Page 15 of Whispers in the Night

Silas killed the engine and looked at her. “Ground rules. You don’t touch anything. You observe, you advise, but I’m lead on scene. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“And Sinclair?” His voice was quieter now, almost reluctant. “What you said in there, about living with it every day. I get that. I do. But this case is too important for me to let empathy override judgment. So I’m going to be hard on you. I’m going to question your calls. And I’m not going to cut you slack because you’re dealing with trauma.”

Harper met his eyes and admitted honestly, “I wouldn’t want you to.”

Something flickered in his expression—surprise, maybe, or respect. Then the mask came back down and he was out of the car, moving toward the crime scene.

Harper followed, her heart pounding. This was it. This was where the real work began. Where she’d have to prove she could still do this job. Where she’d have to show Silas Kane—and herself—that she wasn’t broken beyond repair.

Melissa Wagoner’s apartment waited. And somewhere in that space would be clues. Patterns. Evidence that would help them understand who’d taken her life and why.

Harper pulled on latex gloves and stepped through the door.

Time to hunt.

Chapter 4

Melissa Wagoner’s apartment was exactly what Silas expected from a twenty-four-year-old barista living in Blackridge—small, neat, decorated with thrift store finds and string lights. A couch draped with a colorful throw blanket. Plants on the windowsill. Photos tacked to a corkboard showing a smiling young woman with friends, family, a golden retriever.

A life interrupted.

The crime scene techs had already been through, dusting for prints, collecting evidence. Now it was Silas’s turn to read the space, to understand who Melissa had been and how the killer had found her.

He stood in the doorway, letting his eyes adjust, taking in the layout. Studio apartment, maybe four hundred square feet. Kitchenette to the right, Murphy bed pulled down from the wall, bathroom in the back. One window overlooking the parking lot. Fire escape access outside.

“No signs of forced entry,” Harper said from behind him.

Silas glanced back. She’d pulled on latex gloves and was examining the doorframe, running her fingers along the lock mechanism. Her movements were precise, professional. Someone who’d processed hundreds of crime scenes.

“No,” he agreed. “Which means either she let him in, or he had a key.”

“Or she was taken somewhere else and never came home.” Harper stepped inside, careful to avoid the evidence markers the techs had left. “What time did she leave work?”

Silas checked his notes. “Manager says nine p.m. Drive from The Daily Grind to here is about seven minutes. She should have been home by nine-fifteen.”

“But she wasn’t.” Harper moved to the kitchenette, studying the counter. “Coffee mug in the sink. Looks like it was used yesterday morning but never washed. Mail on the counter from two days ago, still unopened.”

Silas joined her, looking at the small pile of envelopes. Junk mail mostly. A bill from the power company. Nothing that screamed stalker or threat.

“She didn’t make it home that night,” Harper continued, more to herself than to him. “Taken between work and here. Question is where.”

“Parking lot at The Daily Grind, most likely. We’ll pull security footage.” Silas opened drawers in the kitchenette, finding the usual detritus of daily life—takeout menus, batteries, a tangle of phone chargers. Nothing useful.

Harper had moved to the corkboard, studying the photos. “She was social. Lots of friends. Active life.” She pointed to one photo. “That’s The Daily Grind in the background. And this one—hiking somewhere. Olympics, maybe?”

“Could be.” Silas moved closer, studying the photos with a profiler’s eye. “Background figures. If he stalked her first, he’d insert himself into her routine. Work, coffee shop, gym. Become part of the landscape before making contact.”

“Exactly.” Harper pulled out her phone and started photographing the corkboard. “With the family’s permission, I can run these through facial recognition. Cross-reference anyone who appears in multiple photos across different locations and dates.”

Silas considered it. Thorough. Methodical. The kind of groundwork that caught organized killers. “I’ll get the family’s permission.”

They worked in silence for a few minutes, Silas going through the apartment methodically while Harper studied the space with an intensity that was almost unsettling. She’d pause in odd places—by the window, near the bed, in front of the bathroom mirror—and just observe. Like she was trying to see what the killer had seen.

It reminded him of how he’d worked crime scenes in Afghanistan. Not just looking for evidence, but trying to understand the enemy’s mindset. What did they want? How did they think? What would they do next?

He’d been good at it. Good enough that the Army had pulled him into intelligence, then into psych-ops. Good enough that he could usually predict where the Taliban would strike next, which villages would be compromised, which informants would turn.