Page 33 of Outside the Room (Isla Rivers #1)

The Claddagh wore its history in every scarred table and faded photograph, an Irish pub that had survived urban renewal and economic downturns through the simple expedient of pouring honest drinks and asking no questions.

Its windows glowed amber against the falling snow, a beacon of warmth in a city that seemed permanently locked in winter's grip.

Isla pushed through the heavy oak door into a world of comfortable shadows and low conversations.

The walls displayed decades of Duluth police memorabilia—black and white photographs of long-dead chiefs, vintage badges behind dusty glass, a collection of nightsticks that belonged to an era when police work was simpler and more direct.

The patrons were predominantly cops and firefighters, their voices creating a low murmur of shop talk and shared grievances.

As she slid into the seat across from him, a server appeared with a dark lager she hadn't ordered.

"Figured you for a beer drinker," Sullivan said, the ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Whiskey's more of a solitary brooding kind of drink."

"You'd be surprised how much solitary brooding I do," Isla replied, accepting the beer gratefully. The first sip was cold and bitter, cutting through the exhaustion that had settled in her bones like sediment.

They began with work—the evidence chain, the timeline reconstruction, O'Connor's plea agreement that would keep him locked away until old age rendered him harmless. But gradually, inevitably, their conversation drifted toward more personal territory.

Sullivan leaned back against the worn leather, studying her with an expression that mixed curiosity with something that might have been respect. The ambient noise of the bar, conversations, the clink of glassware, the soft thud of darts hitting their target, created a buffer around their table.

"Before you arrived," he said finally, "I researched what happened in Miami."

Isla's hand tightened around her beer glass, but Sullivan raised his palm in a gesture of reassurance.

"Not to judge," he continued. "To understand who I'd be working with." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Your instincts were sound. The execution went sideways, but the reasoning was solid."

The noise of the bar seemed to fade beneath the weight of memory.

Alicia Mendez's face floated in Isla's mind—the elementary school teacher who'd died because Isla had been so certain she'd profiled the killer correctly.

The warehouse that should have contained their suspect but held only shadows and echoes.

The frantic race across Miami that had ended seconds too late.

"That's why I came to the port that night," Sullivan added, his voice pitched low enough that she had to lean forward to hear him. "I had a feeling you wouldn't let it go, and I wanted to see what you'd found. Good thing I did."

They raised their glasses in a quiet toast, the soft chime of glass against glass marking something that felt like the true beginning of their partnership. But even in this moment of connection, Isla's mind returned to the thread that continued to tug at her consciousness.

"O'Connor confessed to Whitman and Pearce," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "But he was adamant about Sanchez. Swore it wasn't him, and given what we know about his methods..." She shook her head. "I believe him."

Sullivan set down his whiskey, eyebrows rising slightly. "Another player?"

"Someone who saw an opportunity in the chaos.

Or someone cleaning house who wasn't part of O'Connor's original plan.

" Isla stared into her beer, watching foam cling to the sides of the glass.

"O'Connor panicked after Sanchez was found because he realized someone else was operating in his territory. "

The implications hung between them, heavy with professional obligation and personal curiosity. Around them, the bar continued its comfortable rhythm—cops unwinding after difficult shifts, firefighters sharing war stories, the easy camaraderie of people who understood danger as a job requirement.

"Nash?" Sullivan suggested.

"Perfect alibis for everything. Too perfect, too convenient." Isla looked up from her drink. "And we never penetrated his inner circle. Not really. There are people in his orbit we never identified, never questioned."

Sullivan didn't dismiss the theory, which surprised her. In Miami, her former partner had grown increasingly skeptical of her hunches as the cases had grown more complex. But Sullivan seemed to understand the professional dissatisfaction that came with loose ends and unresolved questions.

"Any leads?"

"Nothing concrete. Yet."

They finished their drinks as the evening progressed, the crowd shifting around them as day-shift officers gave way to those preparing for night duty.

The case was officially closed, the paperwork filed, the press releases distributed.

Duluth would move on, as cities always did after crisis passed into memory.

But Isla couldn't. Not completely.

As they prepared to leave, Sullivan clasped her shoulder briefly—a gesture of solidarity rather than condescension. "If you find something," he said quietly, "count me in."

Outside, snow continued to fall in the lazy, persistent way that suggested it would continue all night.

The flakes caught the streetlights and transformed Duluth into something ethereal, beautiful in a way that masked the dangers lurking beneath its frozen surface.

Isla pulled her coat tight against the wind coming off Lake Superior and walked alone to her car, her mind already cataloguing names, faces, connections that had been dismissed as unimportant.

The official investigation was closed, but her personal pursuit was just beginning.

Somewhere in the labyrinth of corporate interests and political connections that surrounded Duluth's port was Sarah Sanchez's killer.

And this time, Isla was determined to find them before they could claim another victim.

She started her engine and let it warm while snow accumulated on the windshield in intricate patterns that would melt as soon as she turned on the wipers. Tomorrow, she would begin again—quietly, methodically, following the threads that everyone else had deemed irrelevant or resolved.

She had to trust that her instincts would be right about what lay hidden in the shadows of Duluth's frozen port.