Page 63 of Whispers in the Night

The victim was on the second floor, positioned against a support column exactly like Jennifer Cross had been. Brunette, petite, mid-twenties. Symbols carved into her skin post-mortem. No visible signs of struggle or sexual assault.

But there was no message this time. No words carved into flesh. Just the symbols, precise and deliberate.

Dr. Reynolds looked up from examining the body. “Agent Sinclair. Detective Kane. We gotta quit meeting like this.”

“What can you tell us?” Harper asked, cutting to the chase, forcing herself to catalogue details instead of seeing a person.

“Female, approximately 24-26 years old, cause of death appears to be exsanguination from carotid artery incision. Same as the others.” Reynolds gestured to the symbols. “Post-mortem carving, same geometric patterns. Time of death approximately eighteen to twenty hours ago.”

“Eighteen hours?” Silas checked his watch. “That puts it at around six p.m. yesterday. During the press conference prep.”

“While we were at the station,” Harper said. The realization was bitter. “He killed her while we were getting ready to announce to the world that we were looking for him.”

“He’s taunting you,” Reynolds said quietly. “Showing you he can kill whenever he wants, regardless of your efforts.”

Harper approached the body, studying the symbols. They were identical to the previous victims. But something was different about the positioning.

“Her hands,” Harper said. “They’re positioned differently. Previous victims had arms at their sides. She’s got her hands crossed over her chest.”

Silas moved closer. “Like she’s sleeping. Or laid out for a funeral.”

“He’s changing his ritual,” Harper said. “Evolving it. Why?”

“Maybe he’s trying to tell you something,” Reynolds suggested.

Harper pulled out her phone, took photos of the positioning from multiple angles. She’d compare them to the previous victims later, look for patterns in the evolution.

“Do we have an ID yet?” Silas asked.

“Not officially, but her purse was left at the scene,” Morris said, appearing from the stairwell. “Driver’s license says Rachel Kim, 24, lives in the Riverside Apartments. Works as a nurse at Blackridge General.”

Rachel Kim. Another name. Another face. Another family that would get the worst phone call of their lives.

“She matches the profile,” Harper said. “Brunette, petite, professional job, lives alone or with roommates. He’s consistent in his selection.”

“But he left her purse,” Silas said. “That’s new too. Previous victims had no identification left at the scene.”

“He wanted her found quickly. Wanted to make sure we knew who she was.” Harper looked at the positioning again, at the careful arrangement of hands and limbs. “This is more personal. More ritualized. He’s not just killing anymore. He’s creating a tableau.”

They spent two hours processing the scene, photographing evidence, searching for anything the killer might have left behind. The building had been empty for months, scheduled for demolition, which meant minimal security and no witnesses.

Perfect for a killer who wanted privacy and time.

By the time they returned to the station, it was after six p.m. Harper had been awake for nearly forty hours straight, running on adrenaline and caffeine and pure stubborn refusal to quit.

“Go home,” Holloway ordered when he saw her. “Both of you. Get some sleep. You’re no good to anyone like this.”

“Captain—”

“That’s an order, Sinclair. You’ve been working nonstop since the first victim. You need to rest or you’re going to burn out.” He softened slightly. “I need you sharp tomorrow. Not dead on your feet.”

Harper wanted to argue, but she knew he was right. Her eyes were burning, her head pounding, her thoughts starting to blur together. She needed sleep.

“Four hours,” she negotiated. “Then I’m back.”

“Eight hours minimum. I’ll see you at seven a.m.”

Silas drove them back toward the cabin, but instead of heading into the forest, he pulled into the parking lot of a motel near the station.