Page 3 of Outside the Room (Isla Rivers #1)

A storm had started and further intensified by the time they left the field office. Fat snowflakes swirled in gusting winds that cut through Isla's inadequate coat. Sullivan led her to a Bureau SUV, brushing snow from the windshield with practiced efficiency.

"Weather service upgraded it to a winter storm warning," he commented, the first unprompted information he'd offered. "Roads will get worse before they get better."

Isla slid into the passenger seat, suppressing a shiver. "Does that affect port operations?"

"Takes more than this to shut down the port," Sullivan said, starting the engine and adjusting the heater to full blast. He noticed her thin coat and frowned slightly but said nothing.

They pulled away from the curb, the SUV's tires crunching through fresh snow. Sullivan navigated the increasingly treacherous roads with the casual confidence of someone who'd spent a lifetime in these conditions, while Isla found herself white knuckling the dashboard at each slide and correction.

The snow-laden streets of Duluth blurred into a monotonous white beyond the windshield as they descended toward the harbor. Isla's breath fogged the window when she leaned closer to it, trying to orient herself in this unfamiliar city.

"First time in Duluth?" Sullivan asked, eyes never leaving the road as he navigated a particularly sharp turn.

"Is it that obvious?" Isla attempted a smile.

"Most people from down south have that same look when they see their first real northern winter." A ghost of amusement crossed his otherwise stoic face. "Like they've stepped onto another planet."

The harbor gradually came into view through the curtain of white—massive ships looming like shadowy monoliths, their steel hulls dusted with snow, loading cranes frozen in various positions of arrested motion.

Despite the weather, Isla could make out the silhouettes of workers moving about, tiny against the industrial backdrop.

"The shipping season doesn't end for another week," Sullivan explained, following her gaze.

"Until then, these crews work through just about anything.

Blizzard, ice, whatever." He downshifted as they approached a security checkpoint.

"The economics don't allow for weather delays.

Not when you've got millions in cargo waiting. "

Isla nodded, suddenly aware of how isolated this northern port felt. So close to Canada, so far from anywhere she'd ever known. The perfect place for something to slip through unnoticed.

"How long have you been in Duluth?" she asked, attempting to break the uncomfortable silence that had settled between them.

"Born and raised," he replied, eyes on the road. "Except for Quantico and two years at the Milwaukee field office."

Isla waited for him to elaborate or ask a reciprocal question. When neither came, she tried again.

"What kinds of cases do you typically handle here?"

Sullivan took a corner with careful precision before answering. "Drug trafficking, mostly. Some human trafficking. International border creates opportunities for creative criminals."

His clipped responses made conversation difficult, leaving Isla to wonder if his reticence was personal. Did he know about Miami? Was he resentful about being partnered with an agent whose judgment had been so catastrophically wrong?

"I'd be interested to hear about local crime patterns," she persisted. "Any ongoing investigations I should be aware of?"

Sullivan's hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel. "We'll brief you on active cases once we handle this situation."

The silence that followed felt pointed, and Isla turned to look out the window, watching as the city gave way to industrial zones. The snowfall created a disorienting white curtain that obscured buildings and landmarks, making it impossible to get her bearings.

They approached the port area, passing through a security checkpoint where Sullivan exchanged familiar greetings with the guards. The sound of machinery being operated hummed in the distance.

"Agent Sullivan," the guard nodded, his face half-hidden beneath a frost-covered balaclava. "Didn't expect to see FBI out in this weather. Coppers can’t handle much alone, can they?”

"Necessary evil, Hank," Sullivan replied, handing over his credentials. "This is Agent Isla Rivers. She’s new here."

The guard studied Isla's ID with more scrutiny than he'd given Sullivan's before reluctantly waving them through.

The port complex sprawled before them, a maze of warehouses, shipping containers, and administrative buildings.

Snow gathered in drifts against metal walls, while overhead lights created hazy halos in the thickening storm.

The wind howled between buildings, channeled into fierce gusts that rocked the SUV.

Even in the heavy snowfall, Isla could make out the immensity of Lake Superior stretching beyond the harbor—a slate-gray expanse that seemed more ocean than lake.

Sullivan parked near a squat, utilitarian building marked "Port Authority Administration." He killed the engine but made no move to exit.

"Before we go in there," he said, turning to face Isla for the first time since they'd left the field office, "I need to know what you're not telling me."

Isla stiffened. "Excuse me?"

"Miami field office doesn't just ship an agent to Duluth in December without reason." His eyes, gray as the winter sky, studied her with uncomfortable intensity. "So, what happened that got you sent to the frozen north?"

Heat crept into Isla's cheeks despite the chill. "I thought you had my file."

"I have what they wanted me to see." He shrugged. "Not the same as hearing it from your mouth.”

Isla met Sullivan’s steely eyes. She had a hard time believing he didn’t know.

“I misread a suspect,” Isla said, shame coursing through her, “and it led to the death of someone I could’ve saved. Does that tell you enough?”

Sullivan held her gaze for several uncomfortable seconds before nodding once. Something in his expression shifted—not quite softening but acknowledging.

"It tells me enough for now," he said. "Everyone's got something they're running from or toward." He reached for his door handle. "Just make sure whatever happened in Miami doesn't cloud your judgment here."

The blast of icy air when they stepped outside stole Isla's breath. The wind had picked up, driving snow horizontally across the parking lot. She hunched her shoulders, cursing her Miami blood as they trudged toward the Port Authority building. Even wrapped up in some of the new wintry clothes she’d purchased, she couldn’t adjust to this damn cold.

Sullivan moved with purpose through the snow, seemingly unbothered by the cold. They reached an area where several emergency vehicles were already gathered, their flashing lights creating eerie patterns in the swirling snow.

Local police had cordoned off a section containing a row of shipping containers. Officers moved about with purposeful efficiency despite the brutal cold, their hushed tones and grim expressions suggesting this was no routine death.

"This is a small community, Rivers. Everybody knows everybody. If this is someone local, it's personal for these officers."

It was the closest thing to advice he'd offered since they met, and Isla recognized it for the warning it was. Don't step on toes. Don't act like the big-city FBI agent swooping in.

"Understood," she said, meeting his gaze steadily.

The bitter wind stole Isla's breath as they approached the crime scene. Several officers nodded to Sullivan, their curious glances sliding to Isla before quickly looking away.

"James," one of the officers called, extending his hand. "Didn't expect to see the FBI so quickly."

"We were at the office when the call came in," Sullivan explained, shaking the man's hand. "This is my new partner, Agent Isla Rivers. Rivers, this is Detective Mike Sorenson, Duluth PD."

Sorenson nodded to her, his expression neutral but evaluating. "Welcome to Duluth. Hell of a first case."

"What do we know so far?" Isla asked, switching into investigator mode and pushing aside her personal discomfort.

"Victim's name is Marcus Whitman, thirty-four. Customs inspector," Sorenson replied. "Maintenance crew found him this morning when they were moving containers. He's been dead at least twelve hours by my estimate, but the ME will have to confirm. With these temperatures, time of death is tricky."

"Whitman," Sullivan repeated, his brow furrowing. "I know that name. Isn't he the one who tipped us on that agricultural smuggling ring last year?"

Sorenson nodded. "Yeah, that's him. Good guy. Tough but fair. By-the-book type."

Isla absorbed this information, noting that Sullivan had been right—this was personal for the local officers. They had known the victim and worked with him.

"Who found the body?" she asked.

"Dockworker named Pavel Kowalski," Sorenson answered. "He's over there, still pretty shaken up."

Isla followed his gesture to a man sitting in a patrol car, a blanket around his shoulders despite being inside the heated vehicle.

"We'll need to speak with him," she said. "And I'd like to see the crime scene."

Sorenson hesitated, exchanging a glance with Sullivan. "It's... not pretty in there. The cold did some things to the body."

"I've worked homicide in Miami," Isla replied, keeping her voice neutral. "I can handle it."

Sorenson gave Sullivan another look, which Isla pretended not to notice. She was used to being underestimated, to having her capabilities questioned. It came with being a woman in law enforcement, compounded now by being the outsider with a questionable reputation.

"This way," Sorenson finally said, leading them toward the container in question.

As they approached, Isla felt the familiar focus descending, the clarity that came with investigating a crime scene.

Whatever had happened in Miami, whatever judgment Sullivan or these officers might hold about her, none of it mattered now.

A man was dead, and finding his killer was the only priority.

Now, all she had to do was see the body.