Page 2 of Whispers in the Night

“It’s ritualistic. Young woman, early twenties, posed in a specific position. Symbols carved into the skin.” He paused, and she heard him take a breath. “It matches the Nevada case.”

The world tilted sideways.

Harper gripped the counter with her free hand. “What?”

“Your unsolved from five years ago. The Henderson case. Same victim type, same positioning, same symbols. I pulled the file the moment I saw the crime scene photos. It’s him, Harper. It has to be.”

The Henderson case. Sarah Henderson, twenty-three, found in a Reno parking garage. Carved like a canvas. Posed like a doll. Harper had worked that case for eight months, tracking a killer who’d vanished like smoke the moment she got close. Three victims total. Then nothing.

Five years of nothing.

“Who caught it?” Harper asked, her voice steadier than she felt.

“Local detective. Silas Kane. Blackridge PD’s lead investigator for major crimes. Does behavioral analysis, profiling—former military, works solo from what I hear. He’s good, but he’s never seen anything like this.”

“Neither have most people.” Harper’s mind was already spinning, pulling up details from five years ago. The specific angle of the victims’ heads. The pattern of cuts. The way the killer arranged their hands. “Send me the file.”

“Harper—”

“Send it.”

“You’re on leave for a reason.”

“And you called me. There’s a serial killer active in my backyard. Send me the goddamn file, Ellery.”

A long pause. Then, “I’m sending a consultant. FBI liaison to assist local PD. It’ll take a day or two to arrange.”

Her jaw clenched. “Fine. In the meantime, I’m going to the scene.”

“Harper, you’re not authorized—”

“I’m not under FBI jurisdiction right now, remember? I’m just a civilian who’s very interested in a local crime.” She was already moving toward the bedroom, phone tucked between shoulder and ear. She wasn’t going to allow herself to be sidelined. Not on this. “Where’s the scene?”

Ellery sighed. He knew her well enough to know when he’d lost. But then, he never should have called her in the first place if he didn’t want her involved. “Old paper mill on the east side. It’s still active—crime scene tape should be obvious. But Harper? Don’t make me regret this. And for God’s sake, don’t piss off the locals.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Harper lied.

***

The paper mill loomed against the pre-dawn sky like something out of a nightmare, all rusted metal and broken windows. Crime scene tape fluttered in the wind, cordoning off a section of the loading dock. Two patrol cars sat in the gravel lot, light bars dark. Someone had set up portable work lights that cast harsh shadows across the scene.

Harper parked her rental SUV at the edge of the lot and climbed out. The air smelled like pine and old paper and something else—something copper-sweet that made her stomach clench. Blood. Even from here, she could smell it.

She’d thrown on jeans and an FBI windbreaker—technically against protocol since she wasn’t active, but it might buy her thirty seconds before someone kicked her out. Every second counted.

A uniformed officer spotted her as she approached. Young, maybe mid-twenties, with the eager look of someone who still thought police work was glamorous.

“Ma’am, this is a crime scene. You need to—”

Harper flashed her FBI credentials quickly, counting on him not to look too closely. “Special Agent Harper Sinclair. Who’s the lead?”

“Detective Kane, but—”

“Where?”

The officer hesitated, then pointed toward the loading dock. “Inside, but you really should—”

Harper was already moving.