Page 43 of Beneath the Surface

Larson ran a hand over his wet face, slicking back the rain from his hair. "John Larson is my real name, but I’m not just a cop who transferred to Waverly County to keep my daughter safe. Though that’s true." He paused, meeting Brad’s eyes. "I’m still a detective with the LAPD. I’ve been undercover, tracking a serial killer."

Brad’s blood ran cold, the pieces falling into place faster than he could process. "A serial killer? And you didn’t think to mention that?"

Larson shook his head, the rain dripping off his chin. "Tell me, if the roles were reversed, would you have come clean? If anyone knows about trust, it should be you. I’m here because this killer doesn’t stay in one place—he moves. And I’ve been following him for three years."

Brad’s mind raced, the anger simmering beneath the surface threatening to boil over. "And how does Bliss fit into this? You were at that club doing more than just undercover work."

Larson winced, a shadow passing over his face. "Bliss… that was part of my cover, but not all of it. I had to use extreme behavior as a lure to gain access to the circles the killer moves in—people who thrive on ruthless domination, coerced submission, and control, the kind of environments where things can easily spiral into violence. But it wasn’t just a role I played. I do participate in that lifestyle, and that’s what made it easierto blend in. The killer is obsessed with power and breaking his victims. I had to fully immerse myself in that world to understand how he selects them and how he operates."

"And what does that have to do with Isobel?" Brad snapped, taking another step closer. His voice was sharp, filled with the desperate need to protect her. "You know something about the cases she’s worked on. You know this is connected to her."

Larson nodded slowly, his expression darkening. "It’s all connected, Brad. This isn’t the first time this killer has gone after a psychologist. Isobel is the tenth."

Brad’s heart pounded in his chest as Larson’s words hit him. "The tenth?" His voice faltered slightly, as if the wind had been knocked out of him. "What are you saying?"

Larson’s eyes were steady but filled with the kind of haunted knowledge of someone who had seen too much. "Nine psychologists before Isobel, each specializing in forensic psychology or criminal behavior, were killed in the last three years. They were targeted because they could see through him. They understood his mind, and that made him feel exposed, vulnerable. He can’t stand that."

Brad felt like the ground had shifted beneath him. "And Isobel?”

Larson nodded grimly. "She’s alive. The others were taken out before they even realized what was happening. But Isobel… she’s different. She’s already survived an attack. She’s a threat to him in ways the others weren’t."

Brad clenched his fists, his anger burning hot beneath his skin. "So, what’s his plan for her? What does he want?"

Larson took a step closer, his voice dropping low. "He doesn’t just want to kill her. Killing her would be too easy. He wants to break her. He wants to make her believe she’s powerless, that everything she’s built her life on—understanding the criminal mind, helping people—is meaningless. He’s playing a longgame, wearing her down with these cases, making her question everything she knows. These case duplications are distractions for the police. My guess is he didn’t count on her being able to call 9-1-1 after the bees stung her. I think the police arrival beat him to grabbing her.”

Brad's stomach churned at the thought. The killer wasn’t just after Isobel’s life—he was after her soul. "You should have told me this sooner," he hissed, barely keeping his voice in check. "We could have stopped him. We could have?—"

"You think I haven’t tried?" Larson shot back, his voice rising in frustration. "This killer is meticulous. He’s always ten steps ahead. Every time I thought I was closing in, he’d slip away. And then he came here, to Waverly County, and I realized Isobel was next. I couldn’t blow my cover. If he even got a hint I was tracking him, she would be dead, and he would move on to the next."

Brad’s anger faltered for a moment, Larson’s words sinking in. He hated this, hated that Isobel had been caught in the middle of some twisted game. But there was one thing he couldn’t shake.

"You’ve been watching her all this time," Brad said, his voice low with barely contained fury. "Did you ever think that maybeshedeserves to know the truth? That he’s copying her cases, and she’s feeling responsible for every death, but she’s been his target all along?”

Larson’s face hardened. "I’ve been trying to keep her safe. The less she knows, the less chance he has to manipulate her. This guy… he gets off on psychological torment, on making people question their sanity. If Isobel knew she was his target, it could have pushed her over the edge. She’s stronger than the others, but even she has her limits."

Brad shook his head, stepping back as the rain continued to pour down. "You don’t think she already knows? How can shenot? But this isn’t your decision to make. Isobel has a right to know the truth. I’m sharing everything with her."

Larson opened his mouth to protest, but Brad cut him off. "You’ve been playing this game alone for too long, and it’s gotten people killed. You want to stop this guy? We need to work together."

For a long moment, the only sound was the relentless rain tapping against the pavement and their soaked clothes. Finally, Larson nodded, his jaw clenched. "Alright. We work together. But you need to know—this guy’s not just some psychopath with a taste for blood. He’s smart. And he’s coming for Isobel. If we don’t get ahead of him, she won’t be a survivor for much longer."

Brad looked back toward the warehouse, his heart heavy with fear for Isobel. The storm raging around them felt small compared to the one that was coming.

"Then we stop him," Brad said, his voice cold and determined. "Before he gets any closer."

The lightof the police precinct’s conference room cast long shadows over the table where they sat, the air thick with frustration. Papers were scattered across the surface—crime scene photos, timelines, and maps with pins marking the locations of the murders. The map was dotted with red marks across multiple states, a web of chaos that refused to yield a clear answer.

Brad leaned forward, his elbows on the table, staring at the map. “Nine psychologists dead, copycat murders with each of them, and we’re no closer to finding this guy. What are we missing?”

Detective Larson rubbed his temple, the weariness of weeks on the case etched into his features. “It’s the damn jurisdictions,” he muttered, leaning back in his chair. “Every time we get a lead, we have to coordinate with another department. Different protocols, different people, different levels of urgency. It’s like trying to herd cats.”

Brad nodded, his jaw tight. “The killer knows that. He’s exploiting the gaps in communication. Look at this,” he said, pointing to the map. “South Dakota, Minnesota, California, Illinois, Nebraska… he’s not staying in one place long enough for us to get a solid lead. By the time one department gets evidence processed, he’s already moved on to the next victim in another jurisdiction.”

Larson scowled. “And every department wants to keep their cards close to their chest. Nobody wants to share too much in case they lose credit for solving the case. Meanwhile, this guy’s out there laughing at us.”

Brad leaned back, frustration evident in his posture. “It’s not just the jurisdictions. It’s the copycat murders. They’re throwing us off at every turn.”

Larson picked up a photo of one of the collateral murders—a staged scene eerily similar to the primary killer’s work. “You think he’s got a network? People doing this for him?”

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