Page 45 of Beneath the Surface

Brad watched her for a moment, feeling a sense of warmth rise in his chest. He designed the living room to be a place of comfort—welcoming but not extravagant. The space was masculine but not overly so. The leather couch was a rich chocolate brown, worn in just the right spots from years of use. It sat in front of a large stone fireplace that dominated one wall, giving the room a rustic, almost cabin-like feel. Above the mantel was a large television.

The hardwood floors were warm beneath their feet, a dark oak that gleamed subtly in the soft light filtering through the wide windows. To the right, there was a bookshelf filled with books—mostly history, psychology, and a few well-worn thrillers, along with a collection of vinyl records and a vintage turntable. The coffee table was simple and wooden, with a few magazines scattered across it, and a half-burned candle that still carried the faint scent of sandalwood.

It was a lived-in space, practical but comfortable, the kind of room that invited you to sink into the couch and lose yourself in a TV show, movie, or conversation. A large armchair sat nearthe windows, a soft throw blanket draped across its back, where Brad often sat and read in the late afternoon sunlight.

Isobel wandered over to the bookshelf, her fingers brushing the spines of the books, her eyes trailing over the titles. There was a quiet curiosity about her movements, as if she was momentarily lost in the simplicity of exploring his space. She stopped at the window, her reflection faint in the glass. The sky was overcast, the garden outside relenting to the soft browns of early fall under a slight drizzle.

Brad moved to the kitchen, opening the refrigerator. “I’ve got some roast chicken I picked up last night that I can warm up with some veggies, or we could do chicken salad sandwiches if that’s more your speed.”

Isobel turned from the window, folding her arms across her chest. “Chicken salad sounds good,” she said, her voice a little lighter now. “I’ll take anything as long as it’s not hospital food.”

Brad smiled at that, a small but welcome sign of normalcy returning. He set to work quickly, putting together plates with chicken salad, a few slices of fresh bread, and a side of crisp green apples. He placed everything on the kitchen island and motioned for her to join him.

She wandered over, sitting on one of the barstools. Her movements were more relaxed now, though she was still anxious.

“Eat.” He placed the plate in front of her.

Isobel picked up a fork, arranging some chicken salad on a slice of bread. As she took a tentative bite, her lips curved into the faintest smile. “Not bad.”

Brad sat across from her, watching as she ate. There was something soothing about the quiet between them, the simplicity of a meal shared in the calm of his home.

After lunch, he led her up the stairs to the second floor of his house, the soft creak of the hardwood underfoot breakingthe comfortable silence between them. His hand rested on the railing as he glanced back to make sure she was following.

At the top of the stairs, he guided her to the guest room, pushing the door open gently. The room was cozy, simple but inviting. A queen-sized bed sat against one wall, its plush comforter neatly folded at the foot, and large windows bathed the space in soft, natural light. A chest of drawers stood beside the bed, along with a small armchair in the corner. The walls were a muted blue, giving the room a sense of calm.

Brad stood near the doorway as Isobel stepped inside. “Do you want to take a nap or set up your things?”

Isobel turned to him, brow raised slightly. "Set up my things?" she asked, a teasing note in her voice. “I didn’t realize you weren’t the type to carefully fold laundry, Brad.”

Brad grinned sheepishly and rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, about that…” He gestured toward the black garbage bags sitting in the corner of the room. “I had Turk and Jackson grab your things from your place after the attack. We had to make it look like trash, so no one would know it was for you. I’m sorry everything is wrinkled.”

Isobel arched an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Trash bags? That’s sneaky.”

Brad’s grin widened as he stepped closer, his voice lowering just enough to let the innuendo hang between them. “There are a lot of things you don’t know about me.”

The heat of his words lingered in the air for a moment, the unspoken desires thickening. Isobel, clearly catching the undertone, gave him a sidelong glance before chuckling softly and turning toward the bags. “I think I’ll set up my stuff for now,” she said, her voice a little lighter.

Brad nodded and left her to it, heading back down the hall.

When he wentto check on her, he found her fast asleep on the bed, one of the garbage bags half open beside her. Her breathing was soft and even, her face finally relaxed. He covered her with the comforter.

He stood in the doorway for a moment watching her, feeling a protective warmth stir in his chest. Quietly, he closed the door and made his way downstairs to his office.

The office was a stark contrast to the warmth of the rest of the house. It was functional, lined with dark wood bookshelves stacked with files, books, and binders. A large mahogany desk dominated the room, cluttered with notes, reports, and his laptop, which sat open at the center. The soft hum of the computer filled the air as Brad sat down, running his hands over his face before pulling up the file from Larson.

The file outlined the grisly pattern of murders: nine forensic psychologists dead, each one killed in ways that seemed to echo their own cases. The killer was meticulous, mirroring details that only someone with an intimate understanding of criminal psychology could replicate. Investigators knew the suspect pool had to be limited to those with privileged access, yet identifying him risked implicating trusted members of law enforcement or psychological networks. That slowed the process, as agencies were hesitant to fully cooperate for fear of exposing internal vulnerabilities.

The collateral murders were likely deliberate distractions. Each one took time to investigate, spreading resources thin across different jurisdictions and delaying a focused investigation into the primary killer.

Larson’s notes were thorough, laying out everything they knew about the connections between the victims and the murders surrounding them. Brad worked to piece together the timeline, trying to find the thread that connected the psychologists.

His focus was interrupted when he heard a faint sound—a voice calling out softly. He paused, listening. It was Isobel.

Brad stood quickly and made his way back into the living room, where he found her standing near the fireplace, still looking a little drowsy. "Hey. Did you have a good nap?"

Isobel rubbed her eyes and nodded. “I think so. But… what happened last night? I keep trying to remember, but it’s all blurry. I woke up, and you were gone.”

Brad moved closer, pulling her gently onto the couch and into his lap. His arms circled her as she leaned into his chest, seeking comfort. He summarized the events of the night before—the increasing threat from the killer. He told her about the woman’s murder, though he didn’t want to overwhelm her with too many details. She looked so frail and vulnerable, he changed his mind and kept the note to himself. All it would do was frighten her more.

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