Chapter 10 #3
He shut her up with a quick, sharp look. “That includes you, Sinclair. You’ve been up for twenty-four hours straight. Go back to the cabin, sleep for four hours, then come back with a clear head.” His tone left no room for argument. “That’s an order.”
***
The drive back to the cabin was quiet. Harper stared out the window, watching the town wake up around them. People heading to work, kids waiting for school buses, a woman walking her dog. Normal life continuing while Harper’s world had blood and symbols carved into it.
“You’re not going to sleep, are you?” Silas asked as they pulled into the driveway.
“Probably not.”
He sighed heavily. No doubt, he wouldn’t sleep either. “Then at least eat something. Shower. Give your brain a break from the case for twenty minutes.”
Harper nodded numbly. Silas was right—she needed to maintain basic functionality or she’d be useless. But the thought of food made her stomach turn, and the idea of closing her eyes meant seeing Jennifer’s body every time she blinked.
Inside the cabin, Silas headed straight for the kitchen. “Sit. I’m making breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry,” she muttered as she slipped out of her shoes.
“Don’t care. You need protein and calories in your system.” He pulled out eggs, bread, cheese. “Sit down before you fall down.”
Harper sank onto the couch, suddenly aware of how exhausted she was. Every muscle ached. Her eyes burned. Her head pounded with the beginning of a vicious headache.
She pulled out her laptop, opened the case files. Started reviewing everything they had, looking for the connection she knew was there but couldn’t quite see.
Ten minutes later, Silas appeared with a plate of scrambled eggs and toast. “Eat.”
Harper ate mechanically, not tasting anything. Her mind was elsewhere—on the victims, on the killer, on the pattern that was right there if she could just see it clearly.
“Talk to me,” Silas said, sitting beside her with his own plate. “What are you thinking?”
“That we’re missing something fundamental. Something that connects all four victims besides physical appearance and geographic location.”
“Their routines?” Silas suggested. “Where they shopped, where they exercised, where they spent their time?”
“Morris is already running that down. But there has to be more.” Harper set down her fork, her appetite gone. “The way he’s escalating, the personal nature of the messages—this isn’t random. He has a specific reason for choosing these women beyond the fact that they look like me.”
Her phone rang. Morris.
“Harper, I’ve got something,” he said without preamble. “Oregon State Police just sent over files on two unsolved murders from three years ago. Portland area. Same victim profile, same symbols carved into the bodies.”
Harper’s heart rate kicked up. “Send me everything.”
She pulled up the files Morris forwarded. Two women—Sarah Williams, 24, and Christina Park, 23. Both brunette, both petite, both found with the same geometric symbols carved into their skin post-mortem. Both killed in the spring of three years ago.
Three years ago, when Harper had been in Oregon working a completely different case.
“He’s been following you,” Silas said quietly, reading over her shoulder.
“For at least three years. Maybe longer.” Harper felt sick. “How many others are there?”
Her phone rang again. California this time. One unsolved murder matching their profile from two years ago. Then Washington—two more unsolved cases.
By the time the calls stopped coming, they had identified five additional victims in four different states. All killed while Harper had been working cases in those jurisdictions. All matching the same profile. All carved with the same symbols.
Nine victims total. Nine women dead because a monster had fixated on Harper five years ago and decided to follow her across state lines, killing women who looked like her, building toward whatever endgame he had planned.
“Nine,” Harper whispered, staring at the list. “Nine women dead because of me.”
“No.” Silas turned her to face him, his hands firm on her shoulders. “Nine women dead because of him. His choices. His actions. You didn’t kill them, Harper.”
“But he’s following me—”
“Which means we can use that. His obsession with you is a weakness, not a strength. It makes him predictable.” Silas’s eyes were fierce. “We know he’s here in Blackridge now. We know he’s watching you. That gives us an advantage.”
Harper wanted to believe him. But looking at those nine faces—nine women who’d died because Harper had given a press conference, had worked cases in their cities, had existed in the same geographic space as a serial killer—she couldn’t see any advantage in it.
All she could see was failure.
“We’re going to catch him,” Silas said, reading her expression. “I promise you, Harper. We’re going to stop him before he kills again.”
Harper stared at the board of victims on her laptop screen. Nine faces. Nine names. Nine families destroyed.
The killer’s note echoed in her mind: I’m always three steps ahead.
Not anymore, Harper thought grimly. She was done being reactive. Done letting him control the narrative. Done watching women die because she couldn’t see the pattern fast enough.
It was time to get ahead of him. And she had an idea of how to do it.