Chapter 11 #2
“I’m at the center of it,” Harper said quietly. “Whatever his endgame is, I’m the reason for all of this.”
“Then we use that.” Silas stood too, his expression fierce. “His obsession with you is his weakness. We know he’s here in Blackridge. We know he’s watching you. That gives us an advantage we haven’t had in five years.”
She spread her hands out, indicating all the evidence that was leading them nowhere. “What kind of advantage? We tried the coffee shop stakeout and he saw right through it.”
“Because we were reactive. We set a trap based on victim patterns, and he predicted it.” Silas moved to the map, studying the pins marking each crime scene. “We need to be proactive. Do something he won’t expect.”
“Like what?” Despite her skepticism, Silas’s energy was infectious.
“I don’t know yet. But we need to change the dynamic. Stop reacting to his moves and start forcing him to react to ours.”
Harper’s phone rang. Captain Holloway.
“Sinclair,” she answered.
“We’ve got a problem.” Holloway’s voice was tight. “Local news got wind of the connection between the murders. They’re running a story at six a.m. about a serial killer targeting women in Blackridge.”
Harper checked the time. 3:45 a.m. Two hours and fifteen minutes until the story broke. “How much do they know?”
“Enough. Four victims, similar appearance, ritualistic elements. They don’t have the full scope—they don’t know about the other states or the connection to you specifically—but it’s enough to cause a panic.”
“Maybe that’s good,” Harper said slowly, her thoughts churning. “Women in the target demographic will be more careful. Harder for him to select victims.”
“Or he’ll escalate further. Strike faster because he knows his window is closing.” Holloway paused. “I need you and Kane at the station by five a.m. We’re holding a press conference at eight. I want you on it.”
Harper’s stomach clenched. Another press conference. Just like Nevada five years ago, when this whole nightmare started. “Captain—”
“This is what you do, Sinclair. You’re the FBI’s expert on this case. The public needs to hear from you that we’re doing everything possible to catch this guy.”
“Putting me in front of cameras will just feed his obsession,” she warned.
“Maybe. Or maybe it draws him out. Makes him make a mistake.” Holloway’s tone left no room for argument. “Five a.m. Conference room. We’ll brief the media strategy.”
He hung up.
Harper set down her phone, feeling like the walls were closing in. “He wants me to do a press conference.”
“That could work in our favor,” Silas said.
“Or it could trigger him to kill faster.” Harper thought about Jennifer Cross, about the message carved into her skin. “What if he takes another victim just to prove a point?”
“Then we make sure he doesn’t get the chance.” Silas checked his watch. “We’ve got an hour before we need to leave. Let’s use it.”
They spent the next hour going through every piece of evidence with fresh eyes. The forensic reports from all twelve crime scenes. The witness statements—precious few of them. The security footage that showed nothing useful.
Harper built a comprehensive profile, synthesizing everything they knew.
UNSUB Profile: Male, 30-45 years old. Above average intelligence, possibly college educated.
Access to information about FBI assignments.
Resources for extensive travel. Knowledge of law enforcement procedures.
Skilled with edged weapons. Patient, organized, methodical.
Fixated on SA Harper Sinclair specifically.
Escalating pattern suggests approaching endgame.
“He’s local to Blackridge now,” Harper said, adding notes to the profile. “All four recent victims were taken and killed here. He has a base of operations, somewhere private where he can work undisturbed for hours.”
“Property records,” Silas said. “We should pull every property rental and sale in Blackridge for the past year. Cross-reference with anyone who fits the general profile.”
Her brows rose above wide eyes. “That’s thousands of records.”
“Then we prioritize. Look for properties that offer privacy—rural locations, industrial areas, places with no close neighbors. And we look for recent rentals by single men in the right age range.”
Harper nodded, making notes. “I’ll have Morris start on it this morning.”
At 4:30 a.m., they headed to the station. The sky was still dark, but Harper could see the first hints of dawn on the horizon. By the time the sun was fully up, the whole city would know there was a serial killer hunting women in Blackridge.
And the killer would know that Harper was hunting him right back.
***
The station was already buzzing with activity when they arrived. Officers coming off night shift, detectives starting their day early, phones ringing constantly. The conference room was full—Captain Holloway, Morris, Holt, Sanchez from the tech team, and several officers Harper didn’t recognize.
“Sinclair, Kane.” Holloway gestured them to seats. “Let’s get started. At eight a.m., we’re holding a joint press conference with FBI involvement. The mayor will speak first, then me, then Agent Sinclair will provide details on the investigation and the profile.”
“What are we releasing to the public?” Harper asked.
“Four confirmed victims, all female, ages 23-29, similar physical appearance. We’re confirming ritualistic elements but not providing specifics about the symbols or messages.
We’re asking the public for help identifying anyone suspicious, any unusual activity near the dump sites.
” Holloway looked at Harper. “You’ll provide a general profile without giving away tactical details. ”
“What about the connection to the other states?” Silas asked.
“We’re holding that back for now. If the media finds out we’re looking at twelve victims across five states, it becomes a national story and we lose control of the narrative.”
Morris raised his hand. “What about victim names? Families have been notified for all four.”
“We release names but not addresses or employment details. We don’t want to make it easy for copycat killers or reporters to harass the families.”
They spent the next hour rehearsing the press conference, anticipating questions, coordinating messaging. Harper hated every minute of it. She was a profiler, not a spokesperson. She belonged in the field tracking killers, not standing in front of cameras reading from talking points.
But if this drew the killer out, if it made him make a mistake, it would be worth it.
At 7:30 a.m., Harper stepped into the bathroom to check her appearance.
She looked exhausted—dark circles under her eyes, hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, face pale.
She splashed cold water on her face, tried to look more professional and less like someone who’d been awake for thirty hours straight.