Page 21 of Whispers in the Night

Harper stared at the note, her expression unreadable. “He’s escalating. And I’m the target.”

“We need to get you somewhere safe—”

“No.” Her voice was hard. “We need to catch him. Before he kills anyone else. Before he makes good on his promise.”

She met Silas’s eyes, and he saw determination there. Fear, yes, but also resolve.

“He wants me?” Harper said quietly. “Fine. Let’s give him what he wants. Let’s use me as bait.”

“Absolutely not—”

“It’s the only way to stop him, Silas. You know it is.”

Silas stared at her for a long moment, his teeth grinding in frustration.

Because damn it, she was right.

Chapter 5

The morgue smelled like chemicals and death.

Harper had been in dozens of morgues over her fifteen years with the FBI, but the smell never got easier. It was the kind of scent that clung to your clothes, your hair, your skin. The kind that followed you home and made you want to scrub yourself raw in the shower.

But this was the job. This was where the dead spoke, where victims told their stories through the violence inflicted upon them. And Harper needed to hear what Melissa Wagoner and Amy Thorne had to say.

The medical examiner was a woman in her fifties named Dr. Patty Reynolds—tall, angular, with steel-gray hair pulled back in a bun and the kind of no-nonsense demeanor Harper immediately respected. She stood beside two examination tables, both occupied by bodies draped in white sheets.

“Agent Sinclair, Detective Kane.” Dr. Reynolds nodded at them as they entered. “I assume you want the detailed findings.”

“Everything you’ve got,” Silas said.

Harper pulled her jacket tighter, trying not to shiver. Morgues were always cold—necessary for preserving bodies—but the chill went deeper than temperature. It was the coldness of death itself, the absence of warmth that came with life.

Dr. Reynolds pulled back the first sheet, revealing Melissa Wagoner. In death, she looked smaller somehow. Fragile. Thesymbols carved into her skin were stark against her pale flesh, each line precise and deliberate.

“Melissa Wagoner, twenty-four,” Dr. Reynolds began. “Cause of death is exsanguination resulting from multiple incised wounds. Time of death between ten p.m. and midnight, two nights ago, which correlates with your timeline.”

“The cuts,” Harper said, stepping closer. “Were they made pre- or post-mortem?”

“Pre-mortem. All of them.” Dr. Reynolds pointed to the symbols with a gloved finger. “See the inflammation around the edges? The blood saturation in the tissue? She was alive when these were made. Her heart was pumping, blood flowing. These wounds bled.”

Harper’s stomach clenched. “How long?”

“How long was she alive during the cutting?” Dr. Reynolds paused, consulting her notes. “Based on the pattern and depth of the wounds, I’d estimate he took his time. Thirty minutes, maybe more. The cuts are shallow enough not to cause immediate death, but deep enough to be extremely painful. He wanted her conscious and aware.”

“Jesus,” Silas muttered.

Harper forced herself to look at the symbols dispassionately, professionally. Circles within triangles. Intersecting lines. A pattern that had haunted her for five years.

“What about defensive wounds?” she asked.

“Minimal. Some bruising on the wrists consistent with restraints. Likely zip ties or rope. But no scratches on the killer, no skin under her fingernails, no signs of a significant struggle.” Dr. Reynolds moved to Melissa’s hands. “She was restrained quickly and efficiently. He knew what he was doing.”

“Sexual assault?”

“No evidence of sexual contact. No trauma to the genital area, no foreign DNA in the vaginal or anal cavities. This wasn’t sexual in nature. At least not in the traditional sense.”

Harper nodded. That matched the Nevada cases. The killer wasn’t motivated by sexual gratification. His satisfaction came from something else—the creation of the symbols, the positioning of the bodies, the control he exerted over his victims in their final moments.