Page 76 of Beneath the Surface

For a moment, Brad’s resolve seemed to crumble, his shoulders sagging. Her words had broken through the walls he had built around himself. "I know," he whispered, his voice so quiet she almost didn’t hear him. "But I have to keep going. Ihave to take care of you… of us. I have my work, but Hale… Larson and I have to find him and end this."

Isobel swallowed the lump in her throat, realizing the truth in his words. She knew how hard he had been working, the strain pulling at the very threads of his sanity. But she had always seen him as the one who held her together. Now, she understood—he needed to be taken care of too.

They shared a quiet breakfast that morning, a fragile peace settling between them like a soft mist. The rain outside had begun to fall lightly, pattering against the windows, the gray sky casting a melancholy glow over the house.

Afterward, Brad gently walked her to the car, their hands entwined, their silence saying more than words could. He was taking her back to Sophie’s house, following the protocol he had established for her safety.

Arriving at Sophie and Tristan’s home, she saw the weariness in his eyes, the lines of stress etched deep into his brow. "Please be careful today and call me when you get in,” she whispered as she kissed him goodbye, holding on just a little longer than usual.

"I will," he promised, his hand lingering on hers before he got into the car. But even as he said the words, something in his voice wavered.

She watched him drive away, her heart heavy with a foreboding she couldn’t shake. The rain had started to fall harder, the sky thick with storm clouds. As his car disappeared around the bend, Isobel stood there, arms wrapped around herself, trying to shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong.

She returned to the house, her laptop bag over her shoulder. After checking in with her sisters, she asked if she could use Tristan’s office. She couldn’t run scared anymore. She had to help Brad.

Isobel let out a slow breath, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. The photograph stared back at her from the screen, taunting her with its familiarity. Malcolm Hale. The name sent a chill down her spine, dredging up memories she’d buried long ago—memories of long nights poring over data, of a case that had consumed her professor Stuart Murdoch’s life. And that face, half-smiling in his curriculum vitae photo, exuded confidence. No, not confidence—arrogance.

She remembered the case, the media circus that overshadowed everything. Her part in the research was small but significant. The one analysis she contributed helped her professor prove Hale wrong. She couldn’t sit on the sidelines anymore.

Leaning back, she ran a hand through her hair and scanned the screen again. Hale’s academic papers, scattered across journals and archives. One caught her eye—a co-authored piece from his time at Berkeley. She clicked on it and scrolled to the bottom, noting the list of acknowledgments.

There it was. A name. Carter Brooks.

A flicker of recognition sparked. Carter was a friend she’d met at a Seattle conference years ago. They’d stayed in touch sporadically. Back then, he’d mentioned working under Hale, but she hadn’t given it much thought. Now, it felt like a lifeline.

She pulled up her phone and searched her contacts, quickly finding Carter’s number. Her thumb hesitated over the call button. What if he didn’t want to talk? What if this opened old wounds?

No. She didn’t have time to second-guess herself. With a resolute nod, she pressed the button and held the phone to her ear.

“Isobel? Hey, it’s been a while. What’s up?” Carter answered.

“Carter, hey. Sorry for the out-of-the-blue call. I… I need your help. It’s about someone you worked with a long time ago. Malcolm Hale.”

He paused. “Hale? Yeah, Malcolm Hale.” He sighed. “Why are you asking about him?”

“It’s… complicated. Let’s just say his name’s come up again, and I need to know everything about him. I remember you mentioning once that you worked with him back at Berkeley. Anything you can tell me could help.”

Carter took a deep breath. “Look, Isobel, that was years ago. I was just a kid, eager to make a mark, and Hale… well, he was the kind of guy who could make or break your career. But working for him? It wasn’t what I thought it’d be.”

“What do you mean? Was he tough to work for?”

He chuckled darkly. “Tough? That’s putting it lightly. In the beginning, he was all about discipline and structure. Everything had to be perfect—reports, presentations, even how you addressed him. At first, I thought it was just his way of maintaining high standards. But then I started noticing patterns.”

Her stomach rumbled. “What kind of patterns?”

“The women. He went through female research assistants like you wouldn’t believe. If they were strong—women who stood up to him or challenged his ideas—he’d systematically tear them down. Humiliate them. Make them miserable until they quit. And if they were more submissive? They didn’t last long either. They were terrified of him.”

Submissive?“That’s... unsettling. Did he ever… cross a line?”

“Not overtly. At least, not that I saw. But the man had this presence, you know? It was like he thrived on control. The way he’d talk to people, corner them in debates, always needing to prove he was the smartest one in the room. It was morepsychological than anything, but it worked. He broke people. But there was a party he invited us to…”

“What do you remember about it?”

"God, it was a nightmare," Carter muttered. "Uncle Phineas Phillips. Couldn’t forget that name if I tried. Real piece of work. The kind of guy who’d stare too long at the waitstaff and think it was charming. The estate’s this sprawling mansion in the Hollywood Hills. I figured going to a party there wouldn’t be a big deal. He was a professor and all. I mean, I’d been to other professors’ events." He exhaled sharply. "But that night got out of hand. Way out of hand."

Isobel frowned, her stomach twisting. "Out of hand how?"

Carter hesitated, then explained, "What started as a run-of-the-mill cocktail party turned into something else. Some of the people there—guys Hale introduced the guests to—they… pushed things. Turned it into a free-for-all. I thought it was just drugs, you know? People losing control. But it wasn’t just that." His voice grew quieter. "It was like they planned it. The whole thing. The abuse, the frenzy... it wasn’t random."

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