Page 44 of Whispers in the Night

Silas felt anger flare, hot and sharp. “That’s not fair.”

“Neither is letting more women die when we could stop him.” Harper’s expression softened. “I know you’re scared. I know you’re worried about failing, about something going wrong, about losing someone else. I get that, Silas. I really do. But this is the job. This is what we signed up for when we became cops and agents. Sometimes, we have to take risks.”

They’d been over this too many times. He was getting tired of hearing himself repeat it. “Calculated risks. Strategic risks. Not ‘walk out and dare a serial killer to attack you’ risks.”

“It’ll be calculated. It’ll be strategic. You’ll be there. Backup will be there. We’ll control the environment as much as possible.” Harper reached over, took his hand, imploring him with her eyes. “But we have to do something. We can’t just sit here waiting for him to make the next move.”

Silas stared at their joined hands. This was becoming a habit—reaching for each other, connecting physically when words weren’t enough. He should pull away. Should maintain boundaries. Should remember that getting close to people got them killed.

But Harper’s hand was warm and steady in his, and he found he didn’t want to let go.

Finally, he cleared his throat. “If we do this—and I’m not saying yes—but if we do this, we do it my way,” Silas said. “Full tactical support. Undercover officers in the coffee shop. Surveillance on every entrance and exit. You wear a wire. You don’t go anywhere without me in visual range.”

“Agreed.”

“And if at any point I think it’s too dangerous, we pull the plug. No arguments.”

“Silas—”

“No arguments,” he repeated firmly. “That’s non-negotiable. You want me to let you put yourself in danger, you have to trust me to pull you out if things go sideways.”

Harper nodded slowly. “Okay. Deal.”

They finished the drive to the cabin in silence. Inside, they moved through the evening routine that was becoming familiar—Harper made tea, Silas checked the perimeter, they settled in the living room with laptops and case files, working side by side.

Comfortable. Domestic. As if they’d been doing this for years instead of days.

“I need to ask you something,” Harper said around nine p.m., setting aside her laptop. “Earlier, at the station, when I suggested using myself as bait. You said you couldn’t watch me put myself in danger. Why?”

Silas kept his eyes on his screen. “You know why. Afghanistan. My team. I failed them.”

“But I’m not your team. I’m not your responsibility.”

He stared at the screen but had stopped seeing what was on it. “You’re my partner on this case—”

“That’s not what I’m asking.” Harper moved from the couch to sit beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched. “Silas. Look at me.”

He did. And saw understanding in her eyes, saw the question she was really asking.Why do you care so much? Why does it matter if I’m in danger?

“I don’t know,” Silas said honestly. “I don’t know why it matters so much. I just know that the thought of something happening to you, of failing to protect you, makes me feel like I’m back in that compound. Like I’m watching my team die all over again.”

“I’m not going to die.”

So confident. “You don’t know that.”

“Neither do you.” Harper’s hand found his again, but this time, her fingers threaded through his. “But we can’t live our lives avoiding risk because we’re afraid. We can’t stop doing the job because something might go wrong. That’s not living, Silas. That’s just surviving.”

“Surviving is underrated.” His heart was beating faster now, a tight sensation growing in his chest.

“No, it’s not. Surviving without living, without connecting, without taking chances—that’s just a different kind of death.” Harper’s voice was small, soft. “I learned that after Michael died. I spent six months surviving—hiding in this cabin, avoiding people, trying to make myself small enough that the world wouldn’t notice me. And you know what? It didn’t work. The killer still found me. Women still died. And I was miserable.”

Silas hadn’t stopped looking at their joined hands. Tried to remember the last time he’d held someone’s hand like this, with intention and meaning. Maybe never. Maybe he’d been surviving so long he’d forgotten what living looked like.

“I’m scared,” he admitted quietly. “Scared of failing you. Scared of making the wrong call. Scared that I’ll let you walk into danger and won’t be fast enough to save you.”

“I’m scared too. Scared of the killer, scared of becoming his masterpiece, scared that I’ll freeze up at the wrong moment and get someone else killed.” Harper squeezed his hand. “But we’re scared together. And that’s better than being scared alone.”

They sat like that, hands clasped, shoulders touching. The cabin was quiet except for the ticking clock and the wind outside. Silas became acutely aware of Harper’s warmth beside him, the rise and fall of her breathing, the way her thumb brushed unconsciously across his knuckles.