Page 4 of Outside the Room
"Weather service upgraded it to a winter storm warning," he commented, the first unprompted information he'd offered. "Roads will get worse before they get better."
Isla slid into the passenger seat, suppressing a shiver. "Does that affect port operations?"
"Takes more than this to shut down the port," Sullivan said, starting the engine and adjusting the heater to full blast. He noticed her thin coat and frowned slightly but said nothing.
They pulled away from the curb, the SUV's tires crunching through fresh snow. Sullivan navigated the increasingly treacherous roads with the casual confidence of someone who'd spent a lifetime in these conditions, while Isla found herself white knuckling the dashboard at each slide and correction.
The snow-laden streets of Duluth blurred into a monotonous white beyond the windshield as they descended toward the harbor. Isla's breath fogged the window when she leaned closer to it, trying to orient herself in this unfamiliar city.
"First time in Duluth?" Sullivan asked, eyes never leaving the road as he navigated a particularly sharp turn.
"Is it that obvious?" Isla attempted a smile.
"Most people from down south have that same look when they see their first real northern winter." A ghost of amusement crossed his otherwise stoic face. "Like they've stepped onto another planet."
The harbor gradually came into view through the curtain of white—massive ships looming like shadowy monoliths, their steel hulls dusted with snow, loading cranes frozen in various positions of arrested motion. Despite the weather, Isla could make out the silhouettes of workers moving about, tiny against the industrial backdrop.
"The shipping season doesn't end for another week," Sullivan explained, following her gaze. "Until then, these crews work through just about anything. Blizzard, ice, whatever." He downshifted as they approached a security checkpoint. "The economics don't allow for weather delays. Not when you've got millions in cargo waiting."
Isla nodded, suddenly aware of how isolated this northern port felt. So close to Canada, so far from anywhere she'd ever known. The perfect place for something to slip through unnoticed.
"How long have you been in Duluth?" she asked, attempting to break the uncomfortable silence that had settled between them.
"Born and raised," he replied, eyes on the road. "Except for Quantico and two years at the Milwaukee field office."
Isla waited for him to elaborate or ask a reciprocal question. When neither came, she tried again.
"What kinds of cases do you typically handle here?"
Sullivan took a corner with careful precision before answering. "Drug trafficking, mostly. Some human trafficking. International border creates opportunities for creative criminals."
His clipped responses made conversation difficult, leaving Isla to wonder if his reticence was personal. Did he know about Miami? Was he resentful about being partnered with an agent whose judgment had been so catastrophically wrong?
"I'd be interested to hear about local crime patterns," she persisted. "Any ongoing investigations I should be aware of?"
Sullivan's hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel. "We'll brief you on active cases once we handle this situation."
The silence that followed felt pointed, and Isla turned to look out the window, watching as the city gave way to industrial zones. The snowfall created a disorienting white curtain that obscured buildings and landmarks, making it impossible to get her bearings.
They approached the port area, passing through a security checkpoint where Sullivan exchanged familiar greetings with the guards. The sound of machinery being operated hummed in the distance.
"Agent Sullivan," the guard nodded, his face half-hidden beneath a frost-covered balaclava. "Didn't expect to see FBI out in this weather. Coppers can’t handle much alone, can they?”
"Necessary evil, Hank," Sullivan replied, handing over his credentials. "This is Agent Isla Rivers. She’s new here."
The guard studied Isla's ID with more scrutiny than he'd given Sullivan's before reluctantly waving them through.
The port complex sprawled before them, a maze of warehouses, shipping containers, and administrative buildings. Snow gathered in drifts against metal walls, while overhead lights created hazy halos in the thickening storm. The wind howled between buildings, channeled into fierce gusts that rocked the SUV. Even in the heavy snowfall, Isla could make out the immensity of Lake Superior stretching beyond the harbor—a slate-gray expanse that seemed more ocean than lake.
Sullivan parked near a squat, utilitarian building marked "Port Authority Administration." He killed the engine but made no move to exit.
"Before we go in there," he said, turning to face Isla for the first time since they'd left the field office, "I need to know what you're not telling me."
Isla stiffened. "Excuse me?"
"Miami field office doesn't just ship an agent to Duluth in December without reason." His eyes, gray as the winter sky, studied her with uncomfortable intensity. "So, what happened that got you sent to the frozen north?"
Heat crept into Isla's cheeks despite the chill. "I thought you had my file."
