Page 51 of Outside the Room

"O'Connor confessed to Whitman and Pearce," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "But he was adamant about Sanchez. Swore it wasn't him, and given what we know about his methods..." She shook her head. "I believe him."

Sullivan set down his whiskey, eyebrows rising slightly. "Another player?"

"Someone who saw an opportunity in the chaos. Or someone cleaning house who wasn't part of O'Connor's original plan." Isla stared into her beer, watching foam cling to the sides of the glass. "O'Connor panicked after Sanchez was found because he realized someone else was operating in his territory."

The implications hung between them, heavy with professional obligation and personal curiosity. Around them, the bar continued its comfortable rhythm—cops unwinding after difficult shifts, firefighters sharing war stories, the easy camaraderie of people who understood danger as a job requirement.

"Nash?" Sullivan suggested.

"Perfect alibis for everything. Too perfect, too convenient." Isla looked up from her drink. "And we never penetrated his inner circle. Not really. There are people in his orbit we never identified, never questioned."

Sullivan didn't dismiss the theory, which surprised her. In Miami, her former partner had grown increasingly skeptical of her hunches as the cases had grown more complex. But Sullivan seemed to understand the professional dissatisfaction that came with loose ends and unresolved questions.

"Any leads?"

"Nothing concrete. Yet."

They finished their drinks as the evening progressed, the crowd shifting around them as day-shift officers gave way to those preparing for night duty. The case was officially closed, the paperwork filed, the press releases distributed. Duluth would move on, as cities always did after crisis passed into memory.

But Isla couldn't. Not completely.

As they prepared to leave, Sullivan clasped her shoulder briefly—a gesture of solidarity rather than condescension. "If you find something," he said quietly, "count me in."

Outside, snow continued to fall in the lazy, persistent way that suggested it would continue all night. The flakes caught the streetlights and transformed Duluth into something ethereal, beautiful in a way that masked the dangers lurking beneath its frozen surface. Isla pulled her coat tight against the wind coming off Lake Superior and walked alone to her car, her mind already cataloguing names, faces, connections that had been dismissed as unimportant.

The official investigation was closed, but her personal pursuit was just beginning. Somewhere in the labyrinth of corporate interests and political connections that surrounded Duluth's port was Sarah Sanchez's killer. And this time, Isla was determined to find them before they could claim another victim.

She started her engine and let it warm while snow accumulated on the windshield in intricate patterns that would melt as soon as she turned on the wipers. Tomorrow, she would begin again—quietly, methodically, following the threads that everyone else had deemed irrelevant or resolved.

She had to trust that her instincts would be right about what lay hidden in the shadows of Duluth's frozen port.

EPILOGUE

He watched the port return to normal from his perch atop the western terminal gantry crane. The FBI vehicles had finally departed, taking with them their evidence markers, yellow tape, and probing questions. The administrative bustle had subsided, and the rhythms of shipping resumed.

Through his binoculars, he observed the workers below, tiny figures moving with purpose across the ice-slicked concrete. The wind bit at his exposed skin, but he barely noticed. Cold was simply part of life on Superior's shores—a constant companion he'd learned to embrace rather than fight.

The events of the past week had provided excellent cover. While the FBI fixated on bodies in containers and corrupt port directors, they'd missed the true predator moving among them. He smiled beneath his beard, the expression hidden from the world like so many of his secrets.

He tucked the binoculars into his work coat and began his descent, thick gloves gripping the icy metal ladder with practiced ease. His shift would start in twenty minutes—another day of blending in, of being the reliable worker who'd been at the port for years. Just enough seniority to move freely, not enough prominence to draw attention.

Near the bottom of the ladder, he paused to admire the lake stretching endlessly before him. Superior was beautiful in winter—a vast white plain meeting steel-gray sky at the horizon. Most feared its deadly cold, but he understood its hunger. The lake demanded sacrifices. He was merely its servant.

Sarah Sanchez had been unfortunate, stumbling across his private place near the abandoned loading dock. He'd been preparing it for months—a sacred space where the lake's edge met human enterprise, where the barrier between worlds thinned. Her training had made her dangerous, but surprise had been on his side. The lake had accepted her eagerly, the hungry ice parting to receive his offering.

He felt no remorse. Superior had rewarded him, as always. The morning after Sanchez was floating on the surface, his traps had been full—the best catch of the season. The lake's appreciation was never subtle.

Reaching the ground, he stamped snow from his boots and joined the stream of workers heading toward the main terminal. A few nodded in greeting, comfortable with his presence, never suspecting the darkness that lived behind his eyes. He'd perfected invisibility, the art of being seen without being noticed.

His thoughts drifted to the new FBI agent—Isla Rivers. She was different from the other law enforcement who'd cycled through the port over the years. Her eyes missed nothing, cataloging details others overlooked. Even bruised and bandaged after O'Connor's attack, she'd maintained that sharp awareness, that predatory focus.

Perhaps the lake would appreciate such a worthy offering. He'd wait, of course. Patience had always been his strength. Let the Nash investigation conclude, let the port's attention shift elsewhere. Superior had waited decades for his offerings; it could wait a few more months for this special one.

He clocked in, nodding to the security guard, who barely glanced up from his newspaper. He suppressed a smile as he headed toward his workstation.

Lake Superior stretched beyond the windows, ice gleaming under the winter sun. It looked peaceful to untrained eyes, but he knew better. Beneath that frozen surface, currents still moved, powerful and hungry. Like him.

For now, he would wait and watch. The port's secrets remained safe in his keeping, and the lake's hunger would soon need sating again. When the time came, he would be ready. After all, his work, like the endless winter of Duluth, was far from over.