Chapter 5 #4
Protective. Even though he didn’t trust her, even though he’d made it clear he was only working with her because he had to, he was still protecting her.
Harper didn’t know what to do with that.
Back at the station, Silas’s computer had flagged several potential matches in the missing persons database. They settled back into the office, the easy moment from the diner dissolving into professional focus.
“Four possibles,” Silas said, pulling up the files. “All young women, early twenties, dark hair. Two disappeared in Oregon, one in Northern California, one in Washington. All within the past three years. None of them were ever found.”
Harper studied the photos. All four women looked like they could have been sisters to Melissa Wagoner and Amy Thorne. The same type, the same physical profile.
“That’s not coincidence,” she said. “That’s him. He’s been killing this whole time, just hiding the bodies better.”
“If that’s true, we’re not looking at five victims. We’re looking at eight. Maybe more.”
The weight of it settled on Harper’s shoulders. Eight women. Eight lives stolen. Eight families left with questions and grief and no closure.
“We need to find the bodies,” she said. “If we can find where he’s been hiding them, maybe we can figure out who he is.”
“That’s a lot of ground to cover. We’re talking three states, hundreds of miles—”
“He has a comfort zone. Somewhere he feels safe. Somewhere he knows well enough to hide bodies without being caught.” Harper pulled up a map on her laptop. “Let’s plot the disappearances. See if there’s a geographic pattern.”
They worked late into the night, marking locations, drawing connections, building a picture of a killer who’d been operating for years in the shadows. By the time Harper looked up, it was past midnight.
“We should call it,” Silas said, rubbing his eyes. “We’re both exhausted. We’ll think more clearly in the morning.”
“You go. I want to finish this—”
“Harper.” He gave her a look. “You need sleep. Real sleep, not passing out from exhaustion at your desk.”
“I don’t sleep much anymore.”
“Yeah, I noticed. The nightmares?”
She shouldn’t have been surprised he’d figured it out. He was observant, trained to read people. “Every night. Same dream. Michael dying while I watch.”
“PTSD is a bitch,” Silas said quietly, his gaze fixating on the wall but his mind going somewhere else. “I still get them too. My team in Afghanistan. Sometimes, I wake up and I can smell the smoke, hear the screaming. It never really goes away.”
“How do you deal with it?”
He blinked and was back from wherever he’d traveled to. “Work, mostly. Exercise. Staying busy enough that I don’t have time to think.” He shrugged. “And therapy, when I can make myself go. It helps. Sometimes.”
Harper nodded. She’d been to therapy too. Talked about Michael, about the guilt, about the nightmares. Her therapist said it would get better with time. Harper wasn’t convinced.
“Come on,” Silas said, standing. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
“I’m fine—”
“There’s a serial killer out there who’s fixated on you. You’re not going anywhere alone.” His tone left no room for argument.
So Harper packed up her things and let Silas escort her to the parking lot. The rain had stopped, leaving the streets wet and gleaming under the streetlights. Her SUV was one of only three vehicles left in the lot.
“Drive careful,” Silas said. “Text me when you get to the cabin so I know you made it.”
“You don’t have my number.”
He rattled it off from memory, surprising her. “I have everyone’s number who’s connected to this case. Text me. I mean it.”
Harper felt something warm bloom in her chest. “Okay,” she said softly. “I will.”
She climbed into her SUV, started the engine, and pulled out of the lot. In her rearview mirror, she could see Silas standing there, watching her go. Making sure she left safely.
The drive to the cabin took thirty minutes, winding through dark forest roads that suddenly felt more ominous than peaceful. Harper kept checking her mirrors, looking for headlights, for any sign that she was being followed.
Nothing. Just darkness and trees and her own paranoia.
At the cabin, she checked every lock twice, turned on all the lights, and texted Silas like he’d asked. Made it home safe.
His response came immediately. Good. Lock your doors. Set your alarm. I’ll pick you up at 7am.
You don’t have to—
7am. Don’t argue.
Harper smiled despite herself. Silas Kane was bossy, territorial, and made it clear he didn’t trust her. But he also made sure she got home safe, checked that she’d locked her doors, and planned to pick her up in the morning so she wouldn’t have to drive alone.
Complicated. He was complicated.
Harper changed into pajamas, washed her face, and climbed into bed. She didn’t expect to sleep, but exhaustion pulled her under almost immediately.
And this time, when the nightmares came, they weren’t about Michael.
They were about a killer with a knife, carving symbols into skin, whispering her name in the darkness.
I’m waiting, Harper. I’m waiting for you.