Page 29 of Outside the Room (Isla Rivers #1)

Besides, she could already hear Delgado's voice in her head, speaking with the patient authority he'd always brought to teaching moments: "Return to the beginning, mija.

Strip away the assumptions and examine everything with the knowledge you have now.

The truth is always there, waiting for someone brave enough to see it. "

And so she did. Slowly, methodically, she worked back through the investigation in her mind, taking each piece of evidence and holding it up to the light like a jeweler examining stones for flaws.

Three victims: Marcus Whitman, Diana Pearce, Sarah Sanchez.

All connected to the port through their work, all investigating shipping discrepancies that someone had deemed worth killing for.

All were dispatched with a similar methodology—blunt force trauma to the head, bodies hidden in shipping containers to delay discovery and complicate forensic analysis.

Except for Sanchez, whose body had been dumped in the harbor instead of locked away.

That deviation from pattern had bothered Isla from the moment they'd found the security officer floating near the pier.

Serial killers might evolve their methods, but they rarely abandoned successful strategies without a compelling reason.

The container murders had been perfect crimes—if not for Whitman's missed work shift and Pearce's notable absence, both bodies might have remained undiscovered for weeks.

Then came the suspects, each more compelling than the last. Thomas Bradley and his weapons smuggling operation—clearly connected to the port's criminal ecosystem but alibied for the murders by GPS data and multiple witnesses. A small-time player in what was obviously a much larger game.

Gregory Nash and his shipping empire—politically connected and financially powerful, with those mysterious weight discrepancies in his containers that had first caught Whitman's attention.

Nash had been smooth during their interview, almost too smooth, with the kind of practiced denials that suggested extensive experience fielding awkward questions.

But smoothness wasn't evidence, and powerful men learned early how to deflect suspicion without actually lying.

Raymond O'Connor, the grief-stricken port director who'd cooperated with their investigation from the beginning.

His anguish had seemed genuine, his dedication to finding his employees' killer both touching and convincing.

Yet he sat in holding, awaiting formal charges based on the word of a dead man.

And Michael Thorne, whose conveniently timed suicide had provided the detailed confession that wrapped everything up in a neat prosecutorial package.

Former Navy, physically capable, with access to port security systems and intimate knowledge of shipping operations.

On paper, he was the perfect insider threat—someone who could move through the port without attracting suspicion, who understood both the technology and the human factors that made murder possible.

But perfect was the problem. Thorne's breakdown had come just as they were gaining momentum on Nash, just as the political pressure to solve the case was reaching its peak.

His suicide note had been a masterpiece of self-incrimination, explaining every loose end while conveniently eliminating the one person who could contradict its version of events.

Isla took another sip of whiskey, letting the alcohol work its subtle magic on the tightness in her shoulders.

Around her, Murphy's Tavern continued its nightly ritual of providing refuge for Duluth's working class.

The old man at the bar had switched from beer to something amber in a shot glass.

The women in the corner booth were ordering another round, their conversation growing more animated as the alcohol worked its social lubricant.

The bartender moved between them with professional efficiency, providing drinks and silence in equal measure.

She thought about Nash Global's corporate structure, all those subsidiaries and shell companies that created distance between the CEO and any criminal activity.

Early in the case, they'd flagged several of Nash's connections to port employees—dockhands, contractors, even a union representative with a criminal record who'd been photographed at Nash's fundraising events.

But that line of inquiry had been buried under more urgent developments.

Thorne's suicide and O'Connor's arrest had sealed it away entirely, relegated to the cold case files that would gather dust while everyone celebrated another successful resolution.

Too convenient. Too neat. Too much like the kind of solution that looked good in press releases but fell apart under careful scrutiny.

Isla drained her glass, feeling the last of the whiskey burn its way down her throat.

The alcohol had done its job, burning away the last vestiges of self-doubt that had paralyzed her since Miami.

Her instincts had been screaming at her since the moment they'd found Thorne's body, trying to tell her something was fundamentally wrong with the official narrative.

She'd been trying to silence them, afraid of another catastrophic misjudgment, terrified of becoming the agent who couldn't accept closure when it was handed to her.

But instincts weren't the enemy; ignoring them was.

In Miami, she'd been wrong about the killer's identity, but her instincts about something being off had been correct.

The mistake had been rushing to judgment, not taking the time to examine all the evidence carefully.

This time, she wouldn't make the same error.

She left money on the scarred wooden bar, nodding to the bartender who acknowledged the transaction with the understated professionalism of someone who'd seen countless customers work through their problems one drink at a time.

The whiskey had provided clarity without impairment, just enough warmth to cut through the cold fog of institutional pressure.

Outside, the storm was picking up again, snow whipping through the empty streets in spiraling gusts that reduced visibility to mere yards.

The wind caught her coat as she emerged from the tavern's protective warmth, driving ice crystals against her face with stinging force.

She pulled her coat tight and headed back toward the port, boots crunching through fresh snow that was already beginning to drift against building foundations and parked cars.

O'Connor's formal charging was scheduled for morning.

The paperwork was already prepared, the timeline established, the narrative locked in place.

If there was anything left to uncover, it had to be now—before bureaucratic momentum made changing course impossible, before political expediency trumped investigative thoroughness.

She needed to be sure. Surr that she wasn't letting another case slip through the wrong hands, and sure that she wasn't missing something fatal while everyone else celebrated a job well done.

The wind followed her through the dark streets, carrying with it the promise of more snow and the whisper of secrets still waiting to be discovered.

In the distance, Lake Superior stretched vast and implacable beneath its covering of ice, holding secrets in its depths that might never see daylight.

Like the case itself, the lake presented a deceptively calm surface that concealed dangerous currents underneath.

One wrong step could plunge you into waters cold enough to kill and depths dark enough to hide evidence forever.

But Isla had learned something in her years with the Bureau: sometimes the most dangerous choice was the safe one, the path that looked secure but led nowhere important. Tonight, she would trust her instincts, even if it meant walking alone across ice that might not hold her weight.

The truth was out there, waiting in the frozen darkness. She intended to find it before morning came, and the case was closed forever.