Page 3 of Whispers in the Night

The loading dock’s overhead door was rolled up, revealing a cavernous space filled with old equipment and shadows. The work lights created an island of brightness in the center, and that’s where Harper saw them.

Three people clustered around something on the concrete floor. Two crime scene techs in white Tyvek suits, photographing and documenting. And a man in dark jeans and a black jacket, crouched beside what Harper’s mind clinically identified as a body.

He looked up as her footsteps echoed in the space.

Even in the harsh light, Harper could see he was striking. Late thirties, maybe, with dark hair that fell across his forehead and the kind of sharp features that belonged in a cologne ad. Butit was his eyes that stopped her—pale blue, cold, and currently drilling into her with undisguised hostility.

“Crime scene’s closed,” he said, voice flat. Not a suggestion. A command.

Harper kept walking. “Special Agent Harper Sinclair, FBI. I need to see the body.”

He stood in one fluid movement, putting himself between her and the victim. Tall. He was tall, maybe six-two, with the compact build of someone who knew how to handle themselves. “You need to turn around and leave. This is my scene.”

“It’s connected to one of my cases.” Harper craned her neck, trying to see past him. She caught a glimpse of pale skin, dark hair, an arm positioned at an unnatural angle. “Move.”

“No.” He stepped closer, using his height to intimidate. It might have worked on someone else. “I don’t care what kind of badge you’re waving. This is Blackridge, not FBI jurisdiction. You want access, you go through proper channels.”

Harper met his glare without flinching. “While you’re protecting your turf, a serial killer is active in your town. Let me see the body, Detective...”

“Kane. Silas Kane.” His jaw tightened. “And I’m aware of what I’m dealing with, Agent Sinclair. What I don’t need is the FBI barging in and contaminating my scene.”

Your scene.God, she hated territorial cops.

Harper made a split-second decision. She sidestepped him, quick enough that he didn’t react in time, and got her first clear look at the victim.

Her breath caught.

The young woman lay on her back, arms positioned above her head in a specific angle—sixty degrees, if Harper remembered correctly. Her head was tilted to the left, chin up, exposing the throat. And carved into her torso, carefully precise,were symbols that Harper had seen in her nightmares for five years.

Circles within triangles. Lines that intersected at exact points. A language that only the killer understood.

“Jesus Christ,” she whispered.

A hand clamped onto her arm, yanking her backward. Silas Kane’s face was fury personified. “I saidout.”

“Those symbols—”

“Are part of an active investigation. Get. Out.”

“Sarah Henderson, Reno, five years ago,” Harper said quickly, letting him drag her toward the exit. “Jessica Paul, six weeks later. Pamela Gibson, three months after that. Same symbols, same positioning, same victim type. Young, brunette, petite. Then he stopped. Until now.”

Silas stopped pulling her, his hand still locked around her arm. “How do you know that?”

“Because I worked the case. I’ve been hunting this bastard for five years, and he just turned up in my backyard.” Harper wrenched her arm free. “So you can either work with me or waste time, Detective. But that woman on your floor? She’s not his last. He’s just getting started again.”

Something flickered in Silas ‘s expression—calculation, maybe, or recognition. “Harper Sinclair,” he said slowly. “The profiler.”

The way he said it made her skin prickle. There was knowledge there. The wrong kind.

“Yes,” she said carefully.

“The profiler whose partner died six months ago.” His voice was colder now. “The one who made the call that got him killed.”

The words hit like a physical blow. Harper felt her face go numb, her chest tighten. Of course he knew. Everyone knew. The FBI’s failure had been splashed across every news outlet.AgentMichael Ward killed in botched operation. Questions raised about lead profiler’s judgment.

“That’s not—” she started.

“I read the report,” Silas cut her off. “You ignored protocol. Went in without backup. Your partner followed you and died for it.” He stepped closer, and now his expression was pure contempt. “And you think I’m going to let someone with that kind of judgment anywhere near my case? My victim?”