Page 17

CHAPTER

SIXTEEN

Logan tossed some bills onto the table, anxious to get to the outpost and find out more information. Reeves said he wanted to have the rest of this conversation face-to-face.

“Who was he?” Duked rose from the booth also. “The dead man?”

“Ryan Mercer.” Logan pulled his jacket on. “Thirty-four. He was a high school chemistry teacher in Fairbanks.”

“And?” Duke prompted, clearly knowing there was more.

Logan’s jaw tightened as he remembered the other details. “And apparently, he knew Morgan.”

They all started across the restaurant. A moment later, the three of them burst through the door of Susie’s Diner into the biting April air, the bell jingling discordantly behind them.

“Reeves says they’ve got a connection,” Logan continued as they crossed the gravel parking lot. “Mercer was a regular at Morgan’s exhibitions, and he asked her out twice. She turned him down.”

He didn’t like the thought of that. Why hadn’t Morgan mentioned this guy to him? Not that she had to report every man who hit on her.

Still, a surge of protectiveness rose in him. He wished she’d trusted him enough to open up, to let him in more. Regret panged inside him.

“The fact he hit on her doesn’t sound like enough of a connection for our killer to target this Ryan Mercer specifically.” Andi matched Logan’s stride.

“That’s not all.” Logan’s words contained a grim edge . “Two nights before his death, Mercer got a text from Morgan’s number.”

“What did it say?” Andi asked.

“She asked him to meet her at the exact location where we found his body.”

Andi’s face looked a little paler. “So this guy has been using Morgan’s number long before he sent you that text.”

“This guy has been manipulating situations for a while, if I had to guess. And enjoying it.” This killer was smarter than Logan wanted to admit.

Dumb killers made mistakes. Smart killer stayed off the radar.

He could only pray that this guy screwed up. It might be the only way they could catch him.

Twenty minutes later, Logan walked into the incident room at the trooper outpost. Duke and Andi stayed in his vehicle. He didn’t want to make things any more complicated than they needed to be.

Reeves looked up from her computer, her hair pulled back in a practical ponytail and the dark circles under her eyes suggesting she’d been working since their discovery of the body the previous day.

“Gibson.” She nodded at him.

Detective Harlan Yazzie emerged from the evidence room, manila folder in hand. His tall frame and deliberate movements reflected his background. He was a seasoned investigator who’d transferred from Arizona four years ago, bringing his formidable skills to the Alaska State Troopers.

Reeves and Yazzie were two of the few colleagues Logan still trusted.

“You told him about Mercer?” Yazzie asked Reeves, setting the folder on the central table.

“Just the basics.” She turned her computer around, her voice as fast as usual.

“Mercer’s roommate came through with information after the ID was confirmed.

Turns out Mercer had been to several of Morgan’s gallery showings over the past year.

He always bought something small—usually a print or a postcard.

Gallery staff confirmed he was a regular but never caused any trouble. ”

“There he is.” Yazzie pointed to the social media profile displayed on screen. “Ryan Mercer’s Instagram is basically a shrine to two things: chemistry demonstrations for his students and Morgan Riley’s photography exhibitions. Look at the check-ins.”

Logan leaned in, scanning the sequence of posts. Eight different exhibitions in fourteen months, all featuring Morgan’s work. In several photos, Mercer stood proudly beside framed photographs he’d purchased, his expression that of an earnest admirer.

“So he was a fan.” Logan struggled to keep his voice neutral, to swallow back his emotion. “That doesn’t necessarily?—”

“It goes further.” Reeves opened a folder and spread several printouts on the desk.

“We interviewed three of Mercer’s closest friends.

According to them, Mercer asked Morgan out twice—once after a talk she gave at the university last spring, and again at the charity auction for the Boreal Conservation Fund in December. ”

“She turned him down?” Logan already knew the answer, but he asked anyway.

Yazzie nodded. “Politely, by all accounts. Friends described Mercer as disappointed but understanding. Said he told them, ‘At least she knows who I am now.’”

Something cold settled in Logan’s stomach. “And then?”

Reeves pulled out her notebook. “Two nights before his death, Mercer received a text from Morgan’s number.”

“He had her number?” Logan asked.

“He got it somehow and texted her when he asked her out. Anyway, his roommate, Eric Kalluk, saw the text come in while they were watching hockey. Said Mercer ‘lit up like the northern lights’ when he read it.”

She flipped a page and continued. “The text invited Mercer to meet Morgan at Tanana Valley Overlook—the exact location where you found him—to discuss possibly using one of his chemistry demonstrations in an upcoming photo series about transformation.”

Pieces began falling into place in Logan’s mind. “And that’s the exact area where Morgan took the photo of the winter birch tree—the one that matches our crime scene.”

“Precisely.” Yazzie pulled up the image on his screen: a stark white birch against the darkening sky, its branches reaching like skeletal fingers into the void.

“The killer didn’t just choose the location randomly—he recreated her composition precisely, just with Mercer as the focal point instead of the tree. ”

He moved closer to the screen, analyzing the photograph. “The killer knows her work intimately. And he knew exactly how to lure Mercer. He used the one thing guaranteed to get him there—Morgan’s attention.”

Logan’s hands fisted at his sides at the thought of it.