Page 2 of Outside the Room

"I'm sorry," she whispered to the photograph, the words inadequate and meaningless. Alicia remained frozen in time, her smile bright and unknowing of the fate that awaited her.

Isla closed the file and tucked it back into the box. She couldn't change what had happened in Miami, but she could try to do better here. Even if "here" was a frozen wasteland that she already resented. Even if her instincts felt as fragile and cracked as the ice on the lake.

She showered and dressed with military precision, choosing a charcoal pantsuit that was more suited to Miami's climate than Minnesota's brutal winter. She layered a thermal shirt underneath, stubbornly refusing to concede to the bulky winter clothing that would mark her as someone who planned to stay.

In the small bathroom mirror, Isla assessed her reflection critically. Dark circles shadowed her amber eyes, and her olive complexion looked paler than usual in the harsh fluorescent light. She pulled her wavy dark brown hair into a practical ponytail, frowning as several persistent strands escaped to frame her face. The small scar near her right eyebrow—a reminder of a childhood boating accident—stood out against her skin, another reminder of how one moment of carelessness could leave permanent marks.

Isla clipped her FBI badge to her belt and checked her service weapon before holstering it at her hip. The familiar weight of the gun provided little comfort today. She had trusted her training in Miami, too.

As she prepared to leave, her phone buzzed with a text from her sister Claire:

First day at work in the frozen north! You've got this. Call me later. Love you.

Isla managed a small smile. Claire was the only person who still believed in her without reservation, the only family she had left after the car accident that had claimed their parents. She texted back a quick affirmative, grateful for the connection but unable to share Claire's optimism.

With one last look at the icy expanse of Lake Superior, Isla steeled herself against both the physical cold and the chilly reception she expected at the Duluth FBI field office. Her new colleagues would have heard about Miami. In a profession where reputation was everything, hers was now tarnished by failure.

She locked her apartment door behind her, each metallic click of the deadbolt sounding like the final nails in the coffin of her once-promising career.

***

The Duluth FBI field office occupied the third floor of a nondescript government building downtown. Isla had expected something smaller, more provincial—a reflection of what she assumed would be the minor league cases handled by agents exiled to the northern hinterlands. The modern, well-equipped space that greeted her was the first of many surprises Duluth had in store.

She approached the reception desk, badge already in hand. "Agent Isla Rivers. I'm reporting to Special Agent in Charge Channing."

Before the receptionist could respond, a door opened, and a woman emerged. In her early fifties, with a sleek silver bob and impeccable posture, she exuded authority in her tailored navy suit.

"Agent Rivers," the woman said, extending her hand. "Katherine Channing. Welcome to Duluth."

Isla shook her hand, noting the firm grip and the wedding band Channing still wore. "Thank you, ma'am."

"Kate, please." Channing's smile reached her piercing gray-blue eyes, creating an unexpected warmth that caught Isla off guard. "We're glad to have you. Your reputation precedes you."

Isla tensed, waiting for the inevitable reference to the incident in Miami, but Channing continued smoothly, "Your work on the Houston trafficking ring was impressive. Delgado always spoke highly of your analytical skills."

The mention of Steve Delgado—her mentor in Miami and the reason she'd joined the FBI after Georgetown—created a complicated knot of emotions in Isla's chest. She wondered if he still believed in her after everything that had happened. She didn’t want to hope, but maybe what happened in Miami wouldn’t follow her here.

But maybe it should, the voice inside her said. Maybe you deserve to be punished.

"Thank you," Isla managed, unsure how to respond to praise when she'd been bracing for condemnation.

Channing led her through the office, pointing out workstations and conference rooms with efficient gestures. Agents looked up as they passed, some nodding politely, others openly curious. Isla felt their gazes like physical contact, wondering how much they knew.

"We run lean here," Channing explained, "but what we lack in manpower, we make up for in collaboration.”

They passed a glass-walled room where a man with salt-and-pepper hair hunched over a topographical map, his shirtsleeves rolled to reveal muscular forearms. He glanced up, his eyes meeting Isla's for a beat longer than necessary before returning to his work.

"That's Agent Erickson," Channing said without slowing her pace. "He's been tracking a network of prescription drug smugglers working the North Shore. Don’t worry about him.”

Channing stopped at a small office with a window overlooking Lake Superior. "This is yours." She leaned against the doorframe. "And yes, officially, you're here to work our backlog. But I don't believe in wasting resources, Agent Rivers. Everyone multitasks."

The lake stretched out beyond the window, vast and steel-gray under the autumn sky. Nothing like Miami's turquoise waters.

"I know you're used to the bullpen setup in Miami, but we do things a bit differently here."

Isla set down her bag, surveying the empty desk and bare walls. "I appreciate the space."

"You'll also be working with a partner," Channing continued, checking her watch. "He should be here shortly. James Sullivan is one of our best—former Duluth homicide detective who joined the Bureau eight years ago. He knows this region better than anyone."

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