Page 104 of If You're Reading This

Logan couldn’t shake the feeling that they’d just been played again. The killer had used their own dedication against them and turned their urgency into a liability.

But this time, Logan was starting to understand the pattern. The killer wasn’t just staying one step ahead. He was leading them exactly where he wanted them to go.

The question was whether they could figure out his next destination before it was too late.

An hour later, Yazzie had left to take Reeves to the hospital.

The rest of the team had secured the crime scene and were waiting for the coroner’s van to navigate the forest service road. The team gathered in a loose circle near the parking area, the smell of smoke still clinging to their clothes.

“Five different methods,” Duke murmured as he stared at the tree. “Mercer was shot, Kohler was asphyxiated, Walsh was frozen, Winters was stabbed, and now this—burned alive.”

“That’s unusual.” Andi frowned. “Most serial killers stick to a preferred method. It becomes part of their signature.”

“But this isn’t about the killing method,” Duke murmured. “It’s about the staging afterward. The method is just whatever serves the artistic vision.”

Logan nodded, his jaw tight. “This guy isn’t a typical serial killer. He’s someone recreating specific photographs, and he’ll use whatever means necessary to achieve the exact composition he wants.”

“Which brings us to the final photograph.” Andi pulled out her phone. “If he’s following Morgan’s portfolio chronologically, there’s only one left in the series.”

She turned the screen toward them.

The image showed a figure silhouetted against the Aurora Borealis, standing by what appeared to be a river. The composition was stark and beautiful—a lone person contemplating the dancing lights above, surrounded by the vast emptiness of the Alaskan wilderness.

Logan stared at the photograph, and cold realization washed over him.

The figure in the image was too distant to make out features. But something about the posture, the stance, was familiar.

He remembered when she took that picture. February.

Valentine’s Day, to be precise. Logan remembered that night.

He’d wanted to take Morgan to dinner. Before he could ask, she’d mentioned she had to capture the aurora during a particularly strong geomagnetic event.

He’d gone with her but hadn’t asked about dinner.

He’d rationalized that it was better that way. That he needed to keep his distance.

How would things be different right now if he’d followed through?

“Logan.” Andi quietly studied his face. “You recognize this, don’t you?”

“Morgan took this picture of me at the Tanana River.” Logan’s voice was barely audible. “I was waiting for her by my truck.”

The implications seemed to hit the entire team simultaneously.

“The final composition,” Andi said slowly. “It’s not just about recreating the photograph.”

“It’s about recreating it with the original subject,” Duke finished.

Logan felt the weight of their stares, the terrible logic of what they’d discovered. The killer had been working toward this moment from the beginning—not just recreating Morgan’s art but completing it with the ultimate authenticity.

“This means Morgan is still alive.” Andi’s words seemed marred with forced optimism. “She has to be. She needs to witness the finale.”

Logan nodded absently, still staring at the photograph of himself silhouetted against the aurora. Somewhere out there, a killer was preparing to recreate this exact image. And Logan would be both the star and the victim of the final performance.

The question wasn’t whether the killer would come for him.

The question was when.