m fine—”
“Sinclair.” He stood, stretching. Harper heard his spine pop. “You’re running on adrenaline and coffee. That’s not sustainable. We’ll think better if we eat something.”
He was right, even if she didn’t want to admit it. “Fine. But nothing heavy. My stomach’s been off since the morgue.”
“There’s a diner two blocks away. Good sandwiches, quiet enough we can talk without being overheard.” Silas grabbed his jacket. “Come on.”
The diner was exactly what Harper expected—vinyl booths, checkered floors, a waitress who looked like she’d been working there since the eighties. They slid into a corner booth, and Silas ordered a burger while Harper settled for soup and crackers.
“You’re thinking about the note,” Silas said after the waitress left.
Harper looked up, startled. “How did you know?”
“Because I’m thinking about it too.” He leaned forward, hands folded on the table, elbows spread out wide, his voice lowered as those pale-blue eyes pierced hers. “Why did you really come to Blackridge, Harper?”
The use of her first name caught her off guard and she instantly bristled. He’d been calling her Sinclair since they met. The shift felt significant, intimate in a way that made her uncomfortable.
“I told you. Mandatory leave. My therapist thought I needed somewhere quiet to process—”
“That’s the official reason. I’m asking about the real reason.” His pale-blue eyes were intense, searching. “Why Blackridge specifically? Why not stay in Chicago? Why not go home to...” He paused. “Where are you from?”
“Boston originally. But my family’s not...we’re not close.” Harper looked away. “I needed distance. From the FBI, from Chicago, from everything that reminded me of Michael. Blackridge was random. Small city, Pacific Northwest, far enough away that nobody would recognize me.”
“Except someone did recognize you,” Silas said quietly. “Someone knew you were here. Someone who’d been waiting five years for the right moment.”
Harper’s hands tightened around her water glass. “You think he’s been watching me. This whole time.”
“I think it’s possible. I think maybe he didn’t just follow your career. I think he became obsessed with you during the Nevada investigation. You were on TV, giving press conferences, talking about the case. He saw you. And he fixated.”
“That’s...” Harper trailed off. It made horrible sense.
Serial killers did sometimes fixate on the investigators hunting them.
Became obsessed with being seen, understood, caught.
“If that’s true, then he’s been planning this for five years.
Waiting for the right moment to resume killing. Waiting until I was...vulnerable.”