Marshall was quiet.Then: "I didn't mean it as—"
"I know what you meant it as.It was a fair note, and I heard it."She kept her eyes on the road."So, here's the thing I would have said differently in there.When you noticed the contradictions—good.That was real.But you would have brought it to him by agreeing with one of his framings first.You'd have said, 'The sacred geometry reading is interesting—tell me more about the mathematics.'Let him commit to one frame.Then, two questions later, when he's talked himself into a different frame, you don't accuse him of contradicting himself.You just name it.Softly.'A minute ago, you said this was research.Now you're calling it prayer.Help me understand how both are true for you.'The word ishelp.Not 'which one is it.'Witnesses answerhelp.They defend againstwhich one is it."
Marshall was writing.Not in his notebook—his notebook was still in his breast pocket—but on the back of his hand with a pen he'd produced from somewhere, the ink a small dark line across his knuckles.
"Help," he said."Not 'which one.'"
"And we don't lead with the hard question.We bank the observation.We let him keep talking.The contradictions accumulate, and when we have six of them, we pull them out in the debrief—not in his living room."
"Got it."
"And, Marshall—" she waited until he looked at her, "—we start over.From here.You're not James.I'm not going to keep holding you to him.If I slip back into that, I'd like you to tell me.The way you just did."
He nodded.Something in his posture, she noticed, had unwound slightly.The careful politeness he'd worn since his first day was still there, but it sat on top of something steadier now, the way a coat sits over a body that has finally stopped being cold.
"Deal," he said.
She drove.The streets of west Duluth gave way to the broader avenues of downtown, and the field office grew closer, and the press conference grew closer, and somewhere in the backcountry a killer who carved mandalas in snow was living a life that intersected with Isla's only at the points of violence—the meadows, the bodies, the terrible geometry of a mind she was still learning to read.
Marshall was quieter now, but it was a different quiet than before.Not a quiet waiting for her judgment.A quiet that was doing its own work.
She thought about James.About the hospital room and the monitors and the ventilator's mechanical breath.About Emma's arms around her waist and the fierce, certain declaration:He's going to wake up.
She thought about the press conference.About standing behind a podium with someone beside her who was not James, and not a stand-in for James, but his own particular kind of presence, which she had spent weeks failing to see.
She kept driving.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The podium was a cheap thing—particle board with the Duluth Police Department seal affixed to its front, the kind of thing built for traffic updates and community policing announcements, not for telling a city that something was hunting its people in the snow.Isla stood behind it and looked out at the room and felt the weight of every camera, every microphone, every face turned toward her with the hunger that press conferences generated—the appetite for information dressed as concern, for details dressed as public safety.
The briefing room at Duluth PD headquarters was standing room only.Local news crews occupied the front rows, their cameras mounted on tripods like sentries, red recording lights burning.Behind them, print reporters with notebooks and phones held at angles, and behind those, a scattering of faces Isla didn't recognize—bloggers, podcasters, the citizen journalists who materialized whenever a case crossed the threshold from local interest into something that could trend.
Kate Channing stood to Isla's right—slightly behind, the way a commanding officer stood when the operational lead was at the podium.Kate's presence was a kind of reassurance: quiet, immovable, the gray-blue eyes scanning the room with the alertness of a woman who had stood behind more podiums than Isla could count, who understood that what happened in front of the cameras was performance, and what mattered was what came after.
To Isla's left, the space was empty.
She didn't look at it.Couldn't afford to look at it, because looking at the space where James Sullivan should have been standing—hands clasped, deep-set blue eyes steady, radiating the quiet authority that had anchored her through every public moment in this city—would crack something in her composure that she could not afford to crack.Not here.
Marshall stood near the back wall.She'd told him to observe, not participate—not because he wasn't capable but because two faces at the podium were enough, and it was best for him to observe.
"Good afternoon."Her voice came out steady.Her eyes were level beneath the lights, and if the dark circles beneath them told a story the makeup hadn't fully concealed, the cameras would interpret exhaustion as dedication, and that was close enough to the truth."I'm Special Agent Isla Rivers with the FBI's Duluth field office.I'm joined by Special Agent in Charge Katherine Channing.We're here to address a public safety concern involving two deaths in the backcountry northwest and northeast of Duluth."
She paused.Let the room settle.This was the architecture of a press conference—the pacing, the silences, the calibration between what the public needed and what the investigation required.She'd learned it in Miami, standing behind podiums with Reggie Stamos at her shoulder and the confidence of a woman who believed her instincts were infallible.That confidence had died with Alicia Mendez.What replaced it was something harder—not confidence but discipline, the understanding that precision mattered more than presence, that the words she chose in the next five minutes would shape public behavior and possibly determine whether someone lived or died tonight.
"Over the past several days, two individuals have been found deceased in isolated backcountry locations.Both were experienced outdoor enthusiasts.Both were alone at the time of their deaths.The circumstances of these deaths indicate that a single individual is responsible, and that this individual is specifically targeting people who are alone in remote wilderness areas."
The room shifted.She could feel it—the intake of breath, the slight forward lean of bodies in chairs, the almost imperceptible increase in the frequency of shutter clicks.The wordtargetingdid that.It transformed a story about deaths in the backcountry from a wilderness hazard into something predatory, and predatory was the word that made people lock their doors.
"We are working closely with local law enforcement, the St.Louis County Sheriff's Office, and state patrol to identify and apprehend this individual.In the meantime, we are issuing the following advisory."
She looked directly into the nearest camera.This was the moment that mattered—not the summary of facts, not the jurisdictional cooperation, but the directive.The thing that would air on every local station and scroll across every phone screen and be discussed in every kitchen and every bar in Duluth tonight.
"We strongly advise all hikers and campers to remain indoors this evening and through the night.If you must go out, do not go alone.Do not hike, camp, or travel into backcountry areas under any circumstances.Avoid isolated locations.Travel in groups.Tell someone where you are going and when you expect to return."She paused again, letting each sentence land separately, giving them the individual weight they deserved."This advisory applies to all areas surrounding Duluth, including state and county parks, wilderness trails, and any unpatrolled terrain."
The questions came like gunfire.
How long has the FBI known?Are there any suspects?
