Outside, the March wind rattled the windows of the cabin, carrying with it the distant whisper of Lake Superior.He'd grown up with that sound—the lake's constant murmur beneath every memory, every quiet evening spent in the darkroom watching images emerge from nothing.
He smoothed his hand across the photograph in the center of the arrangement—Hawk Ridge at sunrise.The composition was perfect: the rocky outcropping in the foreground, the harbor lights below, the vast expanse of water meeting sky in a horizon line that divided the frame into precise thirds.
He'd seen that same composition on magazine covers.In gallery shows.On the walls of studios owned by men and women who called themselves artists.
Derek Paulson had been one of them.
Not anymore.
He reached for his laptop and navigated to the news coverage he'd been monitoring all morning.Two photographers killed in less than twenty-four hours, both staged behind their own cameras, both discovered at scenic overlooks.The anchors spoke in grave tones about "senseless violence."
Senseless.
He almost laughed.
There was nothing senseless about what he'd done.Every element had been calculated, deliberate, precise.You don't just point a camera at something beautiful and hope for the best.You study the light.You understand the landscape.You wait for the moment when everything aligns.
Derek Paulson was aligned now.Jennifer Hayes, too.Permanent fixtures in landscapes they'd claimed as their own.
He pulled a new photograph from the stack—a printout from a website.Robert Yamada, award-winning nature photographer.The image showed Yamada accepting a prize at some ceremony in Minneapolis, his smile wide and self-satisfied.
He set Yamada's headshot beside one of the older photographs—Gooseberry Falls, 1989.The upper falls cascading over dark volcanic rock, ice formations clinging to the edges like frozen lace, winter sunlight catching the mist and transforming it into diamonds.
And Robert Yamada had won the Minnesota Arts Council's highest honor for a photograph that replicated it almost exactly.
Different year.Different camera.
Same stolen vision.
He checked Yamada's social media again.Three days ago, the photographer had posted about an early-morning shoot at Gooseberry Falls—chasing the "perfect winter light" before the spring thaw.Tomorrow morning.The post had mentioned tomorrow morning specifically.
The falls would still be partially frozen, ice clinging to the rocks while water rushed beneath.The light would be spectacular at dawn.Yamada would have the falls to himself, setting up his equipment in the pre-dawn darkness, waiting for the moment when everything aligned.
He wouldn't be alone for long.
He gathered the prints carefully, stacking them in chronological order, handling them with the reverence they deserved.Tomorrow morning, before dawn, he would be at Gooseberry Falls.He would watch Robert Yamada frame his stolen composition, prepare to capture another image built on someone else's vision.
And then he would add Yamada to the landscape.
Another thief transformed into tribute.
The lake whispered outside his window, cold and patient and eternal, and he whispered back.
"Soon.They're finally going to see."
CHAPTER TEN
The whiteboard had become a monument to failure.
Isla stood before it in the conference room, her arms crossed, her eyes tracing the web of photographs and timelines and red string connections that should have led somewhere by now.Derek Paulson's face stared back at her from the left side—the professional headshot they'd pulled from his website, all confidence and artistic gravitas.Jennifer Hayes occupied the right side, her image cropped from a candid shot at some wildlife photography awards ceremony, her smile genuine in a way that made Isla's chest ache.
Two photographers.Two scenic overlooks.Two bodies staged like grotesque installations.
And absolutely nothing connecting them to a killer.
The clock on the wall read 2:17 PM.Wednesday, March 8th.Almost eight hours since Derek Paulson's body had been found at Hawk Ridge, and they were no closer to catching whoever had done this than they'd been when the first call came in.
"The shipyard search is winding down."