Chapter 6
Silas picked Harper up at exactly seven a.m., coffee in hand—black for him, vanilla latte for her. He’d asked Morris last night what she drank, claiming it was relevant to the case. Morris had given him a look that said he wasn’t buying it, but he’d provided the information anyway.
Harper climbed into the passenger seat looking like she’d slept about as well as he had—which was to say, not at all. Dark circles under her eyes, hair pulled back in a hasty ponytail, but her eyes were sharp and focused.
“Thanks,” she said, taking the coffee. “You didn’t have to.”
“Consider it a peace offering for being an asshole yesterday.”
She blinked at him over the rim of her cup. “Are you...apologizing?”
“Don’t get used to it,” Silas said gruffly, then pulled out of the cabin’s driveway, navigating the winding forest road. “Morris called this morning. He found something interesting in the victims’ backgrounds.”
“What kind of something?”
“Both Melissa Wagoner and Amy Thorne were members at the same gym. Summit Fitness on the west side. And they both frequented the same coffee shop—The Daily Grind, where Melissa worked.”
Harper sat up straighter. “That’s his hunting ground. He’s not finding them randomly. He’s going to places where he knows his victim type congregates. Watching them. Learning their routines.”
“That’s what I thought.” Silas turned onto the main road. “We’re heading to Summit Fitness now. They open at six, so the morning crowd should be there. I want to talk to the staff, see if anyone noticed someone paying unusual attention to young women matching our victim profile.”
“We should also pull their security footage. If he’s been watching them there, he might be on camera.”
“Already requested it. Manager’s pulling the last month of footage.” Silas glanced at her. “How was the drive back last night? Any problems?”
“No. Quiet. Dark.” Harper wrapped her hands around the coffee cup, soaking in its warmth. He turned up the blowers a couple notches. “Thanks for making sure I texted you. I know I’m not your responsibility—”
“You’re my partner on this case. That makes you my responsibility.” The words came out more forceful than he intended. “Whether I trust your judgment or not, I’m not letting a serial killer get to you on my watch.”
“Partner,” Harper repeated softly. “You keep using that word.”
“Yeah, well. Captain’s orders, remember?
” But even as he said it, Silas knew it was more than that now.
Something had shifted last night at the diner.
He still didn’t trust her—not completely—but he was starting to understand her.
And understanding was the first step toward something he’d sworn he wouldn’t feel again.
Connection.
Summit Fitness was a modern facility with floor-to-ceiling windows and enough equipment to outfit a small army.
At seven-thirty a.m., it was packed with people getting their workouts in before heading to jobs.
Silas scanned the crowd automatically, noting exits, identifying potential threats, cataloging faces.
Old habits from Afghanistan. They’d saved his life more than once overseas. Now they just made him exhausting to be around.
The manager was a woman named Christine Valdez—mid-thirties, athletic build, with the kind of professional demeanor that suggested she ran a tight ship. She met them in her office, a small space overlooking the main workout floor.
“Detective Kane, Agent Sinclair.” She shook their hands. “I pulled the footage like you asked. I also went through our membership records. Both victims were members for about a year. Melissa came in three times a week, usually in the evenings. Amy was here almost every morning before work.”
“Different schedules,” Harper noted. “So if the killer was watching them both, he’d have to be here at varying times. Morning and evening.”
“Or he works here,” Silas suggested.
Christine’s face paled. “You think one of my staff—”
“We’re not ruling anything out,” Silas cut her off before she could get carried away or draw attention. “I’ll need a list of all employees, plus any contractors or vendors who have regular access to the facility.”
“Of course. I’ll get that for you right away.”
They spent the next two hours reviewing security footage.
Silas sat next to Harper in the small office, their shoulders almost touching, both of them scanning screens for anything unusual.
The proximity was oddly comfortable. He’d expected to feel claustrophobic working this close with someone, but Harper had a way of being present without being intrusive.
She didn’t fill silences with unnecessary chatter.
Just worked quietly, efficiently, occasionally pointing out something on screen.
“There,” Harper said, pausing the footage. “That’s Melissa. See her on the treadmill?”
Silas leaned closer. Melissa Wagoner, alive and healthy, running on a treadmill near the window. She had earbuds in, was focused on her workout. Nothing unusual.
“Keep watching,” Harper said, advancing the footage frame by frame.
In the background, barely visible in the mirror reflection, was a man. Average height, dark hoodie, positioned at a weight machine where he had a direct line of sight to Melissa. He wasn’t working out—just sitting there, watching.
“Son of a bitch,” Silas breathed. “Can you zoom in?”
Harper tried, but the resolution was too poor. The man’s face was hidden by the hoodie, his features indistinct. But his posture, his positioning—it was deliberate. He was watching Melissa.
“What’s the timestamp?” Harper asked.
“Three weeks ago. Tuesday evening.” Silas made notes. “Let’s scan through other dates when Melissa was here. See if our mystery man shows up again.”
He did. Over the next hour, they found him in the background of footage from multiple days. Always in a hoodie. Always positioned where he could watch Melissa without being obvious. Never actually working out, just...observing.
“He’s patient,” Harper said. “Disciplined. He comes here specifically to watch her, but he doesn’t approach. Doesn’t draw attention. Just learns her routine.”
“Now check Amy Thorne’s footage,” Silas said, pulling up files from early-morning sessions.
The same man appeared in Amy’s footage too. Different hoodie—gray instead of black—but the same build, the same watching posture. He’d been here in the mornings when Amy worked out, in the evenings when Melissa worked out.
“That’s dedication,” Silas said. “He’s restructuring his whole schedule around watching these women.”
“Or he doesn’t have a regular job. He has the freedom to be here whenever he wants.
” Harper leaned back, rubbing her eyes, displaying the same exhaustion he felt.
“Can we get stills of him? Even with the poor quality, maybe we can identify something. Gait analysis, body language, anything that might help us narrow down suspects.”
“I’ll have the tech team work on it.” Silas saved the relevant footage clips. “But we’re not going to get a facial ID from this. He’s too careful.”
“Then we look at gym memberships. Cross-reference with the employee list. Someone here knows this guy, even if they don’t realize it.”
They spent another hour interviewing staff members, showing them the fuzzy images of hoodie man.
No one recognized him. Or if they did, they weren’t saying.
Silas got the sense that people at gyms didn’t really pay attention to each other.
Everyone was focused on their own workouts, their own bodies, their own goals.
The perfect place for a predator to hunt.
By noon, they’d exhausted the leads at Summit Fitness. Silas grabbed lunch from a food truck—tacos for him, a salad for Harper that she picked at without much enthusiasm—and they ate in his car while reviewing notes.
“The Daily Grind is next,” Harper said. “If he’s been watching both victims, he probably went there too.”
“We’ll hit it this afternoon. But first—” Silas pulled up a file on his laptop. “Morris found something interesting in the missing persons database. Remember those four women we flagged last night?”
“The ones who disappeared over the past three years?”
“Yeah. Morris dug deeper. All four of them had gym memberships. Two at Summit Fitness, one at a gym in Portland, one in Eugene. And all four frequented local coffee shops regularly.”
Harper set down her salad, her eyes alight with recognition. “That’s his pattern. He doesn’t just choose victims based on appearance. He chooses them based on lifestyle. Women who work out, who are health-conscious, who have predictable routines. Women he can watch without being noticed.”
“Which means there might be more victims. Women who fit the profile and disappeared but weren’t connected because they vanished in different cities.” Silas’s stomach churned. “We could be looking at a dozen victims or more.”
“We need to expand the search. Look at gym memberships across the region, cross-reference with missing persons, see how many women match the pattern.” Harper’s voice was steady, but Silas could see the weight settling on her shoulders. “This is bigger than we thought.”
“Yeah.” Daunting is what it was, and he had no idea how the hell they were going to solve it, but they weren’t going to stop until they did. Silas started the engine. “Let’s hit The Daily Grind. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find something that actually leads us to this bastard.”
The hipster coffee shop was located in downtown Blackridge—exposed brick, vintage furniture, the kind of place where everything cost seven dollars and came with foam art. It was busy with the lunch crowd, people on laptops and phones, the espresso machine hissing constantly.
The manager was a guy named Trevor—early thirties, beard, septum piercing, the kind of person who probably had strong opinions about coffee bean origins. His eyes were red-rimmed when they arrived, and Silas realized he’d probably been crying.