Page 49 of Whispers in the Night

“Then we adapt. We find another approach.”

“While another woman dies.” Harper’s hands clenched in her lap. “Someone’s daughter, someone’s sister, someone’s friend is dying tonight, and we spent fifteen hours drinking cappuccinos.”

“Harper—”

“Don’t. Just...don’t.” She was already screaming inside. If she kept talking, she just might open her mouth and let it out.

They finished the drive in silence.

When they pulled up to the cabin, Harper was already reaching for the door handle, desperate to escape into the darkness and her own spiraling thoughts.

Then she saw it.

“Silas.”

He followed her gaze. There, taped to the front door, glowing white in the porch light, was an envelope.

Harper was out of the car before Silas cut the engine, weapon drawn, scanning the perimeter. The forest pressed close, dark and silent. Wind rustled through the pines. Nothing else moved.

“Clear,” Silas said, coming up behind her. His gun was out too, his body angled to shield her. “Stay behind me.”

They approached the door together, weapons raised. The envelope was standard white, sealed, with her name written in neat block letters across the front: HARPER.

“Don’t touch it,” Silas said. “Evidence.”

But Harper could see writing through the thin paper, could see the careful letters forming words she knew would gut her. Her hands shook as she pulled on latex gloves from her jacket pocket and carefully peeled the envelope from the door.

Inside was a single sheet of white paper, folded once.

She unfolded it.

Harper, Harper, Harper.

Did you really think you could trap me so easily? I saw your little stakeout—so obvious, so amateur. All those officers pretending to be customers, the surveillance vans parked outside. You insult my intelligence.

I’ve been watching you for FIVE YEARS. I know how you think. I’m always three steps ahead.

But since you tried to deceive me, someone has to pay the price. She’s screaming right now as I write this. Begging. Crying YOUR name. Every cut is your fault, Harper. You did this to her.

Sleep well.

— Your biggest admirer

The paper slipped from Harper’s nerveless fingers, fluttering to the porch floor.

“Harper?” Silas’s voice sounded distant, underwater. “Harper, look at me.”

She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. The words echoed in her head, over and over:Every cut is your fault. You did this to her.

“He was there,” she whispered. “At the coffee shop. Watching us.”

“We don’t know—”

“Yes, we do!” Harper spun to face him, and she could feel her control fracturing. “He saw the surveillance. He knew it was a trap. And now someone’s dying because of me.”

Silas grabbed her shoulders, forced her to look at him. “Listen to me. This is what he wants. He wants you to feel guilty, to blame yourself, to fall apart. Don’t give him that power.”

Her voice cracked as she spoke. “A woman is dying—”