Chapter 8 #2
At the station, the case board had grown. Photos of six victims—three from Nevada, three from Blackridge. All young women with dark hair and similar features. All looking, Silas could now see clearly, like Harper.
How had they missed it? How had Harper investigated the Nevada cases for a year without recognizing she was looking at versions of herself?
“Because she was focused on catching him, not on being his target,” Silas muttered to himself.
“Talking to yourself, Kane?” Morris appeared with a coffee and a file folder. “That’s the first sign of madness, you know.”
“Little late for that.” Silas took the folder. “What’ve you got?”
“Background checks on everyone who appears in the gym security footage. Staff, members, anyone with regular access to Summit Fitness.” Morris pointed to the board.
“Ninety-two people total. We’ve cleared most of them—wrong age, wrong build, solid alibis.
But there are fifteen we’re still looking at. ”
“Narrow it further. Focus on anyone who also appears near The Daily Grind. Our guy was watching victims at both locations.”
“Already on it. Cross-referencing now.”
Harper appeared, looking professional in dark slacks and a blazer, her hair pulled back. She carried her own coffee and a determined expression that Silas was starting to recognize. She had a plan, and he wasn’t going to like it.
“I’ve been thinking about the victimology,” Harper said, joining them at the board. “All the women worked out at gyms, drank specialty coffee, maintained healthy lifestyles. They were visible, social, part of their communities. Not isolated or vulnerable in the traditional sense.”
“So the killer doesn’t target vulnerability,” Silas said. “He targets visibility. Women who are out in the world, living their lives, not hiding.”
“Like me.” Harper’s voice was steady. “I’ve been going to The Daily Grind almost every morning since I moved here. I’m visible, predictable. He knows my routine.”
Silas’s stomach dropped. “Harper—”
“Which means we can use my routine to draw him out. I keep doing what I’ve been doing—going to coffee shops, going to the gym if I joined one, maintaining visibility. You stay close but not obvious. We wait for him to make contact.”
“That’s what I was afraid you’d suggest,” Silas said flatly. “And the answer is still no.”
“Silas,” she sighed, “be reasonable—”
“I am being reasonable,” he argued, ready to dig his heels in on this. “You’re suggesting we dangle you in front of a serial killer who’s spent five years obsessing over you, who’s killed six women—probably more—as practice for taking you. That’s not reasonable. That’s suicidal.”
Harper’s jaw set in that stubborn line. “Then what do you suggest? We sit here and wait for the DNA to magically match someone? Wait for him to get sloppy enough to leave better evidence? Wait for him to kill more women?”
“We work the investigation. Follow the leads we have.” Silas gestured at the board, ignoring her attitude.
“Morris is narrowing down suspects. We’re analyzing the fiber evidence.
We’re building a timeline of the killer’s movements.
This is how police work happens—methodically, carefully, by following the evidence.
” He shouldn’t need to tell her that, but maybe she needed the reminder.
“And while we’re being methodical, he’s planning his next move.
” Harper stepped closer, lowering her voice so only Silas could hear, and her dark eyes held his steadfast. “You know I’m right.
You know the best way to catch him is to give him what he wants—access to me, under controlled conditions.
You just don’t want to admit it because you’re trying to protect me. ”
His teeth clenched. She was right. Silas knew she was right. But the thought of using Harper as bait, of deliberately putting her in danger, made his chest tighten with something that felt uncomfortably like panic.
He couldn’t lose another person on his watch. Couldn’t watch another partner walk into danger and not come back. The memories of Afghanistan—Williams, Johnson, Brown, all dead because he’d made a call that went wrong—were too close to the surface.
“I can’t,” Silas said quietly. “I can’t watch you put yourself in danger. I can’t—” He stopped, aware Morris was nearby, aware they had an audience. “We’ll discuss this later. Privately.”
Harper’s expression softened slightly. “Okay. Later.”
They spent the morning reviewing evidence, interviewing the fifteen potential suspects Morris had flagged. Most had solid alibis—working during the murders, out of town, accounted for. By noon, they were down to eight possibles. By three p.m., five.
“Getting closer,” Morris said. “One of these guys has to be our killer.”
But Silas wasn’t so sure. Something felt off about the suspects. They fit the profile on paper—right age, right build, access to the victims. But none of them felt right. None of them had that spark of obsession, that intensity the killer would need to sustain a five-year fixation.
“We’re missing something,” Silas said, staring at the board.
“What?” Harper asked from a chair behind the desk.
“I don’t know. But none of these guys feel like the killer. They’re too...” He searched for the word. “Normal. Our killer isn’t normal. He’s intelligent, organized, patient. He’s spent five years planning this. He’s not going to be some gym rat with a criminal record.”
“So who is he?” The same frustration he felt was evident in her voice too.
“Someone we haven’t considered yet. Someone who’s been hiding in plain sight.
” Silas turned to Morris, and the younger detective sat up straighter, ready to receive his command.
“Expand the search. Look at everyone connected to the victims—not just gym members. Look at delivery drivers, utility workers, anyone who might have had legitimate access to observe them without drawing attention.”
“That’s hundreds of people—”
“Then we look at hundreds of people.” Silas’s voice was hard, cutting off his protest. “We’re missing him because he’s smarter than we’re giving him credit for. So we think smarter.”
By six p.m., they were drowning in data. Silas’s eyes burned from staring at screens. His head pounded. And they were no closer to identifying the killer than they’d been that morning.
“We should call it,” Harper said, leaning back in the chair to stretch. “Get some food, clear our heads, come back fresh tomorrow.”
Silas wanted to argue, wanted to keep working until they found something. But Harper was right. They were exhausted, running on fumes. They’d think better after rest.
“Okay. Let’s go.”
They stopped for Thai food on the way back to the cabin, eating in relative silence in Silas’s car. The rain had finally stopped, leaving the world washed clean and gleaming. Harper picked at her pad thai without much enthusiasm.
“You’re worried,” Silas observed.
“He’s going to kill again. Tonight, tomorrow night, soon. And we’re no closer to stopping him.” Harper set down her food. “How many more women have to die, Silas?”
He cast a look at the night that stretched out in front of them. “None, if I can help it.”
“But you can’t help it by yourself. You need me.” She turned to face him. “You need me to be the bait, to draw him out. That’s the only way to end this before more people die.”
“Harper—”
“I’m not asking for permission. I’m telling you what I’m going to do.” Her voice was calm, determined. “Tomorrow, I’m going to The Daily Grind at my usual time. I’m going to be visible. I’m going to give him the opportunity he’s waiting for.”
“No—”
“And you can either back me up, be there to protect me if he makes a move, or I can do it alone.” She met his eyes. “Your choice.”
Silas felt anger flare, hot and sharp. “That’s not fair.”
“Neither is letting more women die when we could stop him.” Harper’s expression softened.
“I know you’re scared. I know you’re worried about failing, about something going wrong, about losing someone else.
I get that, Silas. I really do. But this is the job.
This is what we signed up for when we became cops and agents. Sometimes, we have to take risks.”
They’d been over this too many times. He was getting tired of hearing himself repeat it. “Calculated risks. Strategic risks. Not ‘walk out and dare a serial killer to attack you’ risks.”
“It’ll be calculated. It’ll be strategic. You’ll be there. Backup will be there. We’ll control the environment as much as possible.” Harper reached over, took his hand, imploring him with her eyes. “But we have to do something. We can’t just sit here waiting for him to make the next move.”
Silas stared at their joined hands. This was becoming a habit—reaching for each other, connecting physically when words weren’t enough. He should pull away. Should maintain boundaries. Should remember that getting close to people got them killed.
But Harper’s hand was warm and steady in his, and he found he didn’t want to let go.
Finally, he cleared his throat. “If we do this—and I’m not saying yes—but if we do this, we do it my way,” Silas said. “Full tactical support. Undercover officers in the coffee shop. Surveillance on every entrance and exit. You wear a wire. You don’t go anywhere without me in visual range.”
“Agreed.”
“And if at any point I think it’s too dangerous, we pull the plug. No arguments.”
“Silas—”
“No arguments,” he repeated firmly. “That’s non-negotiable. You want me to let you put yourself in danger, you have to trust me to pull you out if things go sideways.”
Harper nodded slowly. “Okay. Deal.”
They finished the drive to the cabin in silence. Inside, they moved through the evening routine that was becoming familiar—Harper made tea, Silas checked the perimeter, they settled in the living room with laptops and case files, working side by side.
Comfortable. Domestic. As if they’d been doing this for years instead of days.