"Within the last hour.Maybe ninety minutes at the outside."Henley's voice was flat, professional, but Isla could hear the strain underneath."Body temperature's barely dropped.Whoever did this, they did it recently."
Within the last hour.Which meant Marcus Lang, who had been leading a photography workshop in front of a dozen witnesses, could not possibly have been here.
"Walk me through it," Isla said.
Henley led her toward the overlook, picking her way carefully along the flagged path the technicians had established."Hiker found her at eleven forty-two.He was coming up the trail from the south, saw what he thought was another photographer working the scene.Didn't realize anything was wrong until he got close enough to see the blood."
"Did he see anyone else?Hear anything?"
"Nothing.He says the area was deserted when he arrived.No vehicles in the lot except hers—a silver Subaru Outback, registered to a Jennifer Hayes."
Jennifer Hayes.
The name triggered something in Isla's memory—a connection she couldn't quite place.She filed it away for later and kept walking, following Henley toward the cluster of technicians gathered at the overlook's edge.
And then she saw the body.
Jennifer Hayes sat behind a camera mounted on a professional tripod, her body positioned with the same careful deliberation that had marked Derek Paulson's murder.Her hands rested on her thighs, fingers curled loosely inward.Her head was angled toward the viewfinder, tilted slightly, as if she'd frozen mid-shot while composing the perfect frame.
But unlike Paulson, whose camera had been pointed at the lake, Jennifer Hayes's equipment faced the meadow below.A long telephoto lens—the kind used for wildlife photography—extended from the camera body like an accusatory finger, pointing toward the open ground where something had clearly been moving.
"She was a wildlife photographer," Isla said.It wasn't a question.
Henley nodded."Based on her equipment and the images on her camera, yes.She appears to have been photographing a great gray owl when she was attacked."The medical examiner consulted her notes."There are dozens of shots on the memory card—the owl perching, flying, hunting.And then one final image, taken after she was already dead."
Isla felt her stomach turn."Like Paulson."
"Exactly like Paulson.The killer positioned her body, adjusted her camera angle, and then used her own equipment to capture the scene."Henley's voice tightened."The final photograph shows the meadow she was documenting.It's beautiful, actually.Perfect composition, perfect light.You'd never know the person who took it was already dead."
Isla crouched beside the body, forcing herself to look past the horror and see the details.Jennifer Hayes had been a small woman, mid-forties, from the look of her, with the weathered hands and practical clothing of someone who spent her life outdoors.Her jacket was high-end—the kind of technical gear that cost hundreds of dollars and was designed for extended exposure to harsh conditions.Her boots were caked with snow and mud, suggesting she'd been here for hours before the attack.
The wound was at the base of her skull, just like Paulson's.A single blow, delivered from behind with enough force to be instantly fatal.Whoever had done this had known exactly where to strike, exactly how much force to apply.
They'd practiced.Or they'd done this before.
"Any sign of a struggle?"Isla asked.
"None that I can see.Like Paulson, she appears to have been caught completely off guard.The blow came from behind while she was focused on her equipment."Henley paused."There's something else.Her phone was in her pocket—unlocked, with several missed calls from her mother.I didn't scroll through the messages, but I noticed the call log.The mother called three times this morning, starting around nine AM."
"She was worried about her daughter."
"Given what happened to Derek Paulson, I imagine a lot of people are worried about photographers right now."
Isla stood, her knees protesting against the cold, and turned to survey the scene.The overlook offered a stunning view of the meadow and the forest beyond—the kind of landscape that would attract wildlife photographers and nature enthusiasts from across the region.Jennifer Hayes had probably come here dozens of times, knew every angle and sightline, felt safe in a place she considered her own.
And someone had used that familiarity against her.
"Agent Rivers."
She turned to find James approaching, his phone pressed to his ear, his expression carrying news she already knew she didn't want to hear.
"I just got off with dispatch," he said."Jennifer Hayes was a professional wildlife photographer.Award-winning, like Paulson—won four different competitions in the past five years, had work featured in national magazines."
"They knew each other."
"They moved in the same circles, at least.Small community.And there's something else."James consulted his phone."I had someone at the office pull her social media.She and Marcus Lang have been in contact.Multiple exchanges over the past six months—he was apparently trying to recruit her for some kind of gallery collaboration."
Isla felt the pieces shifting, rearranging themselves into a new pattern.Two victims, both successful photographers.Both connected to Marcus Lang, however tangentially.Both killed in scenic locations, positioned with their own cameras, their deaths staged like twisted works of art.