Page 84 of Whispers in the Night

In the conference room, Morris had Amanda Crawford’s background pulled up on the screens.

“She worked at TechVista Solutions downtown,” Morris said. “Been there for three years. Good employee, well-liked, no enemies anyone can think of.”

“Social media?” Harper asked.

“Active on Instagram and Facebook. Posted regularly about her life—work, friends, hiking trips. Nothing that would connect her to the other victims.”

“Where was she last seen?”

“Security footage from her apartment building shows her leaving for work yesterday morning at eight a.m. She posted on Instagram around six p.m. from a restaurant downtown—had dinner with a friend. Friend says they parted ways around seven-thirty. Amanda texted her at eight saying she made it home safe.”

“But she didn’t make it home,” Silas said.

“No. Her car is still in the restaurant parking lot. He must have grabbed her somewhere between the restaurant and her apartment.”

Harper studied the map on the screen. The restaurant was four blocks from Amanda’s apartment. A walkable distance on a nice evening. The route would take her past several businesses, a park, and residential streets.

Plenty of opportunities for someone to approach her. Especially someone she might trust. Someone in a uniform.

“Pull security footage from every business and traffic camera along that route,” Harper said, snapping off her gloves as she stood. “I want to see who she encountered between seven-thirty and eight p.m.”

“Already on it,” Sanchez said. “But it’s going to take time. We’re talking dozens of cameras, hours of footage.”

“Then we start now and work through the night if we have to.”

They spent the afternoon doing just that—reviewing footage, cross-referencing faces, looking for anything suspicious. At six p.m., Holloway ordered everyone to take a dinner break. Harper wasn’t hungry, but Silas insisted they at least get coffee and some air.

They walked to a coffee shop two blocks from the station. The evening was cool, the sky turning purple as the sun set. Normal people were heading home from work, going out to dinner, living their lives unaware that a serial killer was hunting in their city.

“You’re spiraling,” Silas said gently as they waited for their order.

Harper’s knee bouncing beneath the table immediately stilled. “Six women are dead.”

“I know.”

“We’re supposed to be stopping him. That’s our job. And we’re failing.” She wanted to punch something. To release the frustration and anger building inside her.

“We’re not failing. We’re working one of the most complex cases either of us has ever seen.” Silas accepted their coffees from the barista then led Harper to a quiet corner table. How he was so calm was a mystery to her. “Serial investigations take time. You know that.”

“Time we don’t have. He’s killing every three to four days now. That means we’ve got maybe two days before victim number seven,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Which is why we keep working. Why we follow every lead, analyze every piece of evidence, and trust the process.” Silas reached across the table and took her hand, his blue eyes holding hers steady. “But we also have to take care of ourselves. We can’t work twenty-four hours straight and expect to be effective.”

Harper looked away. She knew he was right. But the guilt was eating at her. “I keep thinking about last night. About how happy I was. And while I was feeling that way, Amanda was dying.”

“That’s not your fault.”

“Logically, I know that,” she said with an exasperated sigh. “But emotionally...” Harper’s throat tightened. “I let myself get distracted. Let myself think about something other than the case for a few hours. And a woman died.”

“A woman died because a killer murdered her. Not because you took a few hours to be human.” Silas squeezed her hand. “Harper, you can’t do this to yourself. You can’t carry responsibility for his actions.”

She sat back, severing their connection. “Then whose responsibility is it? I’m the one he’s fixated on. I’m the reason these women are dying.”

“No. He’s the reason they’re dying. His sickness, his choices, his evil. You’re trying to stop him. That’s all anyone can ask of you.”

Harper wanted to believe that. Wanted to let go of the guilt that was crushing her chest. But she couldn’t shake the image of Amanda Crawford’s face, the careful arrangement of her body, the symbols carved into her skin.

Another message. Another victim. Another failure.