Page 67 of Beneath the Surface

Brad exchanged a look with Larson, then turned back to the manager. “We’re not even sure when he got into the building. But we need those tapes.”

The manager nodded, sitting down at his desk and beginning to pull up the footage on his computer.

As they waited, Larson sighed and leaned in closer to Brad. “You need to talk to Isobel. I know it’s tough, but she’s the key to this. Especially with how personal this is getting. There has to be a common denominator we’re missing, and I think Isobel can help us find it.”

Brad nodded slowly, frustration bubbling up in his chest. “I’ll try, John. But she’s locked up tight. When she left, I couldn’t get her to speak more than a word, let alone give us what we need.”

Larson placed a hand on Brad’s shoulder, giving him a steady look. “You’ve got to try harder. If there’s anyone who can get through to her, it’s you. We don’t have the luxury of time anymore. This guy is escalating, and Isobel’s the only one who can help us understand why.”

Brad’s jaw ached from grinding his teeth. He knew Larson was right, but that didn’t make the task any easier. This had to be calculated on his end. Getting her to trust him enough to share what she knew was a monumental challenge. But Kathy’s death had raised the stakes, and if they didn’t find a way to stop this killer soon, more lives would be at risk.

“I’ll do what I can,” Brad muttered. “But we need to be ready for anything. He’s playing a game, and we’re just catching up.”

The security manager interrupted them as the footage began to play on the screen. Brad and Larson leaned in, watching closely as people moved in and out of the building, but nothing stood out. No one looked out of place.

“We don’t even know when he got into the building,” Larson said, frustration creeping into his tone. “We don’t know what he looks like, if he’s wearing a disguise, or if he had help. This guy could be anyone.” They were chasing shadows, and the killer always seemed one step ahead.

Brad pulledup to Charlotte Everhart’s house, his chest tightening. The porch light flickered against the night sky, illuminating the Waverly Junction patrol car, the County PD cruiser, and the South Dakota investigator's sedan, all lined up in a solemn display. Parked behind Charlotte's familiar Ford Explorer, they marked the house as a scene of tragedy, not thewarm, inviting home it had always been for him. He had shared countless meals with the Everharts, a staple at their dinner table. But tonight, everything was different. So painfully different.

The crisp air brushed against him as he climbed the front steps, his boots heavy with dread. Before he could knock, the door creaked open, and Alex Marcel stepped onto the porch. His eyes were rimmed with fatigue. "How are you doing?"

Brad shook his head, fighting the weariness pulling at him. "We're jumping at shadows. I just hope the lab or the ME finds something." His gaze drifted through the open doorway, a home he knew so well, now feeling like a foreign place. "How is she?"

Alex blew out a long breath, his frustration palpable. "She hasn’t said a word. Hasn’t eaten. Drank. Nothing. She hasn’t even been to the bathroom. If she keeps it up, we’ll need to call Tristan and Sophie to get her on an IV." He paused, his voice lowering. "She’s in the den. Charlotte wouldn’t let her go upstairs."

Brad nodded, the knot in his stomach tightening as he steeled himself. Rolling his shoulders, he walked inside. The house smelled the same—wood polish and lavender, Charlotte’s signature scent—but it felt hollow. Empty.

Isobel sat in the den, cross-legged on the floor, absently petting the family dog, Bailey. The animal saw him enter and padded over, tail wagging, as if hoping Brad could bring back some sense of normalcy. But Isobel didn’t even flinch. She kept her head down, now staring at the space vacated by the dog.

Brad crossed the room with measured steps, lowering himself to his knees before her. His movements were deliberate, unhurried, a grounding presence against the storm raging in her eyes. He didn’t touch her—he knew better than to reach out too soon—but his voice softened, deep and steady.

"Belle," he said, his tone brooking no argument but laced with unmistakable care, “we’re going home. But before we do,you’re going to drink a glass of milk and eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. You need it, and you know it."

Her head shook almost imperceptibly, her lips parting to protest. The words, though, didn’t come.

Brad leaned closer, the firm command in his voice gently coaxing her back from the edge of her silence. "Look at me."

She hesitated before meeting his gaze, her defiance flaring momentarily. Brad held steady, letting her see the unwavering strength behind his concern. He wasn’t angry; he was here. For her. Always for her.

"Belle," he said again, his voice dropping an octave, calm but resolute. "This isn’t a debate. You’re eating something. If I have to carry you to the table, I will. But I’d rather you choose to meet me halfway."

Her chin trembled slightly, her resistance cracking beneath the weight of her own exhaustion. Slowly, she pressed her lips together then gave a reluctant nod. It was small, but it was enough.

"You can stay here, and I’ll bring it to you," Brad tilted his head slightly to keep her eyes on his, "or you can sit at the table. I’ll let you decide."

Her glare shot through him, sharp and full of anger. But he saw the helplessness beneath it, the vulnerability she so rarely let surface. It twisted something deep in his chest, but he didn’t waver. She needed this—needed him to guide her back to herself, one step at a time.

After a long, tense moment, she pushed herself to her feet, her legs shaky. Brad stood, offering his arm to steady her, but she brushed past him. He let her, watching as she shuffled toward the kitchen with heavy, reluctant steps.

Behind him, the room exhaled collectively—the officers, Charlotte, Alex, all of them clearly relieved at the small progress.The tension lifted just slightly, but Brad knew they weren’t done. Not even close.

He trailed after Isobel, keeping a careful distance. For now, she needed space. But his eyes stayed on her, his attention unwavering. She sat at the table without a word, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

Brad moved to the counter, preparing the sandwich with the same precision he brought to everything he did. As he worked, he spoke softly, though he wasn’t sure if she was listening. "You’re not alone in this, Belle. I’m here. I’ll always be here."

When he set the plate and glass in front of her, he didn’t demand anything more. He simply pulled out a chair and sat beside her, close enough for her to feel his presence. He wouldn’t push further tonight.

For now, it was enough that she was at the table. It was enough that she’d taken the first step.

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