Page 18 of Whispers in the Night

“I’ll get you authorized.” Silas pulled into Riverside Park, where patrol cars and crime scene tape marked another scene of death. “Captain can fast-track it. Consider it done.”

He parked and killed the engine. Through the windshield, he could see the familiar chaos of a fresh crime scene. Officers establishing a perimeter. Crime scene techs suiting up. And in the center of it all, another body.

Another victim of a killer who was just getting started.

Harper reached for her door handle, but Silas stopped her with a hand on her arm. She looked at him, startled.

“If you see something that triggers you,” he said quietly, “tell me. Don’t try to push through it. Don’t try to be tough. Just tell me, and we’ll step away.”

“I’m fine—”

“Sinclair. Harper.” He waited until she met his eyes. “I’ve seen combat veterans have flashbacks. I’ve seen cops freeze up at crime scenes. There’s no shame in it. But I need to know you’ll tell me if you’re not okay, because I can’t have you going down in the middle of an active scene.”

She held his gaze for a long moment. Then she gave a single, sharp nod. “I’ll tell you.”

“Promise.” He held her gaze until she relented.

“I promise.”

Silas released her arm and climbed out of the car. The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of fresh-cut grassand something else—something copper-sweet that his brain automatically catalogued as blood.

They approached the crime scene, Silas flashing his badge at the uniform manning the perimeter. “Detective Kane and FBI Consultant Sinclair.”

The officer lifted the tape. “Second victim, Detective. Found by a jogger about an hour ago. She’s...well, you’ll see.”

They ducked under the tape and walked toward the center of activity. Crime scene techs parted to let them through. And then Silas saw her.

Young woman. Early twenties. Petite, dark-haired. Positioned exactly like Melissa Wagoner—arms above her head at that precise sixty-degree angle, head tilted left, throat exposed. And carved into her skin, those same impossible symbols.

“Jesus,” Silas breathed.

Next to him, Harper had gone very still. Her face was pale, her breathing shallow. Silas watched her carefully, ready to step in if she started to spiral.

But she didn’t. Instead, she crouched beside the body, studying it with that same intense focus she’d shown at Melissa’s apartment.

“Same positioning,” she said quietly. “Same symbols. Same victim type.” She pointed to the woman’s hands. “Look at her fingers. See the defensive wounds? She fought back more than Melissa did. He’s getting sloppier, or she was stronger.”

Silas crouched beside her, seeing what she saw. Scratches on the victim’s wrists. Bruising that suggested she’d struggled against restraints. “She fought.”

“Yes. Which means he’s not completely in control. He’s organized, methodical, but he’s also feeling pressure. The timeline is pushing him. He’s making mistakes.”

“That’s good for us.”

“Maybe.” Harper leaned closer, examining the cuts. “The symbols are identical to Melissa’s. Exactly identical. Which means he’s working from a template or a memory. He’s not improvising. He knows exactly what he wants to create.”

A crime scene tech approached—young woman, maybe late twenties, with red hair pulled back in a tight bun. “Detective Kane? We found her purse about twenty feet away. ID says she’s Amy Thorne, twenty-three, lives in the Westside apartments.”

Amy Thorne. Another name. Another life ended.

Silas stood, making notes. “TOD?”

“Preliminary estimate is between midnight and two a.m. ME will confirm.”

So Melissa Wagoner had been killed two nights ago. Amy Thorne last night. One victim per night. A pattern emerging.

“He’s hunting every night,” Harper said, echoing his thoughts. She’d stood too, was staring at Amy Thorne’s body with an expression Silas couldn’t quite read. “He’s accelerating. One victim per night. If the pattern holds...”

“There’ll be another one tonight,” Silas finished.