Page 2 of Outside the Room (Isla Rivers #1)

Agent Isla Rivers of the FBI woke before dawn in her sparse, barely unpacked apartment overlooking Lake Superior.

The bitter Duluth cold seeped through poorly insulated windows as she stared at the vast frozen expanse before her.

Sleep had been elusive, haunted by recurring nightmares about her final case in Miami.

In her dreams, she always arrived seconds too late.

The victim's eyes—accusatory, lifeless—stared up at her from a pool of blood that seemed to grow with each recurrence of the nightmare.

It was her profile that had led her team to the wrong suspect while the real killer claimed his final victim. Her mistake. Her failure.

She hadn’t gotten there in time.

Isla pulled her robe tighter around her body, the chill in the apartment matching the coldness that had settled in her chest since the transfer.

She still hadn’t figured out how to get the radiator working at the right heat.

She made her way to the kitchen, mechanically preparing coffee while eyeing the stack of moving boxes she still hadn't touched after two days in Duluth.

What was the point? This assignment wasn't meant to be permanent. It couldn't be. Duluth, Minnesota, was punishment—a professional purgatory where agents went when they'd screwed up but not quite enough to warrant dismissal.

Steam rose from her coffee mug as Isla carried it to a box labeled "CASE FILES" in her neat, precise handwriting. She hadn't meant to bring them, had been specifically instructed not to by her therapist, but at the last minute, she'd packed them anyway. Some masochistic part of her couldn't let go.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she opened the box and retrieved the Miami file. The folder was worn at the edges from how many times she'd reviewed it, searching for the moment where everything went wrong, the clue she missed, the assumption she shouldn't have made.

As the winter sun slowly rose over the ice-covered lake, casting pale light across her living room, she studied the Miami victim's photo—Alicia Mendez, 28, elementary school teacher. Beautiful. Beloved. Dead because Isla Rivers had misread a killer.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to the photograph, the words inadequate and meaningless. Alicia remained frozen in time, her smile bright and unknowing of the fate that awaited her.

Isla closed the file and tucked it back into the box. She couldn't change what had happened in Miami, but she could try to do better here. Even if "here" was a frozen wasteland that she already resented. Even if her instincts felt as fragile and cracked as the ice on the lake.

She showered and dressed with military precision, choosing a charcoal pantsuit that was more suited to Miami's climate than Minnesota's brutal winter.

She layered a thermal shirt underneath, stubbornly refusing to concede to the bulky winter clothing that would mark her as someone who planned to stay.

In the small bathroom mirror, Isla assessed her reflection critically.

Dark circles shadowed her amber eyes, and her olive complexion looked paler than usual in the harsh fluorescent light.

She pulled her wavy dark brown hair into a practical ponytail, frowning as several persistent strands escaped to frame her face.

The small scar near her right eyebrow—a reminder of a childhood boating accident—stood out against her skin, another reminder of how one moment of carelessness could leave permanent marks.

Isla clipped her FBI badge to her belt and checked her service weapon before holstering it at her hip. The familiar weight of the gun provided little comfort today. She had trusted her training in Miami, too.

As she prepared to leave, her phone buzzed with a text from her sister Claire:

First day at work in the frozen north! You've got this. Call me later. Love you.

Isla managed a small smile. Claire was the only person who still believed in her without reservation, the only family she had left after the car accident that had claimed their parents. She texted back a quick affirmative, grateful for the connection but unable to share Claire's optimism.

With one last look at the icy expanse of Lake Superior, Isla steeled herself against both the physical cold and the chilly reception she expected at the Duluth FBI field office.

Her new colleagues would have heard about Miami.

In a profession where reputation was everything, hers was now tarnished by failure.

She locked her apartment door behind her, each metallic click of the deadbolt sounding like the final nails in the coffin of her once-promising career.

***

The Duluth FBI field office occupied the third floor of a nondescript government building downtown.

Isla had expected something smaller, more provincial—a reflection of what she assumed would be the minor league cases handled by agents exiled to the northern hinterlands.

The modern, well-equipped space that greeted her was the first of many surprises Duluth had in store.

She approached the reception desk, badge already in hand. "Agent Isla Rivers. I'm reporting to Special Agent in Charge Channing."

Before the receptionist could respond, a door opened, and a woman emerged. In her early fifties, with a sleek silver bob and impeccable posture, she exuded authority in her tailored navy suit.

"Agent Rivers," the woman said, extending her hand. "Katherine Channing. Welcome to Duluth."

Isla shook her hand, noting the firm grip and the wedding band Channing still wore. "Thank you, ma'am."

"Kate, please." Channing's smile reached her piercing gray-blue eyes, creating an unexpected warmth that caught Isla off guard. "We're glad to have you. Your reputation precedes you."

Isla tensed, waiting for the inevitable reference to the incident in Miami, but Channing continued smoothly, "Your work on the Houston trafficking ring was impressive. Delgado always spoke highly of your analytical skills."

The mention of Steve Delgado—her mentor in Miami and the reason she'd joined the FBI after Georgetown—created a complicated knot of emotions in Isla's chest. She wondered if he still believed in her after everything that had happened. She didn’t want to hope, but maybe what happened in Miami wouldn’t follow her here.

But maybe it should, the voice inside her said. Maybe you deserve to be punished.

"Thank you," Isla managed, unsure how to respond to praise when she'd been bracing for condemnation.

Channing led her through the office, pointing out workstations and conference rooms with efficient gestures. Agents looked up as they passed, some nodding politely, others openly curious. Isla felt their gazes like physical contact, wondering how much they knew.

"We run lean here," Channing explained, "but what we lack in manpower, we make up for in collaboration.”

They passed a glass-walled room where a man with salt-and-pepper hair hunched over a topographical map, his shirtsleeves rolled to reveal muscular forearms. He glanced up, his eyes meeting Isla's for a beat longer than necessary before returning to his work.

"That's Agent Erickson," Channing said without slowing her pace. "He's been tracking a network of prescription drug smugglers working the North Shore. Don’t worry about him.”

Channing stopped at a small office with a window overlooking Lake Superior. "This is yours." She leaned against the doorframe. "And yes, officially, you're here to work our backlog. But I don't believe in wasting resources, Agent Rivers. Everyone multitasks."

The lake stretched out beyond the window, vast and steel-gray under the autumn sky. Nothing like Miami's turquoise waters.

"I know you're used to the bullpen setup in Miami, but we do things a bit differently here."

Isla set down her bag, surveying the empty desk and bare walls. "I appreciate the space."

"You'll also be working with a partner," Channing continued, checking her watch. "He should be here shortly. James Sullivan is one of our best—former Duluth homicide detective who joined the Bureau eight years ago. He knows this region better than anyone."

As if summoned by his name, a tall man appeared in the doorway.

With broad shoulders, dark blonde hair graying at the temples, and deep-set blue eyes, Agent James Sullivan looked every inch the Midwestern law enforcement stereotype—right down to the flannel shirt visible beneath his practical suit jacket.

"Sullivan, this is Agent Isla Rivers, your new partner," Channing said.

Sullivan nodded, his expression unreadable. "Welcome to Duluth." His handshake was brief and professional, his gaze assessing.

"Thank you," Isla replied, matching his tone. She couldn't help but wonder what he'd heard about her, what judgments he'd already formed.

"Agent Sullivan will show you the ropes," Channing explained. "Duluth might seem quiet compared to Miami, but appearances can be deceiving. Our port is the largest freshwater port in the world and a major transit point for everything from grain to industrial equipment."

"And illegal goods," Sullivan added, his first voluntary contribution to the conversation.

"Precisely," Channing nodded. "We've been tracking increased smuggling activity connected to Canadian criminal organizations. The border's proximity creates unique challenges."

Isla absorbed this information, surprised. Her research on Duluth had focused on the city's industrial decline, not its potential as a nexus for criminal enterprise. Perhaps this assignment wouldn't be the complete career stagnation she'd feared.

“Come on,” Channing said, “both of you. Let’s continue the tour.”

As they walked through the office, Isla noticed Sullivan keeping a careful distance beside her. His shoulders were rigid, hands tucked in his pockets. The body language spoke volumes – professional politeness masking reluctance.

"Our jurisdiction covers thirteen counties," Channing explained as they entered the main conference room. "From the Canadian border down to Pine County. We coordinate with tribal authorities on seven reservations, plus local law enforcement across northeastern Minnesota."

The wall displayed a large map dotted with colored pins. Sullivan stepped forward, pointing to clusters along Lake Superior's shoreline.

"These markers represent unusual activity in the past six months. Shipments coming through the port with documentation that doesn't quite add up. Nothing concrete enough for customs to flag, but the pattern's there."

Isla moved closer to the map, studying the distribution. "These are too regular for random smuggling. It's organized."

Sullivan's eyebrows raised slightly. "That's what I've been saying."

"Agent Sullivan has developed sources throughout the shipping industry," Channing added. "Local knowledge that's proven invaluable."

"The problem," Sullivan continued, "is we can't determine what's being moved. Traditional drug indicators aren't present."

"Human trafficking?" Isla suggested.

"Possible, but the pattern doesn't fit established corridors." Sullivan crossed his arms. "Whatever it is, they're using the legitimate shipping infrastructure as cover."

They ended in a large conference room where Channing pulled up digital maps of Duluth's port facilities on a wall-mounted screen.

"Most people don't realize how significant this port is," Channing explained, zooming in on the harbor area. "Over thirty million tons of cargo moves through annually, connecting the heartland to the Atlantic via the Great Lakes and St. Lawrence Seaway."

Isla studied the complex network of docks, warehouses, and rail connections. "It's much more extensive than I expected."

"It's also vulnerable," Sullivan said. "Too many entry points, too few eyes watching."

Before Channing could respond, her phone rang. The conversation was brief, her expression growing serious as she listened.

"We've got a situation," she announced after ending the call. "Harbor patrol just found a body inside a locked shipping container at the port terminal."

Sullivan straightened, already reaching for his coat hanging on a nearby rack.

"Looks like you'll get your welcome to Duluth sooner than expected, Agent Rivers," Channing said, a grim determination lighting her eyes. "This case is perfectly suited to baptize you into Great Lakes law enforcement."

As they prepared to leave, Isla caught Sullivan watching her, his expression calculating. She lifted her chin slightly, a silent message that whatever test this was, and she intended to pass it.