Page 46 of Whispers in the Night

But he’d done the right thing, he told himself. He’d protected her from himself, from the curse he carried, from the inevitable disaster that came with getting close to him.

Even if it felt like he’d just made the worst mistake of his life.

Silas grabbed his own laptop and headed to the guest room. He had tactical plans to make for tomorrow, backup to coordinate, a trap to set for a serial killer.

He couldn’t afford to be distracted by what-ifs and almost-kisses and the memory of Harper’s face so close to his, her breath warm against his skin, her eyes asking a question he desperately wanted to answer.

Work. Focus on the work. Keep her alive. Catch the killer.

Everything else was just noise.

But as Silas lay in bed hours later, staring at the ceiling, he couldn’t stop thinking about the hurt in Harper’s eyes when he’d pulled away. Couldn’t stop wondering if pushing her away made her safer or just made them both more alone.

And he couldn’t shake the feeling that tomorrow—when Harper put herself in the killer’s crosshairs—everything was going to go wrong.

Chapter 9

The Daily Grind smelled like espresso and burnt sugar, the air thick with the sounds of the morning rush. Harper and Silas had claimed a back corner table at seven a.m., laptops open, coffee cups steaming between them. To anyone watching, they looked like any other couple working remotely—her in a soft blue sweater with her dark hair down, him in jeans and a henley that made him look less like a cop and more like someone who restored motorcycles in his spare time.

Which, Harper had learned this morning, he actually did.

“Large dark roast, black,” Silas ordered when the barista stopped by their table.

“Cappuccino, extra shot,” Harper added, already cataloguing the young woman’s features. Early twenties, nose ring, genuine smile. Not Melissa. Melissa had been dead three days now, her body carved with symbols that had haunted Harper for five years.

The barista moved away and Harper adjusted her laptop screen, angling it so only she could see the crime scene photos displayed there. Three victims. Melissa Wagoner, Amy Thorne, Nicole Merrin. All brunettes, all petite, all in their twenties. All looking enough like Harper to make her skin crawl.

“Relax,” Silas said quietly, his eyes on his own screen but his awareness clearly on her. “You’re supposed to be working, not hunting.”

“I am working,” she muttered.

“You’re coiled like a spring. Anyone watching can see it.” His knee pressed against hers under the table—deliberate, grounding. “Breathe.”

Harper forced herself to exhale, to settle back in her chair. He was right. She’d been doing undercover work for years, but this felt different. Personal. The killer had written her a note, had fixated on her specifically. Every person who walked through that door could be him.

The first hour crawled. Harper watched an endless stream of customers—business suits grabbing coffee before work, students with textbooks claiming tables, elderly couples sharing pastries. She catalogued each one: too old, wrong build, female, wrong energy.

“Tell me something,” Silas said, breaking the silence. His voice was casual, but Harper recognized the tactic. Keep her talking, keep her engaged, prevent her from spiraling into the dark places her mind wanted to go.

“Like what?”

“Why’d you join the FBI?”

The question surprised her. They’d been living together for days now, navigating the strange intimacy of shared space and shared nightmares, but they’d mostly talked about the case. Not personal history. Not the things that shaped them.

Harper took a sip of cappuccino, considering. “My father was Chicago PD. Died in the line of duty when I was twelve.”

Silas’s fingers stilled on his keyboard. “I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.” But even now, seventeen years later, the memory could cut like glass. Her father in his uniform, kissing her goodbye on his way to work. The knock on the door six hours later. Her mother’s scream. “He used to say that cops made a difference. That they protected people who couldn’tprotect themselves. I wanted to do that too, but bigger. National level.”

“So you joined the Behavioral Analysis Unit.”

“Eventually. Did my time in field offices first, worked my way up.” Harper watched another customer enter—white male, thirties, hoodie pulled low. Her pulse kicked up. “Started in violent crimes, then got recruited to the BAU four years ago.”

The man in the hoodie ordered black coffee, paid cash, took a seat by the window. Harper studied him—the way he held himself, the direction of his gaze, the tension in his shoulders. Something about him felt wrong.

“That’s him,” she breathed.