James Sullivan had been her partner since almost the beginning of her time in Duluth.A native of the city, former homicide detective turned FBI agent, he knew these streets and these people in a way Isla never would.Where she brought profiling expertise and a keen eye for behavioral patterns, he brought deep local connections and the kind of methodical patience that had cracked cases she would have approached too aggressively.They balanced each other.Complemented each other.
And somewhere along the way, he'd become the person she trusted most in the world.
"You're not eating," Emma observed, gesturing at Isla's cone with her plastic spoon."It's going to melt."
"It's thirty-four degrees."
"Doesn't matter.Ice cream waits for no one."
Isla took a dutiful bite, the sweetness sharp against her teeth.Around them, downtown Duluth moved at its Sunday afternoon pace—families wandering between shops, a couple with a golden retriever pausing to read the menu posted outside a brewery, a cluster of college kids laughing about something on one of their phones.The harbor stretched beyond the buildings, Lake Superior a gray-blue expanse beneath a sky threatening snow.Almost three years she'd been here now, and she still wasn't used to it.The way the lake dominated everything.The way it seemed to breathe.
The way it kept its secrets.
Stop it, she told herself.You're off duty.You're eating ice cream.You're allowed to have one normal afternoon.
"Dad says you've been working too hard," Emma said, entirely too casually.
Isla shot James a look.He suddenly became very interested in his vanilla cone.
"Did he now."
"He says you're at the office before he gets there and you're still there when he leaves.He says it's not healthy."
"Emma."James's voice carried the particular tone of a parent who had just watched their child deploy classified information in a civilian setting."That's not exactly—"
"You said it at dinner on Tuesday."
"Context matters."
"You said she was going to work herself into the ground and somebody needed to say something."
Isla felt something twist in her chest—not quite embarrassment, not quite pleasure.Something in between."Your father worries too much."
"He says that about you, too."
James rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture Isla had learned to recognize as acute discomfort.His hands were large and calloused—equally capable of taking detailed notes at a crime scene or building the elaborate dollhouse she'd seen in photos of Emma's room.A faded scar ran along his right hand from a fishing accident in his youth, one of the many small details she'd catalogued over their years together."I think we've established that I say a lot of things at dinner.Most of them are requests for you to eat your vegetables."
Emma grinned, the triumphant smile of a teenager who had successfully embarrassed her parent in front of a colleague.There was nothing malicious in it.That was the thing about Emma—she was sharp, perceptive, occasionally too honest for comfort, but there was a warmth underneath it all that reminded Isla of Claire.The way her sister could see straight through Isla's defenses and choose kindness anyway.
They walked as they ate, drifting south along Superior Street toward the harbor.Isla had suggested the walk when James mentioned he had Emma for the afternoon—shared custody with his ex-wife Stacey, an arrangement that seemed to work well enough for everyone involved.She'd meant it as a casual thing, a break from the files that had been consuming her for weeks.But somewhere between her apartment and downtown, it had become something else.Something that felt dangerously close to normal.
She watched James point out something to Emma—a mural she hadn't noticed before, bright colors splashed across the side of a building—and felt the familiar ache settle behind her ribs.He moved through Duluth with the easy confidence of someone who had spent his whole life here, who knew which shortcuts to take when the tourists clogged the main streets, who could tell you which restaurants had been around for decades and which ones wouldn't last the winter.It was so different from how Isla moved through the world—always analyzing, always assessing, never quite belonging anywhere.
Three years, she thought.Almost three years of working beside him, of learning his tells and trusting his instincts, of those moments in the car or at the office when their eyes would meet and hold for just a beat too long.Three years of wondering what it would be like to close that distance.
But she never did.And neither did he.
It was the job, partly.Partners who got involved complicated everything—the chain of custody on evidence, the testimony in court, and the simple ability to think clearly when the other person was in danger.Isla had seen it go wrong before, back in Miami.Watched colleagues torpedo their careers for relationships that burned bright and fast and left nothing but wreckage.
And then there was the other thing.The thing she didn't like to examine too closely.
She was thirty-seven years old.Her last real relationship had ended in a different city, a different life, with Reggie Stamos standing in her apartment doorway sayingI can't do this anymore, Isla.I can't watch you disappear into a case and pretend it doesn't matter.She'd told herself she was fine that the work was enough.That she didn't need someone waiting for her at home, didn't need the weight of another person's expectations pressing against her chest.
But sometimes, on afternoons like this one, watching James laugh at something Emma said, she wondered if she'd been lying.
"Penny for your thoughts," James said, falling into step beside her.Emma had wandered ahead, distracted by something in a shop window.
"Just enjoying the day."Isla forced a smile."It's nice.This."