Page 27 of Outside the Room (Isla Rivers #1)

The administrative building felt different as they approached it with backup officers flanking them through the storm.

The same fluorescent lights hummed overhead, the same institutional carpet muffled their footsteps, but now the familiar corridors carried an electric tension that made Isla's skin prickle with anticipation.

Raymond O'Connor was still at his desk when they arrived, exactly where they'd left him hours earlier.

He looked up from his paperwork as they entered, his expression weary but unsurprised, as if he'd been expecting them.

The resignation in his eyes struck Isla as oddly profound for a man who should have been shocked by their return.

"Agents," he said quietly, not bothering to stand. "I heard about Michael. Terrible business."

"News travels fast," Sullivan observed, his hand resting casually near his weapon. The backup officers positioned themselves strategically around the room, though O'Connor showed no signs of resistance.

"Small community," O'Connor replied with a bitter smile. "When someone dies at the port, especially... the way Michael did, word spreads quickly."

Isla studied his demeanor carefully. There was no surprise, no confusion—only a deep exhaustion that seemed to weigh down his shoulders. Either he was an exceptional actor, or he'd been anticipating this moment for some time.

"Michael left a letter," she said, watching his reaction closely. "A confession."

Something flickered across O'Connor's face—not fear or guilt, but what might have been sadness. "I imagine he did. Michael was always conscientious about paperwork."

The casual response sent a chill through Isla. Most innocent people would have demanded to know what the letter said and would have protested their innocence. O'Connor's calm acceptance felt wrong.

Sullivan stepped forward, his voice taking on the authoritative tone Isla had come to associate with formal arrests. "Raymond O'Connor, you're under arrest for conspiracy in the murders of Marcus Whitman, Diana Pearce, and Sarah Sanchez. You have the right to remain silent..."

O'Connor nodded along with the Miranda warning as if he were listening to weather report. When Sullivan finished, he stood slowly, offering his hands for cuffing without being asked.

"I understand," he said simply. "I suppose it was inevitable."

The lack of protest, the absence of outrage or denial—it all felt rehearsed to Isla. As the backup officers escorted O'Connor from his office, she lingered behind, studying the space where he'd spent so many late nights supposedly coordinating added security.

Sullivan appeared beside her. "Seemed almost relieved," he observed. "Guilt's a heavy burden."

Isla nodded absently, but her mind was racing through inconsistencies. "Sullivan, what about his alibi for Sanchez's murder? Maria confirmed he was in his office, on phone calls that can be verified."

"Accomplices," Sullivan replied with confidence. "Thorne's letter makes it clear—O'Connor was giving orders, not carrying them out personally. He probably had other people on his payroll besides Thorne."

It was logical, Isla had to admit. Yet something nagged at her, a persistent doubt that she couldn't quite articulate. The pieces fit together too neatly, resolved too conveniently after days of frustrating dead ends and contradictory evidence.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sharp click of heels in the hallway.

Kate Channing appeared in the doorway, her silver hair dusted with snow from the storm outside.

Despite the late hour and terrible weather, she looked as composed as ever, though Isla caught a glint of satisfaction in her eyes.

"Agents," Channing said crisply, taking in the scene with a quick, assessing glance. "I understand we've had a breakthrough."

"Thorne's suicide note implicates O'Connor as the mastermind behind all three murders," Sullivan reported. "We've arrested him and are preparing for formal interrogation."

Channing's expression brightened—the first genuine smile Isla had seen from her since arriving in Duluth. "Excellent work. The governor will be pleased to hear we've resolved this crisis."

"The governor?" Isla asked, surprised by the political consideration.

"The port shutdown has cost millions in delayed shipments," Channing explained. "Three murders at a major shipping hub reflect badly on Minnesota's business climate. Having O'Connor in custody will allow us to reopen operations and restore confidence."

Isla felt a familiar unease settling in her stomach. The pressure to close the case quickly and the political implications reminded her too much of Miami, where administrative pressure had contributed to her rushing to judgment.

"Ma'am," she said carefully, "while Thorne's confession is significant, there are still some inconsistencies that concern me. O'Connor's alibi for the Sanchez murder, for instance."

Channing's smile faded slightly. "Agent Rivers, we have a confession from someone directly involved in these crimes, implicating a man with access, opportunity, and motive. What more do you need?"

Sullivan stepped forward, and Isla expected his support. Instead, his voice carried a note of finality. "Rivers, sometimes we have to accept that the evidence points where it points. Thorne's confession is detailed and specific. O'Connor's behavior tonight confirms it."

The betrayal stung more than Isla had expected. She looked between Sullivan and Channing, feeling suddenly isolated. "But the timeline—"

"Can be explained by accomplices," Channing interrupted briskly. "Agent Sullivan is right. We have clear evidence of O'Connor's guilt. It's time to move forward with prosecution."

Isla bit back her protests, recognizing the futility of arguing against both her partner and superior. The weight of Miami pressed down on her—her catastrophic misjudgment, the victim who died because she'd been so certain she was right. Who was she to trust her instincts now?

"Of course," she said finally, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. "We'll build the case against O'Connor."

But even as she spoke the words, her mind was already turning. Sullivan might be satisfied with Thorne's convenient confession, and Channing might be eager to close a politically sensitive case, but Isla couldn't shake the feeling that they were missing something crucial.

Channing nodded approvingly. "Good. I want formal charges filed by morning. The press is already calling this the breakthrough in the 'Shipping Container Killer' case." She paused at the doorway. "Excellent work, both of you. This resolution will reflect well on the Duluth field office."

After Channing left, an uncomfortable silence settled between Isla and Sullivan. He busied himself gathering files, avoiding her gaze.

"You think I'm being paranoid," Isla said finally.

Sullivan paused in his movements. "I think you're overthinking this. Sometimes, the obvious answer is the right answer." His tone carried a note of disappointment. "We have a confession, Rivers. A detailed one that explains everything."

"Too detailed," Isla muttered, but Sullivan either didn't hear or chose to ignore her.

"I'm going to start processing O'Connor's arrest paperwork," he said, heading toward the door. "You should probably get some rest. It's been a long night."

The dismissal was clear, and it stung. Isla watched him leave, feeling more alone than she had since arriving in Duluth.

Sullivan had been her anchor in this unfamiliar place, the one person who seemed to believe in her capabilities.

Now, faced with what appeared to be a solved case, he was ready to move on while she clung to doubts that might be nothing more than trauma from her past failure.

But as she stood in O'Connor's empty office, surrounded by the detritus of his apparent guilt, Isla made a decision.

She would investigate quietly, on her own time.

The timing was too convenient, Thorne's death too neat.

If she was wrong, if O'Connor truly was behind the murders, then her private investigation would simply confirm the official conclusion.

And if she was right—if something more complex was happening at Duluth's port—then she might be the only one willing to uncover it.

The storm raged on outside, burying secrets beneath layers of snow and ice. But somewhere in that frozen landscape lay answers that could vindicate her instincts—or destroy what remained of her career if she was wrong again.

This time, she would have to find the truth alone.