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“What do we have?” Logan asked, though part of him dreaded the answer.
“Male victim, late fifties. Found this morning by a fisherman.”
Male victim in his fifties? Logan rubbed his neck. What profile did that fit?
Reeves studied Logan’s face. “Logan, it’s . . . it’s Dr. Winters.”
The words hit him like a physical blow. “Winters? He’s not connected to Morgan’s stalkers. He’s her therapist.”
“Washer therapist,” Reeves corrected quietly. “Come on, you need to see this.”
She led him down the wooden walkway toward the pier that extended into Chena Lake. The morning mist rose from the water’s surface, creating an ethereal backdrop that would have been beautiful under different circumstances.
Logan saw the body before Reeves pointed it out.
Dr. Winters had been positioned on the exact pier Morgan had captured in one of her photographs.
The exact pier they’d planned to catch the killer on tonight.
Only the killer had gotten here first.
Dr. Winters had been tied to a wooden post, positioned to face the rising sun. His body was arranged with the same careful attention to composition that marked all the killer’s work.
Logan approached the body, noting how the morning light streamed across the water, illuminating something horrific instead of beautiful.
His jaw clenched. “Time of death?”
“Coroner estimates between midnight and 2 a.m.,” Reeves told him.
The implication was clear. While they’d been focused on the anonymous tip about the old mine, the killer had been here murdering Dr. Winters and staging this scene.
The whole thing at Chatanika had been a distraction, a way to ensure they were all accounted for while the killer carried out his real plan.
Logan stared at Winters, regret pooling inside him. The killer had murdered Morgan’s therapist—someone she’d trusted, someone who’d known her most intimate thoughts and fears.
But why? What had Winters known that made him a target?
They needed to search Winters’ office. His files. His notes on Morgan.
There was something they were missing.
As the morning sun climbed higher, casting long shadows across the pier, Logan realized they weren’t just hunting a killer anymore.
They were chasing someone who was systematically destroying everyone connected to Morgan piece by piece.
And they were always one step behind.
CHAPTER
FIFTY-TWO
I descendedthe basement stairs with a lightness in my step that hadn’t been there in days. Everything was proceeding exactly as I’d envisioned, perhaps even better than I’d dared hope.
The look on Dr. Winters’ face when he’d realized what was happening—that moment of pure understanding—had been exquisite. Worth every risk I’d taken to accelerate my timeline.
At the bottom of the stairs, I paused to appreciate my workspace. The photographs lining the walls told a story of artistic evolution, each one more refined than the last. Mercer had been adequate practice. Walsh showed improvement.
But Winters . . . Winters had been a masterpiece of composition and timing.
