Page 56 of Whispers in the Night

Harper couldn’t sleep. At three a.m., she gave up trying.

She moved quietly from her bedroom to the main living area, careful not to wake Silas who’d finally dozed off in the armchair around two. He looked uncomfortable, his tall frame folded into a chair meant for someone six inches shorter, but Harper knew better than to suggest he take the couch. He’d positioned himself between her bedroom door and the cabin’s entrance. Standing guard even in sleep.

Harper made coffee—strong and black—and spread the case files across the kitchen table. Nine victims. Nine women who’d died because a monster had fixated on her five years ago and never let go.

She pulled up the files from Oregon State Police. Sarah Williams, 24, and Christina Park, 23. Both killed three years ago in Portland. Both found with all the same hallmarks of the killer’s MO, with the worst being them resembling Harper enough that it made her stomach turn. It was a constant reminder that at the very base of it all, and no matter what Silas said, she was the reason he killed.

The Nevada case had been five years ago. Three victims there—Sarah Henderson, Jessica Paul, and Pamela Gibson. Then nothing for two years. Then the Portland murders three years ago. Then two in Seattle two years ago. One in California eighteen months ago.

And now four in Blackridge in less than a week.

The acceleration pattern was clear. He was building toward some kind of climax that Harper couldn’t quite see yet.

“You should be sleeping.”

Harper jumped, coffee sloshing over the rim of her mug. Silas stood in the doorway, hair mussed from sleep, his pale-blue eyes alert despite the hour.

“Couldn’t,” Harper said. “Too much in my head.”

Silas moved to the coffee pot, poured himself a cup, and joined her at the table. He studied the files she’d spread out—crime scene photos, victim profiles, geographic maps with pins marking each murder location.

“Tell me what you’re seeing,” he said.

“A pattern. But I can’t quite figure out what it means.” Harper pointed to the timeline she’d constructed. “Nevada five years ago—three victims in two months, then he goes to ground. Two years of nothing. Then Portland—two victims in three weeks. Another year of silence. Seattle—two victims. California—one. And now Blackridge—four in six days.”

“He’s accelerating,” Silas observed.

“Not only that. Look at the time between kills within each location.” Harper pulled up her notes. “Nevada: three weeks between victim one and two, then one week to victim three. Portland: two weeks, then one week. Seattle: one week, then three days. California was a single victim, but Blackridge—he’s killing every other day now.”

“He’s losing control.”

“Or gaining confidence. Getting better at it, more comfortable with the process.” Harper rubbed her eyes, feeling the exhaustion pulling at her. “But there’s something else. Look at the geographic progression.”

Silas studied the map. “He’s following you.”

“Not just following. Anticipating.” Harper traced the pattern with her finger. “Nevada was my first BAU case. I gave that press conference explaining the symbols, the profile. He fixated on me there. Then I got assigned to Portland six months later—completely unrelated case, financial crimes investigation. But he was already there. Killed two women before I even arrived.”

“You think he knew you were coming?”

“I think he had access to FBI assignment information somehow. Or he was monitoring me closely enough to know where I’d be deployed next.” Harper pulled up her assignment history. “Look, every city where he’s killed, I was either working a case or about to start one within weeks of the murders.”

Silas was quiet for a long moment, his detective’s mind working through the implications. “That’s not just obsession. That requires resources, access to information, planning.”

“Which tells us something about him.” Harper grabbed her notebook, started writing. “He has to have either law enforcement connections, government access, or exceptional hacking skills. He needs transportation—the ability to move between states quickly. And he needs a flexible schedule that allows him to follow me across the western United States.”

“Independently wealthy? Consultant? Remote work?”

“Or law enforcement himself.” The words hung heavy in the air as Harper met Silas’s steady gaze.

His expression darkened. “You think he’s a cop.”

She hated the idea of it, but when she looked at the evidence… “I think we can’t rule it out. The way he disabled the security cameras at the parking garage—Morris said it was a professional job. The way he knows our procedures, our response times. The message he left saying he saw through our coffee shop surveillance.” Harper met Silas’s eyes again. “He knows how we think because he thinks the same way.”

“Or he’s just smart and observant.”

“Maybe.” She shrugged. “But we need to consider all possibilities.”

Harper’s phone buzzed. Email from Morris, time-stamped 3:17 a.m. Subject line: More victims found.