Page 109 of Whispers in the Night

The glass exploded inward as tactical teams breached through the windows. “Federal agents! Drop the weapon!”

Everything happened at once. Sutton swung the gun toward the incoming officers. Harper dove to the side, hitting the concrete floor hard. The sharp crack of gunfire echoed through the warehouse—once, twice, three times. Too many to count.

Harper rolled, looked up in time to see Sutton falling, the gun clattering from his hand. Blood bloomed across his chest. Officers swarmed in from all directions, weapons drawn, shouting commands.

“Suspect down! Suspect down!”

“Secure the weapon!”

“Get the medic!”

Harper pushed herself up on shaking arms. Her body armor had protected her torso, but her elbow throbbed from the impact with concrete. She could taste blood—must have bitten her lip when she hit the floor.

Silas was suddenly there, kneeling beside her, hands on her shoulders. “Harper. Harper, are you hit?”

“I’m okay. I’m okay.” Harper let him pull her to her feet, leaned against him as her legs threatened to give out. She tried to look past him. “Sutton?”

“Medical team is working on him.” Silas held her tighter. “But Harper, the shots—multiple chest wounds. It doesn’t look good.”

They moved closer to where Sutton lay on the concrete, surrounded by officers and EMTs. One of the medics was preparing him for transport while another worked to stop the bleeding. But even from a distance, Harper could see the amount of blood pooling beneath him.

Sutton’s eyes were open, unfocused, his breath coming in wet, ragged gasps. As Harper approached, his gaze found her.

“Harper,” he managed, blood bubbling at his lips. “You...you could have been...magnificent.”

“Save your strength,” Harper said, though she knew it was pointless. “The medics are helping you.”

“No...no, they’re not. I’m...dying.” Sutton coughed, more blood spilling from his mouth. “But I...I proved my point. Made you...see me.”

“I saw you, Sutton. And I’m not impressed.”

Something that might have been a laugh rattled in his chest. “Liar. You...understood. I felt it. The...connection.”

“Understanding isn’t connection. And knowing how a killer thinks doesn’t mean I respect or admire them.”

Sutton’s breathing was becoming more labored, his skin taking on a grayish pallor. The medics were still working, but Harper could see in their faces that they were losing him.

“The trophies,” Sutton whispered. “Check...check the river. Under the dock. All...all of them.”

“The trophies from nineteen victims?”

“Yes. My...my life’s work.” His eyes were beginning to glaze. “Don’t...don’t let them be forgotten.”

“They won’t be forgotten. But not because of you. Because of who they were. The lives they lived. The people who loved them.” Harper leaned closer. “You didn’t make them special, Sutton. You didn’t give them meaning. You just took away their futures.”

Sutton’s expression shifted one final time—not anger or determination, but something softer. Regret, maybe. Or just acceptance.

“I’m...sorry,” he breathed. “I’m...I wanted...”

Then his eyes went still, fixed on nothing. The wet rattle of his breathing stopped. The medics began compressions for several minutes, but everyone present knew it was over.

“Time of death, nineteen hundred forty-three,” one of the EMTs finally said quietly.

Dale Sutton was dead.

Harper stood there, looking down at the body of the man who’d terrorized six states for five years. Who’d killed nineteen women because he wanted to communicate with her. Who’d been so desperate for connection that he’d built an entire mythology of murder.

And she felt...nothing. No satisfaction, no relief. Just emptiness and exhaustion.