Page 16 of Outside the Room (Isla Rivers #1)
"That's not what I asked," Claire observed, the sound of rustling suggesting she was settling in for the conversation. "Remember who you're talking to, sis. I've known you longer than anyone."
Isla sighed, moving back to the window. Snow was falling more heavily now; the flakes were illuminated like tiny meteors in the streetlight before disappearing into the general whiteness below.
"Two murders in three days. Connected to something happening at the port, but we're still putting the pieces together.
People looking into shipping discrepancies have ended up dead in containers. "
"And how are you doing with it all? New city, new partner, new case..." Claire's voice held the careful neutrality that Isla recognized as her sister's attempt at therapeutic questioning—the same tone Claire used when discussing her ex-fiancé's struggles with addiction.
"Save the marine biologist-turned-therapist routine for your research subjects," Isla said, more sharply than she'd intended. She pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling the beginnings of a tension headache forming behind her eyes. "I'm fine."
"Defensive deflection noted," Claire replied, unfazed. "And I was actually just being your sister, but okay. I get it. You're under pressure."
Guilt immediately replaced irritation. "I'm sorry, that wasn't fair.
It's just been a long day. A long couple of days, actually.
" She moved back to the couch, curling into one corner with her feet tucked beneath her.
"We found the second body today. A woman named Diana Pearce.
She was looking into the same shipping manifests as our first victim. "
"That's awful," Claire said softly. "Are you being careful? If someone's targeting people investigating these shipments..."
"I'm fine," Isla repeated, though with less edge this time.
"We've implemented security protocols for the port staff.
Sullivan and I are taking precautions." She didn't mention jumping between ships in a blizzard or the isolation she felt in this unfamiliar city.
"How are things with you? Any more drama with Stephen? "
"Nice attempt at changing the subject, but I'll allow it," Claire said, a smile evident in her voice. "Stephen's been calling, saying he's in a program now, that things will be different. The usual promises."
"And you're not buying it," Isla surmised.
"I want to," Claire admitted, vulnerability creeping into her voice.
"That's the problem. Part of me still wants to believe he can change, that we could have that future we planned.
But then I remember finding him passed out on the bathroom floor, or the money missing from our joint account, or the lies—so many lies. "
"You deserve better," Isla said firmly, momentarily forgetting her own problems in concern for her sister. "He had multiple chances. You gave him more opportunities than most would have."
"I know," Claire sighed. "Logically, I know.
It's just hard to let go of someone you loved, to accept that they're not who you thought they were.
" She paused. "But enough about my tragic love life.
I worry about you up there all alone. It's not good for you to be isolated, especially after everything in Miami. "
"I'm not alone. I have an entire field office," Isla countered, gesturing vaguely at the empty apartment around her.
"You know what I mean."
Isla did know. Despite her colleagues, despite the professional immersion, there was a fundamental isolation to her life that had only deepened since Miami.
She looked around the spartan apartment, still mostly unpacked after weeks.
The few personal items she'd brought—framed photos of her parents and Claire, a small sculpture her mother had made, books that had survived multiple moves—remained in boxes stacked against the wall.
As if making this place a home would somehow be admitting defeat, accepting Duluth as more than temporary professional purgatory.
"I wish we weren't so far apart," Isla admitted quietly, vulnerability seeping through her carefully maintained facade. "Seems like we just keep moving to opposite ends of the country."
"I'm always just a phone call away," Claire reminded her. "And hey, I've been wanting to see the Great Lakes. Maybe I could visit when this research phase wraps up. We could do some sister bonding over, I don't know, ice fishing or whatever people do for fun in Minnesota winter."
"I'd like that," Isla said and meant it, though she wondered how long she'd actually remain in Duluth.
If this case went badly, another transfer might be in her future—perhaps somewhere even more remote.
The thought of continually being shuffled to increasingly distant field offices, a professional exile that never quite ended, sent a chill through her that had nothing to do with the apartment's inadequate heating.
After they hung up, Isla remained on the couch, glass in hand.
The scotch had softened the edges of her thoughts but hadn't quieted them entirely.
She felt the familiar weight of insomnia settling in and knew that even if she went to bed, sleep would likely elude her.
The same pattern that had plagued her in Miami after the Mendez case—lying awake for hours, mind replaying what she'd missed, how she could have done things differently, what might have happened if she'd just seen the pattern sooner.
Through the window, Lake Superior stretched endlessly before her. Vast and beautiful but utterly unforgiving of mistakes. Like her career. One profile gone wrong, one victim she couldn't save, and everything had unraveled.
How had she gotten here? The promising career now tarnished, personal connections reduced to occasional phone calls, living in a city that might as well be on another planet from the life she'd built in Miami.
She'd been on track for rapid advancement and had even been mentioned as a potential candidate for the Behavioral Analysis Unit at Quantico.
Now, she was in Duluth, trying to rebuild her reputation from scratch, knowing that every decision she made would be scrutinized through the lens of her past failure.
Isla set down her glass with more force than necessary, liquid sloshing over the rim onto the coffee table.
She didn't bother to wipe it up. Self-pity wouldn't solve this case or redeem her professional reputation.
Tomorrow, she would continue the investigation with Sullivan, follow the threads of evidence wherever they led, and hopefully prevent anyone else from ending up dead in a shipping container.
She forced herself to stand, swaying slightly as the scotch made itself known in her equilibrium. The nearly empty bottle accused her from the coffee table. She recapped it firmly, a small gesture of self-control amid an evening of indulgence.
Moving to the bedroom, Isla went through the motions of preparing for bed—washing her face, brushing her teeth, changing into the worn FBI Academy t-shirt that served as pajamas.
The routine was mechanical, devoid of the comfort such familiar actions should provide.
In the bathroom mirror, her reflection stared back with shadows under her eyes and tension in the set of her shoulders.
She looked older than she had in Miami, the strain of recent months etched into the subtle lines around her mouth and between her brows.
She switched off the bathroom light without meeting her own gaze again and moved to the bed, sliding between sheets that were cold against her skin.
As she lay in the darkness, listening to the wind outside her window, she tried to focus on the case rather than the emptiness of her personal life or the phantom presence of Alicia Mendez that sometimes seemed to watch her from the corners of dark rooms.
Two victims who had discovered something in shipping manifests. Weight discrepancies. Bradley's smuggling operation. Nash Global and its CEO in a photograph with O'Connor. The victims' similar wounds, the locked containers, the missing evidence.
The pieces were there, waiting to be assembled into a coherent pattern.
If she could solve this case and protect the port, maybe she could begin rebuilding what she'd lost in Miami.
Not redemption, exactly—nothing could bring Alicia Mendez back—but perhaps a path forward that wasn't defined solely by that single catastrophic error.
With that marginally comforting thought, Isla finally drifted into uneasy sleep, her dreams filled with frozen bodies, endless rows of shipping containers hiding secrets beneath their steel surfaces, and always, always, Alicia Mendez's eyes staring accusingly as Isla arrived too late to save her.