Page 42 of Beneath the Surface

You’ve seen my work now, haven’t you? You understand the beauty of what I do. The control, the precision. Each one is a masterpiece, broken exactly how they need to be. But this is only the beginning. What I did to them, what you’re standing in front of right now? It’s nothing compared to what I have planned for her.

Your Isobel.

She’s always been strong, hasn’t she? Always the fighter, the one who thinks she can understand people like me. She’s made a career out of diving into minds like mine,but she has no idea. She doesn’t know what it’s like to truly be broken. But she will.

I’m going to take her apart, piece by piece. I’m going to make her submit in ways she’s never imagined. She’ll stop fighting, just like the others. She’ll beg for it to stop. She’ll beg me to end it, but I won’t—not until she realizes the truth. She deserves this.

She’s spent too long thinking she’s in control. She thinks she’s better than the people she studies, that she can unravel the dark corners of their minds. But when I’m done with her, she’ll know. She’ll know that she’s no different. She’ll understand that she was never in control to begin with.

This isn’t about just killing her, Brad. No, that would be too easy. Too quick. I want her to break. I want her to lose every ounce of that strength you admire so much. I want her to be nothing but a hollow shell by the time I’m finished.

And when she finally gives in, when she finally stops fighting, you’ll know. You’ll know I won. You’ll see what true power looks like.

I’ll be watching, Brad. I’m always watching.

See you soon.

Brad felt a cold sweat break out across his forehead and down his back as he finished reading the note. His hands shook as he folded it back into the evidence bag, his mind reeling. The killer wasn’t just taunting him—he was declaring his intentions with terrifying clarity. This wasn’t just about Isobel’s cases anymore. This was about her.

"He’s escalating," Brewster muttered beside him, reading the fear on Brad’s face. "He’s not going to stop, is he?"

Brad shook his head slowly, still trying to process the magnitude of the threat. "No. He won’t stop until he gets to her. And when he does…" His voice trailed off, the words too heavy to finish.

Larson, standing in the shadows, gave a bitter smile. "Sick bastard is obsessed. He’s playing a game, and he’s dragging her right into the center of it."

Brad’s stomach twisted. Isobel was in more danger than either of them had realized. This killer wasn’t just recreating her old cases—he was using them as a way to reach her, to pull her into a nightmare of his own making. And his end goal was clear. Breaking her.

Brad clenched his fists, the rage and fear boiling up inside him. "We need to find him before he gets to her. Before he—" He stopped himself, the image of Isobel in the killer’s hands too horrifying to even imagine.

"I’ll have our crime lab run this note through every database we have, then I’ll send it to the FBI," Brewster said with urgency. "We’ll cross-reference it with the cases she’s consulted on, see if there’s any connection we’re missing."

Larson pushed off the beam, his eyes cold and calculating. "We better move fast. He’s not waiting around."

Brad nodded. Another victim. Isobel’s life was hanging by a thread—the killer made it clear.

Brad stepped out into the pouring rain, the cold water immediately soaking through his clothes, running in rivulets down his face. He barely noticed. His mind was spinning with the grotesque scene inside, the note, the blood—the bound body. Every step away from the warehouse felt like trying to escape a nightmare that was clinging to him, sticking to his skin like the mud beneath his boots.

The scene wouldn’t leave him. The brutality, the calculated cruelty—it wasn’t just another murder. It was personal. He felt it in his bones.

Behind him, Brad heard the sound of footsteps splashing through the puddles. John Larson.

Brad’s muscles tightened instinctively. He had sensed for a while now that something was off about Larson. The man was too cold, too distant in the face of horror like this. And after the email from his FBI contact about Larson’s past, the last pieces of doubt had clicked into place.

Brad turned abruptly, his voice cutting through the rainfall as Larson came closer. "Enough with the bullshit, Larson," he growled, his eyes narrowing. "I know you’re not who you say you are."

Larson stopped short, his expression carefully neutral, but Brad saw the flicker of something pass over his face. Fear? Guilt?

"What are you talking about?" Larson asked, his voice low, almost too calm.

Brad took a step toward him, the rain sloshing between them. "I’ve been talking to some people back in L.A. Friends at the FBI, and I got word from a contact at Bliss."

Larson’s jaw ticked at the mention of Bliss, and Brad knew he hit the mark. "You’re not just some newly appointed small-town cop running from your past. You're hiding something. You need to come clean. Now."

For a long moment, Larson said nothing. His eyes, shadowed by the downpour, flicked around, almost as if he were considering running or lying again. But then he sighed deeply, a sound filled with exhaustion and defeat.

"Fine,” Larson’s voice was laced with something that almost resembled relief, “you’re right. I’m not who I’ve said I am."

Brad’s fists clenched by his sides, but he forced himself to stay calm. He needed answers, not more lies. "Then who the hell are you?"

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