Page 11 of Outside the Room (Isla Rivers #1)

The Lake Superior Diner sat across from the harbor, its large windows offering a panoramic view of the massive freighters docked in the frozen port.

Despite its proximity to federal buildings and shipping offices, the restaurant maintained the authentic charm of a local establishment—worn leather booths, walls decorated with historic photos of Duluth's shipping heyday, and the persistent scent of fresh coffee and grilled onions.

Isla slid into a booth by the window, grateful for the warmth after another morning spent in the biting cold of the port area.

The cracked leather seat creaked beneath her as she settled in, and she wrapped her hands around the mug of coffee a server had promptly delivered.

Sullivan joined her a moment later, having finished a phone call outside.

His expression remained as unreadable as ever, but the slight loosening of his shoulders suggested positive news.

"Bradley's GPS data confirms his alibi," he said, reaching for the laminated menu tucked behind the napkin dispenser. "He was nowhere near the port when Whitman was killed."

"Which leaves us with a weapons smuggling and prescription drug bust but no murder suspect," Isla sighed, warmth seeping into her fingers, still stiff from the cold despite her gloves.

She wore insulated boots, thermal layers, and a parka that made her feel like an arctic explorer, but they kept the biting wind at bay, at least slightly.

"We'll find the connection," Sullivan said with quiet confidence. "Bradley's operation and Whitman's murder are linked, even if Bradley himself isn't the killer."

A server approached—a woman in her sixties with silver hair and the efficient movements of someone who had been doing this job for decades. "James Sullivan," she said, her stern expression softening slightly. "Haven't seen you in here for weeks."

"Been busy, Margaret," Sullivan replied, a hint of warmth in his voice that surprised Isla. "How's the knee?"

"Still attached," Margaret quipped. "Who's your new partner? Haven't seen her before."

"Agent Isla Rivers," Sullivan introduced. "Recently transferred from Miami."

Margaret gave Isla an appraising look. "Miami to Duluth in December? What'd you do to deserve that?"

Before Isla could formulate a response, Sullivan intervened smoothly. "She's the best they had, so they sent her to us."

The unexpected compliment caught Isla off guard, and she masked her surprise by studying the menu. Margaret took their orders—lake trout sandwich for Sullivan, soup and salad for Isla—and departed with a familiar "Holler if you need anything, Jimmy."

"Jimmy?" Isla couldn't resist asking once Margaret was out of earshot.

Sullivan's expression remained neutral, but a faint color rose in his cheeks. "My dad used to bring me here when I was a kid. Margaret's known me since I was ten."

This glimpse into his personal history felt significant—a small crack in the professional armor he maintained. Isla decided to tread carefully, aware that their working relationship was still fragile.

They ate in relative silence for several minutes, both absorbed in their own thoughts about the case.

The diner gradually filled with the lunch crowd—dockworkers in heavy overalls, office staff from nearby buildings, Coast Guard personnel in uniform.

The clatter of silverware against plates and the low murmur of overlapping conversations created a backdrop of everyday normalcy that felt almost surreal, given the violence they'd been investigating.

Isla observed them all with the practiced eye of an investigator, noting interactions, hierarchies, the easy familiarity of a small community where everyone seemed to know everyone else.

It was exactly this tight-knit quality that made crimes here more personal; everyone knew the victims, making their investigation feel less like a case and more like a violation of the community itself.

"You could have died yesterday," Sullivan said abruptly, setting down his sandwich.

Isla looked up, startled by both the statement and the intensity in his voice.

"On Bradley's boat," he continued, his eyes meeting hers directly. "That jump was reckless. If you'd missed, fallen into the water..." He shook his head.

"I made it," she pointed out, keeping her tone neutral despite her surprise at his concern.

"This time," Sullivan said. "Lake Superior doesn't forgive mistakes.

Even experienced sailors respect its power.

" He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping.

"The cold water causes muscles to seize within seconds.

Even strong swimmers can't fight it. The lake just..

. takes them down before rescue is possible. "

The specificity of his description gave Isla pause. "You sound like you're speaking from experience."

Something flickered in Sullivan's eyes—a shadow of old pain quickly masked. "When I was fourteen, my best friend's father went missing during an early spring fishing trip. Water was still near freezing. They found his boat, but not him." He paused. "I helped with the search parties for three days."

"I'm sorry," Isla said quietly, understanding now that his concern wasn't a critique of her abilities but something more personal.

"My point is," Sullivan continued after a moment, "what you did was brave but unnecessary. We would have caught Bradley eventually."

"We might have lost critical evidence if I'd waited," Isla countered, though without defensiveness. "Sometimes calculated risks are part of the job."

Sullivan studied her for a long moment before nodding slightly. "Your calculation. Your risk. I get that." He took a sip of his coffee. "I was... impressed by your quick thinking. Suggests we might work well together after all."

The admission clearly didn't come easily to him, and Isla recognized it as a significant concession. "Thanks," she said simply, unwilling to make more of the moment than he'd intended.

"Just don't make it a habit," he added. "I don't want to fish your frozen body out of Superior. The paperwork alone would be a nightmare."

The comment was delivered with such deadpan seriousness that Isla wasn't immediately sure if he was joking. When she caught the slight crinkle at the corners of his eyes, she allowed herself a small smile.

"I'll keep that in mind."

They returned to their meal, the tension between them noticeably lessened. Isla had expected their partnership to be difficult—the local veteran paired with the disgraced transfer—but perhaps there was potential for genuine collaboration beneath the surface.

As Sullivan reached for his water glass, his phone rang. The change in his expression when he checked the caller ID was subtle but unmistakable—a softening around the eyes, the faintest hint of a smile.

"I need to take this," he said, already standing.

Isla nodded, watching with curiosity as he stepped away from the table, his posture changing as he answered. She could hear fragments of his conversation despite the diner's ambient noise.

"Hey, sweetie," she heard him say, his voice gentler than she'd ever heard it. "No, Daddy's not too busy... Of course, I'll be there... Promise."

The transformation was remarkable; the stern, taciturn agent was suddenly replaced by someone warmer, more accessible. When he returned to the table a few minutes later, some of that warmth lingered, and Isla found herself curious about this other side of her partner.

"Everything okay?" Isla asked.

"Yeah," Sullivan replied, reaching for his wallet to leave cash for the bill. "That was Emma, my daughter. She's ten. Wanted to make sure I'll be home for bedtime. She's got a science project she wants help with."

"Emma," Isla repeated, the piece clicking into place. During Bradley's interrogation, she'd noticed Sullivan's technique shift at one point—his voice taking on a particular tone of authority that had reminded her of something she couldn't quite place. "So that's where the 'dad voice' comes from."

Sullivan looked puzzled. "The what?"

"During the interrogation," Isla explained. "When you really wanted to shut Bradley down, your voice changed. It reminded me of how my father used to sound when I was in serious trouble." She paused, remembering. "He was Coast Guard—had that same command authority when he needed it."

Understanding dawned in Sullivan's expression, followed by a brief, unexpected chuckle. "Never thought of it that way. Might explain why it works on suspects."

Isla nodded, skimming Sullivan's face subtly. He was a good-looking guy, she had to admit; it wasn't a surprise that he had a family. "What does your wife think about your career?" she asked, genuinely curious.

He gave her a look, and something shuttered in his expression. "Ex-wife." His jaw tightened slightly. "Turns out missing bedtime stories and family dinners for cases gets old after a while. Even when you're trying to keep the community safe."

"Oh," Isla said, recognizing the bitter edge in his voice. "Sounds like there's a story there."

"Not one I care to tell." He checked his watch with pointed finality. "We should head back. I want to check on Diana Pearce, see if she's found anything in those manifests Whitman was reviewing."

Isla nodded, gathering her coat, though she felt oddly rejected by his abrupt withdrawal. "Good idea. She might have spotted the pattern Whitman was following."

Sullivan tried Pearce's office number as they walked back to their vehicle, frowning when there was no answer. He tried her cell phone next, the crease between his eyebrows deepening when that call also went unanswered.

"That's odd," he said, sliding into the driver's seat. "Pearce is usually very responsive. She was eager to help with the investigation."

Isla felt the first stirrings of unease. "When did you last speak with her?"

"Yesterday afternoon, before we went after Bradley. She said she'd work late reviewing the flagged manifests."

"And no one's heard from her since?"

Sullivan was already dialing another number.

"Let me try her supervisor." He waited, his expression growing more tense with each passing ring.

Finally, someone answered. "Raymond? It's Agent Sullivan.

Have you seen Diana Pearce today?" A pause.

"No, she didn't come in this morning? That's... concerning. "

He ended the call, his face grim. "She never went home last night. Her supervisor thought she'd called in sick, but there's no record of that."

Isla's stomach dropped as the implications hit her. "Just like Whitman. He stayed late to investigate something, and then..." She didn't need to finish the thought.

Sullivan's jaw tightened as he started the engine. "I don't know yet. Let's head to the port authority building. Now."