Sullivan appeared at her side as they prepared to disembark. "Bradley's asking for a deal. Says he has information about 'bigger players.'"
"Of course he does," Isla replied skeptically. "They always claim that when they're caught."
"Maybe," Sullivan conceded. "But his attorney is already en route, and given the potential connection to Whitman's murder, we should hear him out."
Isla considered this. "You think he knows who killed Whitman?"
"I think he knows more than he's saying," Sullivan answered carefully. "Whether that includes the killer remains to be seen."
They made their way down the gangplank onto the snow-covered dock, where FBI and local police personnel waited to secure Bradley and the evidence. The cold struck Isla anew after the relative warmth of the cutter's interior, but she noted with some surprise that it bothered her less now. Perhaps she was adapting to Duluth faster than she'd expected—or perhaps the adrenaline of pursuit and capture had simply overwhelmed her discomfort.
As Bradley was led past them to a waiting transport vehicle, he paused, his eyes finding Isla's with unnerving directness.
"You're new," he said, his voice rougher than she'd expected. "You don't understand what you're into here."
Before she could respond, Sullivan stepped forward. "Save it for the interview room, Bradley."
Bradley's laugh held no humor. "You'll want to hear this, Sullivan. It goes higher than you think. Whitman found out and look what happened to him."
The officers escorting him urged him forward, cutting off further conversation. Isla watched him go, unsettled by both his words and the calculating intelligence behind his eyes. Bradley was no common smuggler; he was a player in whatever complex web they were just beginning to unravel.
"He's trying to create leverage," Sullivan said, reading her expression. "Don't let him get in your head."
"I'm not," Isla assured him, though Bradley's words lingered uncomfortably. "But I do want to hear what he has to say."
They moved toward their Bureau SUV, which someone had thoughtfully left running with the heater at full blast. As Sullivan brushed snow from the windshield, Isla's phone buzzed with a text message from her sister Claire:
Hey, sis, checking in. Everything OK up there in the frozen north? Call me when you can.
The simple message created a momentary pang of longing for the simplicity of family connection amid the complexity of the case. Claire knew nothing of smugglers, murders, or dangerous boardings in blizzard conditions—and Isla preferred to keep it that way, especially given her sister's recent personal troubles with her ex-fiancé.
She sent back a quick reassurance—good so far, talk soon—before pocketing her phone and joining Sullivan in the vehicle. As they pulled away from the Coast Guard facility, the city of Duluth spread before them, its hillside lights glimmering through the snowfall like distant constellations.
"We'll interview Bradley first thing tomorrow," Sullivan said, navigating carefully through the snow-covered streets. "Give the evidence team time to process what we found and see if it connects to Whitman's encrypted files."
Isla nodded, her mind already organizing the questions she wanted to ask Bradley. "And we should talk to Whitman's colleagues again, now that we know he was keeping secrets. Someone might have noticed something they didn't realize was significant."
"Good idea," Sullivan agreed. "We should also get a warrant for Bradley's residence and business office. If he was smuggling through his fishing operation, there might be records he kept separate from the boat."
As they discussed next steps, Isla realized with some surprise that they were functioning as a genuine team now, their earlier awkwardness replaced by professional rhythm. The case had created a common purpose that transcended personal reservations.
Sullivan pulled up in front of her apartment building, the engine idling as snow accumulated on the windshield. "I'll pick you up at seven tomorrow," he said. "Unless you'd prefer to meet at the office."
"Seven is fine," Isla replied, gathering her things. She hesitated, then added, "Good work today, Sullivan."
“Yeah,” Sullivan muttered, his expression suddenly darker, more distant. Had she done something wrong, said something wrong? “’Night, Rivers. Get some rest. We’ll link back up in the morning.”
Isla nodded and left the car. As she unlocked her apartment door, she realized she'd left that morning as an outsider, uncertain of her place in Duluth and her partnership with Sullivan. She returned as something else—not fully accepted, perhaps, but having proven herself capable in conditions entirely foreign to her Miami experience. It was a start, a foothold in this strange new world of ice and secrets.
Isla moved to her window, watching as Sullivan's taillights disappeared into the storm. Beyond, Lake Superior stretched vast and inscrutable, its ice-covered surface hiding unknowable depths. Like the case they were building, like her taciturn partner, like Duluth itself—there was far more beneath the surface than what was visible from shore.
She turned away from the window, her focus shifting to the investigation ahead. Marcus Whitman had died because he discovered something dangerous enough to warrant murder. Bradley knew pieces of the puzzle but was unlikely to reveal everything without pressure. And somewhere in Duluth, perhaps within the law enforcement community itself, was someone with enough power and access to orchestrate a killing and conceal evidence.
Tomorrow would bring interviews, evidence analysis, and deeper investigation. But tonight, in the quiet of her apartment with the storm raging outside, Isla allowed herself a moment of reflection on how quickly life could change. A month ago, she'd been in Miami, her career in shambles after a tragic mistake. Now she was in Duluth, pursuing a case that could be far more significant than a simple smuggling operation.
As she prepared for bed, Isla felt something she hadn't experienced since before the Miami disaster: the quiet confidence of being exactly where she needed to be, doing exactly what she was meant to do. Duluth might be a frozen wasteland compared to Miami's tropical heat, but it offered something Miami no longer could—a chance at redemption.
With that thought, she set her alarm for early morning and closed her eyes, the howling wind outside her window a strange but not unwelcome lullaby in her new northern home.
