"I'm sorry," Isla said quietly, understanding now that his concern wasn't a critique of her abilities but something more personal.
"My point is," Sullivan continued after a moment, "what you did was brave but unnecessary. We would have caught Bradley eventually."
"We might have lost critical evidence if I'd waited," Isla countered, though without defensiveness. "Sometimes calculated risks are part of the job."
Sullivan studied her for a long moment before nodding slightly. "Your calculation. Your risk. I get that." He took a sip of his coffee. "I was... impressed by your quick thinking. Suggests we might work well together after all."
The admission clearly didn't come easily to him, and Isla recognized it as a significant concession. "Thanks," she said simply, unwilling to make more of the moment than he'd intended.
"Just don't make it a habit," he added. "I don't want to fish your frozen body out of Superior. The paperwork alone would be a nightmare."
The comment was delivered with such deadpan seriousness that Isla wasn't immediately sure if he was joking. When she caught the slight crinkle at the corners of his eyes, she allowed herself a small smile.
"I'll keep that in mind."
They returned to their meal, the tension between them noticeably lessened. Isla had expected their partnership to be difficult—the local veteran paired with the disgraced transfer—but perhaps there was potential for genuine collaboration beneath the surface.
As Sullivan reached for his water glass, his phone rang. The change in his expression when he checked the caller ID was subtle but unmistakable—a softening around the eyes, the faintest hint of a smile.
"I need to take this," he said, already standing.
Isla nodded, watching with curiosity as he stepped away from the table, his posture changing as he answered. She could hear fragments of his conversation despite the diner's ambient noise.
"Hey, sweetie," she heard him say, his voice gentler than she'd ever heard it. "No, Daddy's not too busy... Of course, I'll be there... Promise."
The transformation was remarkable; the stern, taciturn agent was suddenly replaced by someone warmer, more accessible. When he returned to the table a few minutes later, some of that warmth lingered, and Isla found herself curious about this other side of her partner.
"Everything okay?" Isla asked.
"Yeah," Sullivan replied, reaching for his wallet to leave cash for the bill. "That was Emma, my daughter. She's ten. Wanted to make sure I'll be home for bedtime. She's got a science project she wants help with."
"Emma," Isla repeated, the piece clicking into place. During Bradley's interrogation, she'd noticed Sullivan's technique shift at one point—his voice taking on a particular tone of authority that had reminded her of something she couldn't quite place. "So that's where the 'dad voice' comes from."
Sullivan looked puzzled. "The what?"
"During the interrogation," Isla explained. "When you really wanted to shut Bradley down, your voice changed. It reminded me of how my father used to sound when I was in serious trouble." She paused, remembering. "He was Coast Guard—had that same command authority when he needed it."
Understanding dawned in Sullivan's expression, followed by a brief, unexpected chuckle. "Never thought of it that way. Might explain why it works on suspects."
Isla nodded, skimming Sullivan's face subtly. He was a good-looking guy, she had to admit; it wasn't a surprise that he had a family. "What does your wife think about your career?" she asked, genuinely curious.
He gave her a look, and something shuttered in his expression. "Ex-wife." His jaw tightened slightly. "Turns out missing bedtime stories and family dinners for cases gets old after a while. Even when you're trying to keep the community safe."
"Oh," Isla said, recognizing the bitter edge in his voice. "Sounds like there's a story there."
"Not one I care to tell." He checked his watch with pointed finality. "We should head back. I want to check on Diana Pearce, see if she's found anything in those manifests Whitman was reviewing."
Isla nodded, gathering her coat, though she felt oddly rejected by his abrupt withdrawal. "Good idea. She might have spotted the pattern Whitman was following."
Sullivan tried Pearce's office number as they walked back to their vehicle, frowning when there was no answer. He tried her cell phone next, the crease between his eyebrows deepening when that call also went unanswered.
"That's odd," he said, sliding into the driver's seat. "Pearce is usually very responsive. She was eager to help with the investigation."
Isla felt the first stirrings of unease. "When did you last speak with her?"
"Yesterday afternoon, before we went after Bradley. She said she'd work late reviewing the flagged manifests."
"And no one's heard from her since?"
