Page 6 of Whispers in the Night

Silas stood, his knees protesting. Thirty-six wasn’t old, but twelve years in the Army—four of them in intelligence, eight in the Rangers—had left him with souvenirs. A bad knee from a firefight in Kandahar. Scars across his back from shrapnel. And the kind of memories that made sleep a luxury he couldn’t afford.

He understood darkness. Had seen what humans were capable of when they stopped pretending to be civilized. That’s why he was good at this job. He could think like the monsters because he’d spent so much time hunting them overseas.

Sometimes, he worried he’d spent too long staring into the abyss.

“Detective Kane.”

He turned to find Captain Holloway approaching, picking his way carefully around the crime scene markers. The captain was in his fifties, gray-haired, with the weathered look of a man who’d spent over thirty years in law enforcement. Good cop. Fair. But he was also a political animal, which meant Silas had to watch his words.

“Captain. Didn’t expect you at three a.m.”

“Ritualistic murder tends to wake people up.” Holloway stopped a few feet from the body, his expression grim. “What are we looking at?”

“Female victim, early twenties. No ID on her yet. Cause of death is likely exsanguination from the cuts, but the ME will confirm. Positioning suggests the killer posed her post-mortem.” Silas gestured to the symbols. “These were done while she was alive. Shallow enough not to kill immediately, deep enough to hurt. He wanted her to suffer.”

“Jesus.” Holloway scrubbed a hand over his face. “Any witnesses?”

“Security guard found her, but he didn’t see anything. I’ve got patrols canvassing the area, but this place is pretty isolated at night. Whoever did this picked his spot carefully.”

“You said ‘his.’”

“Statistically, yes. This kind of ritualistic violence, the strength required for the positioning, the sexual undertones—it fits a male profile.” Silas paused. “But that’s preliminary. I’ll know more once I can work the scene properly.”

Holloway nodded, then cleared his throat. “About that. I got a call from the FBI—”

“Yeah. She found me at the crime scene.” Silas kept his voice neutral, professional. “Agent Harper Sinclair. She introduced herself about an hour ago.”

Holloway’s eyebrows rose. “She’s already here?”

“Already working the scene, actually. Took photos, examined the body, made herself right at home.” Silas couldn’t quite keep the edge out of his voice. “Would’ve been nice to get a heads-up before the FBI just showed up on my case, Captain.”

“I was going to tell you this morning, but you were already at the mill by the time I got the call.” Holloway’s tone turned firm. “And it’s not your case, Kane. It’s our case. The city council is breathing down my neck about this. A ritualistic murder makes people nervous. If the FBI is offering help, we’re taking it.”

Silas bit back a curse. Politics. It always came down to politics.

“She wants to meet later. Go over case details, align our approach.” He said it like the words tasted bad.

“Good. Then you’ll play nice and work with her.” Holloway clapped him on the shoulder. “I know you prefer working alone, but this isn’t negotiable. Agent Sinclair has specific expertise we don’t have.”

Alone.Yeah, that’s how Silas preferred it. Alone meant no one got hurt because of his calls. Alone meant he didn’t have to trust anyone else to watch his six. He’d learned that lesson in the Army, and he’d relearned it in Blackridge when his first partner turned out to be on the take from a local gang.

Trust got you killed. Or worse, it got other people killed.

“I’ll play nice,” Silas lied.

Holloway gave him a look that said he didn’t buy it but wasn’t going to push. “Just...try, okay? For me.”

After the captain left, Silas turned back to the body. The dead woman’s open eyes seemed to accuse him.You’re wasting time. Find him.

“I will,” he promised quietly.

***

Silas pulled into his driveway at four-fifteen a.m., killed the engine, and sat in the darkness of his truck.

The house looked exactly as he’d left it six hours ago—small, neat, unremarkable. A rental on the edge of Blackridge where the trees started to take over and neighbors were scarce. No porch light because Silas didn’t need one. No welcome mat because no one was welcome.

Just the way he liked it.