Page 32 of Outside the Room (Isla Rivers #1)

The Duluth police precinct existed in that gray liminal space between night and morning, fluorescent lights humming their sterile song over empty corridors and abandoned coffee cups.

Isla arrived with shadows beneath her eyes and caffeine coursing through her veins, her mind still processing the violence of the previous night—the ambush in the container yard, Nash's operative bleeding out his confession, the terrible clarity that had finally emerged from weeks of misdirection.

Interview Room B smelled of industrial disinfectant and fear.

Raymond O'Connor sat with his spine rigid against the metal chair, his navy suit pressed despite everything, as if maintaining appearances could somehow preserve what remained of his dignity.

The sight of him—composed, calculating even now—sent a familiar anger threading through Isla's chest.

Margaret Hartwell occupied the seat beside him like a fortress in Armani.

She'd materialized within an hour of O'Connor's arrest, briefcase in hand and terms already prepared.

Her silver hair was styled to perfection despite the early hour, and her gaze held the sharp assessment of someone who turned legal disasters into manageable settlements for a living.

"My client is prepared to discuss his involvement in certain activities," Hartwell had announced before they'd even settled into their chairs, her voice carrying the crisp authority of someone accustomed to controlling conversations.

"However, any implication of conspiracy beyond what he directly participated in must be addressed through formal plea negotiations. "

Isla had agreed without hesitation. She didn't want legal maneuvering—she wanted truth. After days of chasing shadows and following false leads, she needed to hear from O'Connor's own mouth what had happened to Marcus Whitman and Diana Pearce.

Now, as the camera rolled silently in the corner, documenting what would become the official record of their investigation's conclusion, Isla studied the man across from her.

O'Connor met her gaze with practiced calm, but she caught the telltale signs of strain—the barely perceptible tightness around his mouth, the way his fingers drummed once against the table before he forced them still.

The silence stretched between them, heavy with the weight of at least three murders and the corruption that had made them possible. When Isla finally spoke, her voice cut through the room like a blade through silk.

"Tell me about Marcus Whitman."

She placed the customs inspector's official photograph on the table, the image stark under the harsh fluorescent lighting. Whitman's face stared up at them—serious, dedicated, unaware that his thoroughness would cost him his life.

O'Connor's eyes fixed on the photo, and for a moment his carefully constructed facade cracked. Something human flickered across his features—regret, perhaps, or the memory of a line he'd never imagined crossing.

"Marcus was..." O'Connor paused, his voice barely above a whisper. "He was good at his job. Too good."

"He found the discrepancies," Isla said. Not a question.

O'Connor nodded slowly, as if the admission were being dragged from his throat.

"Shipments that existed on paper but never arrived.

Others that appeared without proper documentation.

Weight variations that should have been impossible.

" His hands remained folded on the table, knuckles white with tension.

"Marcus started connecting patterns that weren't supposed to be connected. "

"You tried to redirect him."

"I suggested other priorities. Different companies to focus on. Legitimate irregularities that would satisfy his need to investigate." O'Connor's voice grew quieter, forcing Isla to lean forward. "I thought if I could just... guide his attention elsewhere..."

"But he wouldn't be deterred."

The confession came out in a rush, as if O'Connor had been holding it back for weeks.

"He said it was his duty to follow the evidence wherever it led.

That the port's integrity depended on people like him refusing to look the other way.

" A bitter laugh escaped his throat. "He was going to file a formal report.

Had everything documented, ready to send to federal oversight. "

Isla felt the familiar weight of understanding settle in her chest. Marcus Whitman had died because he'd been exactly the kind of man the system needed him to be—honest, thorough, incorruptible. The tragedy of it was almost too much to bear.

"So, you killed him."

The words hung in the air like an accusation and a verdict combined. O'Connor flinched as if she'd struck him, but he didn't deny it.

"It was supposed to look like an accident," he said, his voice hollow. "Hypothermia. Someone who'd gotten trapped in a container during routine inspection. But the head wound..." He trailed off, unable or unwilling to complete the thought.

"Tell me about Diana Pearce."

At the mention of the second victim, O'Connor's composure crumbled further. He couldn't meet Isla's eyes, staring instead at his hands as if they belonged to someone else.

"Diana was just as thorough as Marcus. When your people asked her to review his files, she picked up exactly where he'd left off.

" His voice cracked slightly. "She found the same patterns and started asking the same questions.

Worse—she was sharing everything with the FBI.

Said she had a duty to help solve Marcus's murder. "

"You couldn't redirect her like you'd tried with Marcus."

"She knew too much. Had already identified specific shipments, specific companies. Was cross-referencing everything with your investigation." O'Connor's breathing had become shallow, rapid. "It was only a matter of time before she connected it all back to me."

"So, you murdered her, too."

The accusation seemed to physically pain him.

O'Connor doubled over slightly, as if the weight of his actions were crushing him from within.

"I told myself it was necessary. That saving the operation meant protecting dozens of families who depended on the income.

That Diana's death would prevent a larger catastrophe. "

The rationalization was pathetic, and Isla could see in O'Connor's eyes that he knew it. But men like him always found ways to transform selfish choices into noble sacrifices, to rewrite their own narratives until they could sleep at night.

"And Sarah Sanchez?"

The change in O'Connor was immediate and startling. He straightened in his chair, something sharp and defensive flashing in his eyes. For the first time since the interview began, he looked directly at her.

"No." The word came out hard, definitive. "That wasn't me. I didn't order it, didn't know about it until after. I would never have—" He stopped himself, jaw working as if he were biting back words.

Isla studied his face with the intensity she'd developed over years of reading suspects and witnesses.

What she saw wasn't the careful deflection of a guilty man, but genuine confusion mixed with something that looked like wounded pride.

As if he were offended by the implication that he'd acted without his usual meticulous planning.

"Then who killed her?"

O'Connor opened his mouth to respond, but Margaret Hartwell's hand shot out to stop him. "My client has outlined the scope of his cooperation," she said smoothly. "Discussion of events he was not directly involved in falls outside those parameters and into speculation."

Isla leaned back in her chair, frustration building in her chest like steam in a pressure cooker.

She believed O'Connor about Sanchez—his method had been calculated, precise, driven by the specific threat each victim posed to his operation.

Sarah's murder had been messier, more impulsive, lacking the careful planning that characterized his other crimes.

Which meant somewhere in Duluth, a killer was still walking free.

The realization sent a chill through her. They'd caught one murderer and dismantled one criminal enterprise. But the job wasn't finished.

***

Hours later, as weak winter sunlight struggled through the precinct's grimy windows, Isla sat in the break room nursing coffee that could strip paint and reviewing the case files one final time.

The forensic audit had laid bare O'Connor's role in falsifying shipping documents, creating a paper trail that led directly to Nash Global's smuggling network.

Bank records showed regular payments to Michael Thorne—modest amounts deposited in his wife's account over eighteen months, the price of his silence about irregularities he'd noticed but never reported.

Thorne's suicide note, reexamined in this new context, told a different story than they'd initially understood.

He hadn't fabricated his confession—he'd simply told part of the truth.

O'Connor had orchestrated two murders, and Thorne had watched from the sidelines, his conscience corroded by complicity and guilt.

In the end, he couldn't live with what his silence had enabled.

The pieces formed a coherent picture now, not perfect but sufficient for conviction. O'Connor would spend the rest of his life in prison, his network exposed and dismantled, his careful plans reduced to evidence in banker's boxes. Justice, of a sort.

Sullivan appeared in the doorway, looking as exhausted as she felt. His usually precise hair was disheveled, and his shirt showed the wrinkles of someone who'd been working for twenty-four hours straight.

"Hartwell just finished the plea negotiation," he reported, slumping into the chair across from her. "O'Connor's cooperation gets him twenty-five to life instead of the death penalty. He'll die in prison, but he won't die by injection."

Isla nodded absently, her mind already moving beyond the immediate resolution. The case was officially closed, the paperwork filed, the press releases drafted. But loose threads had a way of unraveling even the most carefully constructed narratives.

"Good work, Rivers," Sullivan added quietly. "Following your instincts instead of accepting the easy answer—that's what broke this open."

The praise should have felt validating, but Isla found herself thinking of Sarah Sanchez instead. A young woman with boxing trophies and a determination to protect her community, whose killer was still unknown. The weight of unfinished business settled on her shoulders like a familiar burden.

As she gathered her files and prepared to leave the precinct, stepping out into the pale morning light, Isla knew this resolution was incomplete.

One killer was behind bars, but another remained free.

And somewhere in the maze of corporate connections and political influence that surrounded Duluth's port, that killer was likely planning their next move.

This time, she'd trusted her instincts instead of ignoring them. And they'd been right in some ways, despite pressure from all sides to accept the convenient narrative of Thorne's suicide note.

She had to trust they'd be right again about what came next.