"And we'll be more likely to miss something if we're exhausted," Isla countered. "The port is locked down, security is in place, and we have teams working through the night. Four hours of sleep will make us more effective tomorrow."
Sullivan hesitated, clearly torn between his dedication to the case and the logic of her argument. Isla saw something shift in his expression—a recognition that she understood the competing demands he faced, that her advice came from genuine concern for both the investigation and his well-being.
"You're right," he said finally, and she could hear the trust developing in his voice. "I've been running on instinct and caffeine for too long. Four hours. Then we're back at it before dawn."
The acknowledgment felt significant—not just his agreement to rest, but his willingness to value her judgment even when it contradicted his first instinct. Partnership, she realized, was built on such moments of mutual respect.
As they prepared to leave the command center for their brief respite, Isla took one last look at the evidence boards they'd assembled—photos of Whitman and Pearce, shipping manifests, timeline markers, and in the center, the still-unknown connection that had cost two people their lives.
The pieces were there, waiting to be assembled into a coherent picture. Tomorrow, they would continue their search for the pattern, the system, the criminal enterprise operating beneath the surface of Duluth's massive port.
And somewhere in the frozen city, a killer waited, perhaps already selecting their next target—anyone who threatened to expose what Whitman and Pearce had begun to uncover. The clock wasn't just ticking on the port's economic shutdown; it was counting down to potentially more deaths.
Isla followed Sullivan out into the bitter night air, the cold shocking her system after hours in the heated building. As their breath formed clouds in the frigid atmosphere, she looked across the harbor where massive ships sat motionless, their lights reflecting on the ice-covered water. The vastness of Lake Superior stretched beyond, a dark presence holding secrets beneath its frozen surface.
Much like their case—the visible elements were just the beginning. The true depths remained to be discovered, and what lurked there could be far more dangerous than they yet realized.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The key turned in Isla's apartment lock with a stubborn resistance that matched her mood. After three attempts and a frustrated shoulder pressed against the warped door frame, she finally pushed it open. The emptiness of the space greeted her with silent indifference—no welcoming lights, no comforting scents of home, just the lingering chill of an apartment that had never fully warmed since she'd moved in.
She shed her coat, letting it fall over the back of a chair rather than hanging it properly in the closet. Small rebellions were all she had energy for tonight. The muffled sound of her neighbor's television filtered through the thin walls—some sitcom with canned laughter that felt obscenely cheerful against her exhaustion.
Isla kicked off her boots and padded in stockinged feet across the hardwood floor that creaked with every step as if protesting her presence. The kitchen—if the small alcove with dated appliances deserved such a name—offered little in the way of comfort or sustenance. The refrigerator yielded meager promise—half a container of Thai takeout from two nights ago, a carton of eggs with just three remaining, and a few condiments that had come with the apartment. A bachelor's refrigerator, her mother would have called it, though Isla had never been anything close to a bachelor.
She settled on reheating the leftovers, not bothering to transfer them to a proper plate. The microwave hummed, its yellow light casting unflattering shadows across the countertop as it revolved her meal in its plastic container. Isla grabbed a tumbler and the bottle of Macallan 12 she'd brought from Miami—one of the few personal items she'd unpacked besides her clothes and professional materials. The bottle had been a gift from Steve Delgado after her first successful case as lead investigator. "For celebrating victories," he'd told her. Now, it served a different purpose.
The amber liquid caught the dim light as she poured a generous measure. She watched the scotch swirl in the glass, momentarily hypnotized by its movement, before taking a substantial sip. The familiar burn traced its way down her throat, settling in her chest with a warmth that the apartment's struggling heating system couldn't provide.
When the microwave beeped, Isla retrieved her makeshift dinner and carried both food and drink to the window. She pulled back the curtain—another apartment relic in a faded floral pattern that did nothing for the room's aesthetics—and gazed out at the nighttime vista of Duluth. Lake Superior stretched vast and dark beyond the city lights, its frozen surface reflecting the moon in fractured patterns of silver and shadow. Ships sat motionless near the harbor, locked in place by ice and the port shutdown they'd initiated.
She ate mechanically, barely tasting the food that had been mediocre even when fresh. Her mind refused to disengage from the case, cycling through details with obsessive persistence. Two murders, identical methods. Missing shipping manifests. Weight discrepancies on containers moving through one of America's busiest freshwater ports. Bradley's smuggling operation was somehow connected yet not directly responsible for the killings. Nash Global Shipping appearing in both victims' investigations.
Someone was systematically eliminating people who had discovered a pattern in the port's operations. Someone with access, knowledge, and ruthless determination. Someone still out there while she stood in her cold apartment, eating leftovers and drinking alone.
The logical part of her brain knew she should sleep and approach the investigation fresh in the morning. But another part—the part that had kept her awake for weeks after the Miami disaster—refused to power down. That part insisted that if she just kept turning the pieces, examining them from every angle, she might see something she'd missed.
. Outside, snow began to fall again—fat, lazy flakes drifting past her window in the yellow glow of streetlights. Beautiful, in their way, though Isla still hadn't developed any fondness for the cold.
She thought about Sullivan, likely at home with his daughter now, helping with that science project he'd mentioned. Emma, the ten-year-old with her father's serious blue eyes but a smile that Sullivan rarely displayed. The image brought an unexpected pang of envy that surprised her with its intensity.
At thirty-four, she'd once imagined a different life for herself. Not that she'd ever been particularly traditional, but there had been vague assumptions of partnership, maybe children, by this point. Instead, she had case files for companionship and guilt as her most constant bedfellow. Her apartment in Miami, at least, had felt like a home—plants on the balcony, art on the walls, a record collection carefully curated over years. This place was just somewhere to sleep between workdays, as impersonal as a hotel room.
Her thoughts drifted to Claire—her sister, the one person who had never stopped believing in her, even after Miami. Claire, with her easy laugh and boundless enthusiasm for her marine research. They'd spoken just yesterday, but the distance between Seattle and Duluth felt insurmountable tonight. Claire had always been the optimist of the family, somehow maintaining that outlook even after losing their parents. Isla had taken a different path, channeling grief into determination, into a career built on understanding the worst aspects of human behavior.
The container of food now empty, Isla tossed it toward the trash can. It missed, landing on the linoleum with a hollow plastic sound that she couldn't summon the energy to address. Instead, she refilled her glass and moved to the couch—another relic of previous tenants, its cushions compressed from years of use by strangers.
Her last serious relationship had been with Reggie Stamos, her partner in Miami. Professional boundaries had blurred into personal connection over late nights reviewing cases and shared triumphs in the field. They'd moved in together after eight months, creating a life that had seemed solid, built on mutual respect and understanding. She'd trusted him completely, both as an agent and a man. And he had trusted her judgment—until she catastrophically miscalled the profile on the Mendez case.
She could still see Reggie's face when they burst into that warehouse, following her certainty that their suspect was holding Alicia Mendez there. The awful emptiness of the space. The realization they'd gone after the wrong man while the real killer had Alicia across town. The frantic race to the second location, arriving minutes too late. Alicia's eyes, already empty of life, staring accusingly as blood pooled beneath her broken body.
The images came in flashes now, sharpened rather than dulled by time. The warehouse's industrial lights casting harsh shadows. The echo of their footsteps as they cleared each empty room. The crackle of the radio with updated information pointing to a different location. The screech of tires as they raced across Miami. The metallic smell of blood that hit them when they finally broke down that second door.
"You were supposed to protect her," Reggie had said later, his voice barely above a whisper. Not shouting, which would have been easier to bear. Just quiet devastation that cut deeper than rage ever could. "You were so sure."
The relationship hadn't survived her error, dissolving in a series of increasingly strained interactions before Reggie requested reassignment. Last she'd heard, he was in the Phoenix field office, rebuilding his career far from the shadow of her mistake. Sometimes, in moments of weakness, she checked his social media profiles. He seemed happy now, dating a prosecutor from the U.S. Attorney's office. His smile in the photos looked genuine.
Isla drained her glass, feeling the burn of alcohol and grief in equal measure. She poured another, knowing she was crossing the line from unwinding into something less healthy. The bottle was noticeably lighter than when she'd started. She should stop, should try to sleep, but the prospect of lying in bed with only her thoughts for company held little appeal.
