Page 9 of Whispers in the Night

The military had trained him for impossible missions. For working with people he didn’t like in situations where failure meant death. He could do this. He could compartmentalize his anger, his memories, his certainty that trusting people was a mistake.

He could work with Harper Sinclair.

He just couldn’t let her close enough to see the cracks. Couldn’t let her past the walls he’d built since Afghanistan. Couldn’t risk caring about whether she lived or died because caring meant vulnerability and vulnerability got people killed.

Williams had trusted him. Johnson had trusted him. Brown had trusted him.

And Silas had failed them all.

He wouldn’t fail again. Which meant keeping Harper Sinclair at arm’s length, no matter how effective she was as a profiler. No matter how much they might need to work together to catch this killer.

No matter what.

Silas finished his coffee, rinsed the cup, set it in the dish drainer. Checked his Glock, his badge, his phone. Grabbed his jacket and keys.

Seven a.m. One hour until the meeting.

Time to face Harper Sinclair and pretend he could be professional. Pretend he didn’t see his dead partner every time he looked at her. Pretend he wasn’t terrified of what it would mean if they actually managed to work together.

Time to lock the emotions away, focus on the mission, and do what he did best—solve cases alone, even when forced to work with a partner.

The drive to Blackridge PD took fifteen minutes. Silas spent them in silence, organizing his thoughts, building the walls higher, preparing for battle.

Because that’s what this was. A battle for control of his case, his investigation, his carefully constructed isolation.

And Silas had survived worse battles than Harper Sinclair.

He parked in his usual spot, climbed out of the truck, and walked into the station with the same controlled precision he did everything.

Ready or not, the partnership was starting.

And Silas was going to make damn sure it stayed professional, distant, and temporary.

No matter what it cost him.

Chapter 3

Harper sat in her SUV outside Blackridge Police Department and tried to convince herself to go inside.

Seven fifty-three a.m. She was early. She was always early—a habit from her FBI days when being late meant missing critical briefings or losing your spot on the operation. But right now, sitting in the parking lot watching officers come and go, she wished she’d waited another ten minutes.

She’d gone back to the cabin after leaving the crime scene, but sleep had been impossible. Instead, she’d showered, changed into professional clothes—black slacks, white button-down, blazer—and spent two hours reviewing everything she remembered about the Nevada case.

Sarah Henderson. Twenty-three years old, paralegal, found in a Reno parking garage. The symbols carved into her skin had been precise, deliberate. The ME had determined she’d been alive for at least some of the cutting. Harper remembered standing over that body five years ago, feeling the weight of it settle in her chest. Someone had done this. Someone was out there, walking around, living their life, while Sarah Henderson was dead.

Harper had promised herself she’d find him.

She’d failed.

Jessica Paul came next. Six weeks after Sarah. Same MO, same symbols, same careful positioning. Then Pamela Gibsonthree months later. Three victims in eight months, and then…nothing. The killer had vanished like smoke. Harper had worked the case for another year, chasing leads that went nowhere, building a profile that never materialized into an arrest.

Eventually, the case went cold. Harper moved on to other investigations, other killers, other victims who needed her voice.

But she’d never forgotten the symbols. Never forgotten the way the victims had been posed like dolls arranged for a tea party. Never forgotten the feeling that she’d failed three women who’d deserved justice.

And now he was back. In Blackridge. In her temporary home.

It felt personal. It felt like he’d followed her here specifically, chosen this place because she was here. Which was crazy—Harper knew that. Serial killers didn’t follow FBI agents around the country waiting for the perfect moment to resume killing. That wasn’t how it worked.