Chapter 11
Harper couldn’t sleep. At three a.m., she gave up trying.
She moved quietly from her bedroom to the main living area, careful not to wake Silas who’d finally dozed off in the armchair around two.
He looked uncomfortable, his tall frame folded into a chair meant for someone six inches shorter, but Harper knew better than to suggest he take the couch.
He’d positioned himself between her bedroom door and the cabin’s entrance. Standing guard even in sleep.
Harper made coffee—strong and black—and spread the case files across the kitchen table. Nine victims. Nine women who’d died because a monster had fixated on her five years ago and never let go.
The Nevada case had been five years ago. Three victims there—Sarah Henderson, Jessica Paul, and Pamela Gibson. Then nothing for two years. Then the Portland murders three years ago. Then two in Seattle two years ago. One in California eighteen months ago.
And now four in Blackridge in less than a week.
The acceleration pattern was clear. He was building toward some kind of climax that Harper couldn’t quite see yet.
“You should be sleeping.”
Harper jumped, coffee sloshing over the rim of her mug. Silas stood in the doorway, hair mussed from sleep, his pale-blue eyes alert despite the hour.
“Couldn’t,” Harper said. “Too much in my head.”
Silas moved to the coffee pot, poured himself a cup, and joined her at the table. He studied the files she’d spread out—crime scene photos, victim profiles, geographic maps with pins marking each murder location.
“Tell me what you’re seeing,” he said.
“A pattern. But I can’t quite figure out what it means.
” Harper pointed to the timeline she’d constructed.
“Nevada five years ago—three victims in two months, then he goes to ground. Two years of nothing. Then Portland—two victims in three weeks. Another year of silence. Seattle—two victims. California—one. And now Blackridge—four in six days.”
“He’s accelerating,” Silas observed.
“Not only that. Look at the time between kills within each location.” Harper pulled up her notes.
“Nevada: three weeks between victim one and two, then one week to victim three. Portland: two weeks, then one week. Seattle: one week, then three days. California was a single victim, but Blackridge—he’s killing every other day now. ”
“He’s losing control.”
“Or gaining confidence. Getting better at it, more comfortable with the process.” Harper rubbed her eyes, feeling the exhaustion pulling at her. “But there’s something else. Look at the geographic progression.”
Silas studied the map. “He’s following you.”
“Not just following. Anticipating.” Harper traced the pattern with her finger.
“Nevada was my first BAU case. I gave that press conference explaining the symbols, the profile. He fixated on me there. Then I got assigned to Portland six months later—completely unrelated case, financial crimes investigation. But he was already there. Killed two women before I even arrived.”
“You think he knew you were coming?”
“I think he had access to FBI assignment information somehow. Or he was monitoring me closely enough to know where I’d be deployed next.” Harper pulled up her assignment history. “Look, every city where he’s killed, I was either working a case or about to start one within weeks of the murders.”
Silas was quiet for a long moment, his detective’s mind working through the implications. “That’s not just obsession. That requires resources, access to information, planning.”
“Which tells us something about him.” Harper grabbed her notebook, started writing.
“He has to have either law enforcement connections, government access, or exceptional hacking skills. He needs transportation—the ability to move between states quickly. And he needs a flexible schedule that allows him to follow me across the western United States.”
“Independently wealthy? Consultant? Remote work?”
“Or law enforcement himself.” The words hung heavy in the air as Harper met Silas’s steady gaze.
His expression darkened. “You think he’s a cop.”
She hated the idea of it, but when she looked at the evidence…
“I think we can’t rule it out. The way he disabled the security cameras at the parking garage—Morris said it was a professional job.
The way he knows our procedures, our response times.
The message he left saying he saw through our coffee shop surveillance.
” Harper met Silas’s eyes again. “He knows how we think because he thinks the same way.”
“Or he’s just smart and observant.”
“Maybe.” She shrugged. “But we need to consider all possibilities.”
Harper’s phone buzzed. Email from Morris, time-stamped 3:17 a.m. Subject line: More victims found.
Her stomach dropped as she opened it.
Harper—
Idaho State Police came back with two unsolved murders from 18 months ago. Boise area. Same MO, same symbols. Both victims match the profile.
Also heard back from Washington State Patrol. In addition to the two Seattle murders we already knew about, they’ve got one more from Spokane, about two years ago. Wasn’t initially flagged because the symbols were less extensive, possibly an early kill.
That brings the total to TWELVE confirmed victims across six states over five years.
Sending files now.
—Morris
“Twelve,” Harper whispered, combing her fingers through her hair and fisting it briefly, tempted to pull it she was so upset. “Jesus Christ. Twelve women.”
Silas read over her shoulder, his jaw tightening. “He’s been more active than we thought.”
Harper turned her attention back to the computer, pulled up the new files as they came through.
The Boise victims—Emma Rodriguez, 25, and Taylor Wren, 27.
Both brunette, both petite. The Spokane victim—Amanda Walsh, 23, killed two years ago with less elaborate carving, suggesting the killer was still developing his technique.
Twelve faces stared back at Harper from her laptop screen. Twelve women whose only crime was looking like her and being in the same city at the wrong time.
“This is my fault,” Harper said quietly.
“No—”
“Twelve women, Silas. Twelve. All because I gave that press conference in Nevada. All because I tried to catch him and failed.” Her voice cracked. “How many more have to die before I stop him?”
Silas grabbed her hands, forced her to look at him. “Listen to me very carefully. You did not kill these women. You did not carve symbols into their skin. You did not choose them, stalk them, murder them. He did. His choices. His evil. Not yours.”
Tears threatened. “But he’s killing them because of me—”
“He’s killing them because he’s a psychopath who fixated on you.
That’s not your fault any more than it would be a celebrity’s fault if a stalker killed people who looked like them.
” Silas’s grip tightened. “You’re thinking like a victim.
Start thinking like a profiler. What does this pattern tell you about him? ”
Harper forced herself to breathe, to push past the guilt and focus on the facts. “He’s organized. Highly intelligent. Patient. He can go months or even years between kills. He has the resources to travel extensively. And he’s escalating in both frequency and violence.”
“Which means?”
“Which means he’s building toward an endgame. The Blackridge kills are different—faster, more brutal, more personal. This isn’t just about the killing anymore. It’s about sending me a message.”
“What message?” he pressed, forcing her mind to process faster.
Harper stared at the files, at the progression from Nevada to Blackridge. At the way the time between kills kept shrinking, the violence kept escalating. “That he’s in control. That he can do whatever he wants and I can’t stop him. That everything I do to catch him just makes things worse.”
“Or,” Silas said slowly, “that he’s losing control and trying to prove he still has it. The escalation, the personal messages. Those aren’t signs of strength. They’re signs of desperation.”
Harper looked up at him. “What do you mean?”
“Think about it. Nevada—clean kills, careful positioning, no personal contact with you beyond selecting victims who looked like you. Portland, Seattle, the others—same thing. Methodical, controlled, patient. But Blackridge?” Silas gestured to the files.
“Four kills in six days. Messages carved into bodies. A taunting note left at your cabin. This isn’t the same killer. ”
“You think there are two of them?”
“No. I think it’s the same killer, but something’s changed. Something’s pushed him past his normal pattern.” Silas pulled up the timeline. “What happened six months ago? Why did he come to Blackridge specifically?”
Harper thought about it. “Six months ago, after Michael died, my SAC put me on mandatory leave. Told me to take time, process, heal. I couldn’t stay in Nevada—everywhere I looked reminded me of him.
” Harper stared at the timeline. “A friend from the bureau mentioned this cabin was available to rent. Quiet, isolated, good place to clear my head. So I came to Blackridge. I wasn’t working. I was just...existing.”
“Until Melissa Wagoner was killed,” Silas finished.
“With the same symbols as the Sarah Henderson case. I’d worked that case in Nevada five years ago—it’s what started his obsession with me.
” Harper’s throat tightened. “Captain Holloway heard I was in town, asked if I’d consult since I was familiar with the symbols.
I said yes. Then Amy Thorne was killed, then Nicole.
And I requested to stay, to work the case actively instead of just consulting. ”
“So you came here by coincidence,” Silas said slowly. “And he was already here.”
“Or he followed me here. I don’t know which.” Harper stood, pacing the small kitchen. “But either way, he’s escalating. Four victims in six days versus the pattern in other cities. He’s building toward something.”
“Twelve victims over five years,” Silas said, looking at the timeline. “All of them in cities where you were working or living. And now Blackridge.”