Page 97 of Whispers in the Night

At two-forty-five, everyone was in position. Harper and Silas were with the arrest team in the parking lot, concealed behind vehicles. The search team was staged two blocks from Sutton’s apartment, ready to move on Holloway’s signal.

Two-fifty. Sutton’s dark-blue sedan wasn’t in the lot yet.

Two-fifty-five. Still no sign of him.

Three p.m. The parking lot remained empty.

Three-oh-five. Harper felt dread building in her chest.

“He’s not coming,” she said quietly.

“Give him a few more minutes,” Holloway’s voice crackled over the radio. “Could be stuck in traffic.”

Three-ten. Three-fifteen.

At three-twenty, Holloway’s voice came through tight and controlled. “He’s not showing. Search team, execute the apartment warrant. Find out where he is.”

Harper and Silas raced to their car, followed the search team to Sutton’s apartment complex. Her hands clenched the dashboard as Silas drove, her mind racing through possibilities. Maybe Sutton was sick. Maybe his car broke down. Maybe there was a perfectly innocent explanation.

But her gut said otherwise.

At the apartment, the search team breached the door with a battering ram. Harper and Silas entered behind them, weapons drawn.

The apartment was empty.

Not just empty of people—empty of everything. The furniture was gone. The closets were bare. Even the trash had been taken out.

“He cleaned it out,” Silas said, holstering his weapon. “He knew we were coming.”

Harper moved through the apartment, her heart sinking with each empty room. In the bedroom closet where they’d expectedto find trophies, there was nothing. Just bare walls and carpet indentations where furniture had been.

“Check for trace evidence,” the search team leader ordered. “Hair, fibers, anything he might have missed.”

But Harper knew they wouldn’t find much. Sutton was too smart, too careful. He’d cleaned this place thoroughly before leaving.

In what had been the bedroom, Harper noticed fresh vacuum marks on the carpet. In the bathroom, the faint smell of bleach. Sutton had scrubbed this place clean, removing any evidence that could tie him to the murders.

“When did he move out?” Silas asked.

One of the officers checked with the building manager. “Manager says Sutton gave notice yesterday morning. Said he got a job offer out of state, needed to move immediately. Paid his lease termination fee in cash, cleaned the apartment, turned in his keys last night around nine p.m.”

Yesterday morning. Right after they’d collected samples from his patrol car.

“He knew,” Harper said, ice flooding her veins. “Somehow, he knew we were building a case against him.”

“The vehicle inspection,” Silas said grimly. “He must have noticed. Put together what it meant.”

Harper wanted to scream with frustration. They’d been so close. Four hours away from arresting him, and he’d slipped through their fingers.

“Put out a BOLO,” Holloway ordered over the radio. “Dale Sutton, armed and dangerous, wanted for multiple homicides. Alert all neighboring jurisdictions, highway patrol, airports. I want every exit from this city covered.”

But Harper knew it was too late. Sutton had a twelve-hour head start. He could be anywhere by now.

The search team processed the apartment anyway, looking for anything Sutton might have missed. In the trash chute, they found a few items he’d discarded—old mail, empty cleaning product containers, a crumpled receipt.

The receipt was from a storage facility across town, dated three weeks ago. Monthly rental payment for a 10x10 unit.

“He has a storage unit,” Harper said. “That’s where he’d keep the trophies. Things he couldn’t risk having in his apartment where someone might see them.”