Page 44 of Beneath the Surface

Brad exhaled, rubbing his hands together. “I don’t know if it’s a formal network or just people he’s inspiring somehow. But think about it—each psychologist’s death is preceded by murders that mimic high-profile cases they worked on. It’s too deliberate. Either he’s working with others, or he’s somehow convincing people to act.”

“Like puppets on strings,” Larson muttered. “Hell of a way to keep us running in circles. Every copycat murder makes us question the pattern, throws us onto false leads. It’s giving him more time to plan.”

“Exactly,” Brad said. “And his planning… it’s meticulous. He’s not leaving anything to chance. Nine sentinel murders surrounded by at least three others having to do with their past cases, and we don’t have a single solid piece of forensic evidence that links them directly to him. He’s using disposable tools, changing his methods just enough to keep us guessing.”

Larson frowned, flipping through the files. “He’s got to have some kind of training. Military? Law enforcement? Even a damn hunter? This level of precision doesn’t come out of nowhere.”

“Could be,” Brad said. “But it could also be someone with a deep understanding of the system—someone who knows how we investigate and what we look for. He’s moving deliberately, targeting specific psychologists, and staging these murders in ways that draw attention to the cases they worked on.”

Larson slammed the folder shut, the sound echoing in the quiet room. “And now he’s after Isobel.”

Brad’s expression darkened. “He’s sending messages. To her. To us. But why now? Why her?”

Larson leaned forward, his voice low. “What if he’s manipulating us? What if everything we’re seeing—the patterns, the victims, even the copycats—is meant to draw us toward a specific conclusion? Hell, for all we know, he’s feeding us false information.”

Brad stared at the map again, Larson’s words settling in his chest. “If he’s controlling the narrative, then we’re playing his game. We’re reacting to his moves instead of getting ahead of him.”

Larson nodded grimly. “And that’s exactly what he wants.”

They both fell silent for a moment, the enormity of the situation pressing down on both men. Finally, Brad spoke, his voice steady but resolute. “We need to think like him. If he’s anticipating our moves, we need to start anticipating his. Break the pattern he’s setting.”

Larson sighed, pushing back from the table. “Easier said than done. But you’re right. We need to get every jurisdiction on the same page and start looking at the bigger picture. This guy’s good, but he’s not perfect. Somewhere in all this…” he gestured to the scattered files, “…there’s a thread we can pull.”

Brad’s eyes narrowed, determination hardening his features. “And when we find it, we unravel everything.”

Eighteen

The next morning, the hospital’s day shift was busy with activity. Isobel, still groggy but aware, sat up in her bed, her family gathered around her. Brad coordinated with Tristan to ensure her discharge went smoothly. She figured that was because of Brad’s family relation. He wasn’t his usual put-together self. His hair was messy, and he hadn’t shaved. She could see the tension running down his back.

"Belle," Brad said softly, approaching her. "I need you to follow my directions. Don’t talk to anyone. Trust me, I’ve got you.” His voice was extra deep. She wondered if it was his Dom voice.

Isobel nodded slowly, her eyes meeting his. "I will," she whispered. She watched her sister Olivia slip on a hospital gown over her clothes, and as soon as Isobel climbed from the bed, Olivia slipped in and pulled the covers up to her chin, her similar hair covering her face. Jackson, Olivia’s fiancé, and his best friend, Turk, wearing fire department uniforms, helped Isobel onto a stretcher and covered her with a special bonnet covering. She realized she was on a morgue stretcher.

“Belle, by the time you count to two hundred, we will be in my car.” Brad reached below the canopy. “No worries.”

“Okay,” she sniffled.

Alex and Ethan made sure her transfer to Brad’s car was discreet, keeping an eye out for any activity around the stretcher or the loading dock, where they helped her into the second seat of a black Suburban.

“You’re okay.” Brad pulled her against him. Alex and Ethan took the driver’s seat and passenger seat.

A few minutes out of town, Alex pulled off the road where Brad’s car sat waiting. Ethan watched their backs as Brad buckled Isobel into the front seat and ran around to the driver’s side. Ethan climbed back into the Suburban and drove on. Brad hit the gas and took off toward his home.

Isobel stayed quiet.Brad told her it was safe to talk, but she seemed afraid to. As they drove to Whispering Hills, he couldn’t shake the feeling of impending danger. He kept glancing in the rearview mirror, his senses on high alert.

At their arrival, Brad showed Isobel around the house, pointing out the security features and ensuring she felt comfortable. "You’ll be safe here, Belle. I promise."

Isobel looked around, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. "I trust you, Brad."

He nodded, appreciating the subtle shift in her demeanor, the trust she was extending to him in this moment. That trust came with responsibility—one he carried gladly. She had been through so much, and he could see the exhaustion in her eyes, even when she tried to mask it.

“How about some lunch?” he asked, his voice gentle but firm.

Isobel sighed, brushing a hand through her hair. “I’m not that hungry,” she said quietly, her gaze shifting around the room as if trying to distract herself from everything that had happened.

“Belle, you need to eat,” Brad insisted. His tone was still soft, but there was no mistaking the firmness. He knew how easily she could neglect herself when her mind was racing, and right now, she needed something grounding, something simple.

She hesitated for a moment, then relented. “What do you have?” she asked, as if surrendering to the mundane task might offer her a brief escape. She wandered into his living room, her fingers lightly trailing along the back of the leather couch as she took in the space.

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