Chapter 9 #2
Harper and Silas packed their laptops in silence, the weight of failure pressing down on both of them. Fifteen hours of surveillance. Fifteen hours that could have been spent actually investigating, following leads, doing something useful.
Instead, they’d drunk coffee and watched innocent people live their lives while somewhere out there, a killer was free.
The drive back to the cabin was tense and quiet. Harper stared out the window, watching streetlights blur past, her mind already racing ahead. What had they missed? How had the pattern been wrong? Where was the killer selecting his victims if not at the coffee shop?
“It’s not your fault,” Silas said into the silence.
“What?” She turned to look at him, her eyes adjusting to the darkness of the cab, the only source of light the steady glow of the dash and the intermittent flashes of streetlamps as they passed under them.
“Whatever you’re thinking right now—that you missed something, that you should have known, that this is your failure. It’s not.”
Harper’s throat tightened and she shook her head. “You don’t know what I’m thinking.”
“Yeah, I do. Because I’m thinking the same thing.” Silas kept his eyes on the road, his hands steady on the wheel. “We did everything right. The pattern was solid, the logic sound. He just didn’t show.”
“Or he saw us and stayed away.”
“Then we adapt. We find another approach.”
“While another woman dies.” Harper’s hands clenched in her lap. “Someone’s daughter, someone’s sister, someone’s friend is dying tonight, and we spent fifteen hours drinking cappuccinos.”
“Harper—”
“Don’t. Just...don’t.” She was already screaming inside. If she kept talking, she just might open her mouth and let it out.
They finished the drive in silence.
When they pulled up to the cabin, Harper was already reaching for the door handle, desperate to escape into the darkness and her own spiraling thoughts.
Then she saw it.
“Silas.”
He followed her gaze. There, taped to the front door, glowing white in the porch light, was an envelope.
Harper was out of the car before Silas cut the engine, weapon drawn, scanning the perimeter. The forest pressed close, dark and silent. Wind rustled through the pines. Nothing else moved.
“Clear,” Silas said, coming up behind her. His gun was out too, his body angled to shield her. “Stay behind me.”
They approached the door together, weapons raised. The envelope was standard white, sealed, with her name written in neat block letters across the front: HARPER.
“Don’t touch it,” Silas said. “Evidence.”
But Harper could see writing through the thin paper, could see the careful letters forming words she knew would gut her. Her hands shook as she pulled on latex gloves from her jacket pocket and carefully peeled the envelope from the door.
Inside was a single sheet of white paper, folded once.
She unfolded it.
Harper, Harper, Harper.
Did you really think you could trap me so easily? I saw your little stakeout—so obvious, so amateur. All those officers pretending to be customers, the surveillance vans parked outside. You insult my intelligence.
I’ve been watching you for FIVE YEARS. I know how you think. I’m always three steps ahead.
But since you tried to deceive me, someone has to pay the price. She’s screaming right now as I write this. Begging. Crying YOUR name. Every cut is your fault, Harper. You did this to her.
Sleep well.
— Your biggest admirer
The paper slipped from Harper’s nerveless fingers, fluttering to the porch floor.
“Harper?” Silas’s voice sounded distant, underwater. “Harper, look at me.”
She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. The words echoed in her head, over and over: Every cut is your fault. You did this to her.
“He was there,” she whispered. “At the coffee shop. Watching us.”
“We don’t know—”
“Yes, we do!” Harper spun to face him, and she could feel her control fracturing. “He saw the surveillance. He knew it was a trap. And now someone’s dying because of me.”
Silas grabbed her shoulders, forced her to look at him. “Listen to me. This is what he wants. He wants you to feel guilty, to blame yourself, to fall apart. Don’t give him that power.”
Her voice cracked as she spoke. “A woman is dying—”
“We don’t know that for certain. This could be psychological warfare.”
She stared into his blue eyes, begging for the comforting words she knew wouldn’t come. “You believe that?”
The pause before Silas answered told her everything. “No.”
Harper pulled away, wrapped her arms around herself against the night chill. Or maybe against the cold certainty settling in her chest. Another victim. Another death. Another woman who looked like her, dying because a monster had decided Harper was worth obsessing over.
“We need to call it in,” Silas said quietly. He pulled out his phone, but his free hand found hers and held tight.
Harper listened as Silas called Holloway, explained the situation in calm, professional terms that made it sound manageable when it wasn’t. When he hung up, they stood together on the porch in silence, staring at the note lying on the wooden boards.
“He was there,” Harper said again. “In the coffee shop. We looked right at him and didn’t see him.”
“Or he was watching from outside. From a car, from across the street. We don’t know how he operates yet.”
“He’s always three steps ahead.” Harper’s voice was hollow. “He said it himself. We’re never going to catch him.” The sinking realization threatened to pull her under, drown her.
“Yes, we are.” Silas turned her to face him, his hands gentle but firm on her arms. “Harper, look at me. We’re going to catch him. This note proves he’s arrogant. Cocky. That’s a weakness we can exploit.”
“He hasn’t made a mistake yet.” Her voice sounded wooden even to her own ears. She’d never felt more hopeless, not even when Michael died.
“Then he’s due.” Silas’s fingers pressed into her arms until she finally met his eyes again, and he held her there until she finally took a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.
Harper wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe in justice and karma and the eventual triumph of good over evil. But she’d been doing this job too long to believe in fairy tales.
The note sat there on the porch, its neat handwriting mocking her. Every cut is your fault, Harper.
“Come on,” Silas said gently. “Let’s wait inside. The team will be here soon.”
They stepped into the cabin, leaving the note for forensics to process. While they waited, Harper went to the bathroom, splashed cold water on her face, stared at her reflection. She looked haunted. Broken. Exactly how the killer wanted her to look.
When she emerged, Silas had made tea—strong and sweet, pressing the warm mug into her hands with quiet insistence. “Drink.”
Harper obeyed, sinking onto the couch and the warmth of the mug between her hands. Silas sat beside her, close enough that their shoulders touched. Neither spoke. What was there to say?
Twenty minutes later, vehicles pulled up outside. Holloway, Morris, forensics. The cabin filled with people and activity, the bustle of evidence collection.
Harper answered questions on autopilot. No, she hadn’t touched the envelope with bare hands. Yes, she was certain it hadn’t been there when they left this morning. No, she didn’t recognize the handwriting.
“He’s playing with you,” Holloway said, his face grim. “Taunting you specifically. This is deeply personal for him.”
“He’s been obsessed with her for five years,” Silas added. “Since the Nevada case. This is his endgame.”
“Then we need protective custody—”
“No,” Harper cut in. “Absolutely not.”
“Harper—”
“I’m not hiding.” Harper’s voice was steady now, fueled by anger replacing despair. “I’m the bait he wants? Fine. Let’s use that. He’s watching me? Then we watch everyone watching me. We turn his obsession into his weakness.”
“That’s too dangerous—”
“We’re out of options, Captain.” Harper met Holloway’s eyes. Even in the soft yellow lamplight, his dark skin appeared ashen with worry. “A woman is dead or dying right now because of me. I’m not running. I’m ending this.”
Holloway studied her for a long moment, then nodded, his expression grim. “All right. But you don’t go anywhere alone. Kane is with you twenty-four seven until we catch this bastard.”
“I can live with that,” Silas said quietly.
The forensics team worked until nearly one a.m., bagging evidence, dusting for prints that wouldn’t be there. When everyone finally left, Harper and Silas were alone again.
The cabin felt too quiet. Too empty.
Harper couldn’t stop thinking about the note, about the woman screaming somewhere while they stood here safe and warm.
“You should try to sleep,” Silas said.
“Right. Because that’s happening,” she said with a snort.
“Harper—”
“Please.” She held up a hand. “Don’t tell me it’s going to be okay. Don’t tell me to rest.” Harper moved to the window, stared out at darkness. “I can’t fall apart right now. I need to stay angry. If I stop being angry, I’ll start feeling guilty, and if I feel guilty, I won’t be able to function.”
She felt Silas come up behind her, felt the warmth of his presence. His hand settled on her shoulder, gentle and grounding.
“We’ll find him,” he said softly. “Together.”
Harper closed her eyes, leaned back slightly into his touch. For just a moment, she let herself take comfort from his strength.
“Together,” she whispered.
Outside, the forest was dark and silent. Somewhere out there, a killer was watching. Waiting. Always three steps ahead.
But Harper Sinclair had spent five years hunting monsters. She’d failed before. She’d lost people before. She’d carried guilt that should have broken her.
But she was still standing. Still fighting.
And this time, she had Silas Kane at her side.
This time, she wasn’t alone.