Chapter 16 #2
“We’re on our way,” Harper said, already grabbing her jacket. Silas didn’t even ask. Just followed her lead with the same grim expression.
The drive to the industrial park took twenty minutes. Harper stared out the window, guilt churning in her gut. She’d let herself be happy. She’d allowed herself a moment of peace, of connection, of normalcy. And while she was doing that, a killer had been at work.
“Don’t,” Silas said quietly.
“Don’t what?”
“Blame yourself for taking a few hours to be human. We needed that rest. Needed that connection.” His hand found hers briefly. “You being miserable and exhausted wouldn’t have prevented this.”
Harper knew he was right, logically. But emotionally, the guilt was already wrapping around her chest, squeezing tight.
The industrial park was exactly what it sounded like—a sprawl of warehouses and manufacturing facilities, mostly abandoned now as businesses had moved or gone under. The crime scene was in an empty warehouse, surrounded by crime scene tape and emergency vehicles.
Dr. Reynolds looked up as Harper and Silas approached and said with her usual familiarity, “Agent Sinclair. Detective Kane.”
“What can you tell us?” Harper asked, forcing herself to look at the victim professionally, cataloguing details instead of seeing a person.
Female, mid-twenties, brunette, petite—as expected.
Positioned against a support beam, arms crossed over her chest like Rachel Kim had been.
Symbols carved into her skin with precision—the same interlocking circles and geometric patterns.
Time of death appeared to be recent, maybe eight to ten hours ago.
While they’d been sleeping. While Harper had been feeling happy.
“Cause of death appears to be the same—single deep incision to the carotid artery, exsanguination,” Reynolds said. “Post-mortem carving, same symbols we’ve seen before. Positioning is consistent with the last victim—hands crossed, ritualistic arrangement.”
“Do we have an ID?” Silas asked.
“Purse was left at the scene. Driver’s license says Amanda Crawford, 27, lives in the Westside Apartments. Works as a marketing coordinator for a tech startup downtown.”
Amanda Crawford. Another name. Another life cut short.
Harper moved closer to study the symbols. They were identical to the previous victims, carved with the same precision and care. But there was something else—on the left shoulder, that same triangular symbol they’d seen on Sarah Williams and Rachel Kim.
“The triangle mark again,” Harper said. “That’s three victims now with this additional symbol. What does it mean?”
“Maybe it marks something significant to him,” Silas suggested. “Special victims somehow.”
Harper pulled up photos of the three victims with the triangle mark on her phone: Sarah Williams from Portland, Rachel Kim from Blackridge, and now Amanda Crawford. She studied their faces, looking for some connection beyond physical appearance.
All brunette, all petite, all in their twenties. But what made them special? Why mark these three differently?
“We need to find the connection,” Harper said. “What links these three women specifically.”
They spent two hours processing the scene, photographing evidence, searching for anything the killer might have left behind. As with the previous scenes, he’d been meticulous. No obvious physical evidence except the fibers they now knew came from law enforcement uniforms.
By the time they returned to the station, it was after two p.m. Harper felt hollowed out, the peace of the morning completely evaporated. Six victims now. Six women dead in two weeks. And they were no closer to stopping him.
In the conference room, Morris had Amanda Crawford’s background pulled up on the screens.
“She worked at TechVista Solutions downtown,” Morris said. “Been there for three years. Good employee, well-liked, no enemies anyone can think of.”
“Social media?” Harper asked.
“Active on Instagram and Facebook. Posted regularly about her life—work, friends, hiking trips. Nothing that would connect her to the other victims.”
“Where was she last seen?”
“Security footage from her apartment building shows her leaving for work yesterday morning at eight a.m. She posted on Instagram around six p.m. from a restaurant downtown—had dinner with a friend. Friend says they parted ways around seven-thirty. Amanda texted her at eight saying she made it home safe.”
“But she didn’t make it home,” Silas said.
“No. Her car is still in the restaurant parking lot. He must have grabbed her somewhere between the restaurant and her apartment.”
Harper studied the map on the screen. The restaurant was four blocks from Amanda’s apartment. A walkable distance on a nice evening. The route would take her past several businesses, a park, and residential streets.
Plenty of opportunities for someone to approach her. Especially someone she might trust. Someone in a uniform.
“Pull security footage from every business and traffic camera along that route,” Harper said, snapping off her gloves as she stood. “I want to see who she encountered between seven-thirty and eight p.m.”
“Already on it,” Sanchez said. “But it’s going to take time. We’re talking dozens of cameras, hours of footage.”
“Then we start now and work through the night if we have to.”
They spent the afternoon doing just that—reviewing footage, cross-referencing faces, looking for anything suspicious. At six p.m., Holloway ordered everyone to take a dinner break. Harper wasn’t hungry, but Silas insisted they at least get coffee and some air.
They walked to a coffee shop two blocks from the station. The evening was cool, the sky turning purple as the sun set. Normal people were heading home from work, going out to dinner, living their lives unaware that a serial killer was hunting in their city.
“You’re spiraling,” Silas said gently as they waited for their order.
Harper’s knee bouncing beneath the table immediately stilled. “Six women are dead.”
“I know.”
“We’re supposed to be stopping him. That’s our job. And we’re failing.” She wanted to punch something. To release the frustration and anger building inside her.
“We’re not failing. We’re working one of the most complex cases either of us has ever seen.” Silas accepted their coffees from the barista then led Harper to a quiet corner table. How he was so calm was a mystery to her. “Serial investigations take time. You know that.”
“Time we don’t have. He’s killing every three to four days now. That means we’ve got maybe two days before victim number seven,” she said through clenched teeth.
“Which is why we keep working. Why we follow every lead, analyze every piece of evidence, and trust the process.” Silas reached across the table and took her hand, his blue eyes holding hers steady.
“But we also have to take care of ourselves. We can’t work twenty-four hours straight and expect to be effective. ”
Harper looked away. She knew he was right. But the guilt was eating at her. “I keep thinking about last night. About how happy I was. And while I was feeling that way, Amanda was dying.”
“That’s not your fault.”
“Logically, I know that,” she said with an exasperated sigh. “But emotionally...” Harper’s throat tightened. “I let myself get distracted. Let myself think about something other than the case for a few hours. And a woman died.”
“A woman died because a killer murdered her. Not because you took a few hours to be human.” Silas squeezed her hand. “Harper, you can’t do this to yourself. You can’t carry responsibility for his actions.”
She sat back, severing their connection. “Then whose responsibility is it? I’m the one he’s fixated on. I’m the reason these women are dying.”
“No. He’s the reason they’re dying. His sickness, his choices, his evil. You’re trying to stop him. That’s all anyone can ask of you.”
Harper wanted to believe that. Wanted to let go of the guilt that was crushing her chest. But she couldn’t shake the image of Amanda Crawford’s face, the careful arrangement of her body, the symbols carved into her skin.
Another message. Another victim. Another failure.
They finished their coffee in silence, then headed back to the station. The sun had fully set now, the city lights creating a glow against the dark sky. Harper looked up at the station building—all those windows lit up with people working the case, trying to catch a killer.
One of them might be the killer himself.
The thought made her sick to her stomach.
Inside, Sanchez had made progress on the security footage. “I’ve got Amanda Crawford on camera leaving the restaurant at seven thirty-two p.m. She walked north on Fifth Street, turned east on Maple. Lost her at the corner of Maple and Seventh. There’s a dead zone there, no cameras.”
“What about after the dead zone?” Silas asked.
“Nothing. She never appears on any cameras after that corner.” Sanchez pulled up a map. “The dead zone is about half a block. If someone was waiting there, they could have grabbed her without being seen on camera.”
“Someone who knew about the cameras,” Harper said. “Someone who knew exactly where the blind spots were.”
“A cop would know,” Morris said quietly. “We’ve done security assessments of the entire downtown area. We know where all the cameras are and aren’t.”