Almost.
James met her at the edge of the overlook, his navy parka zipped to the chin, his face carrying the weariness of someone who'd been awake for most of the night and was looking at many more hours of the same.Behind him, crime scene technicians moved with careful precision around a shape that Isla didn't want to look at yet.
"Walk me through it," she said.
"Robert Yamada, fifty-three.Award-winning nature photographer—won the Minnesota Arts Council prize two years ago, same competition Derek Paulson won more recently.His partner reported him missing around seven AM when he didn't respond to texts."James consulted his notes."Yamada had told him he'd be shooting here this morning.Planned to catch the falls at dawn, when the ice formations are most dramatic."
"He knew about the previous murders?"
"According to his partner, yes.They'd discussed it.Yamada thought he was safe because he was a nature photographer, not a landscape artist—different circles, different competitions."James's voice tightened slightly."He was wrong."
Isla moved past him toward the body, her boots crunching on frozen gravel.The technicians parted to let her through, and she forced herself to look.
Robert Yamada sat behind a camera mounted on a professional tripod, his body positioned with the same careful deliberation that had marked Derek Paulson and Jennifer Hayes.His hands rested on his thighs, fingers curled loosely inward.His head was angled toward the viewfinder, tilted just so, as if he'd frozen mid-shot while composing the perfect frame.
But something was different this time.
Isla crouched beside the body, studying the scene with the analytical detachment she'd spent years cultivating.The positioning was precise—more precise than the previous victims, she realized.Every element seemed intentional: the exact angle of Yamada's shoulders, the specific tilt of his head, the way his hands had been arranged with almost mathematical precision.
The killer was getting better.
Or they were getting more confident.
"The camera," she said."What's on it?"
One of the technicians—a young woman with short dark hair and the particular focus of someone determined not to let the horror of the scene affect her work—answered."We haven't pulled the card yet, but based on the previous scenes, we're expecting the same pattern.Single image, taken after death, showing the composition the killer staged."
"Same as the others."
"Same as the others."The technician gestured toward the camera's position."You can see where the body was adjusted after death, based on the lividity patterns.Whoever did this took their time getting everything just right."
Isla stood and moved around the body, studying the composition from different angles.The camera pointed toward Gooseberry Falls—the upper cascade, specifically, where water plunged over dark volcanic rock into a pool of churning white foam.Ice clung to the edges of the falls like frozen lace, catching the morning light and transforming it into something ethereal.
It was beautiful.Heartbreakingly beautiful.
And someone had turned that beauty into a frame for murder.
"I want a copy of this angle as soon as you've processed it," Isla said to the technician."The exact composition the killer used.There's something about it—" She trailed off, trying to articulate the intuition that was nagging at the edges of her consciousness.The angle felt familiar somehow.She'd need to compare it to other photographs of this location, see if the killer was working from some kind of template.
She turned to James."We need to dig deeper into historical photographs of these locations.All three crime scenes.If there's a pattern in the compositions the killer is choosing—"
"Already thinking the same thing."James moved to stand beside her, his presence a solid anchor against the cold wind cutting across the overlook."The university archives, the historical society, maybe even Kramer's collection if he'll let us access it.Even if he's not our killer, his photographs might help us understand what we're looking at."
Isla nodded, but the mention of Kramer sat uneasily in her stomach.They'd been so certain he was involved—his philosophy, his blog posts, his collection of vintage photographs.And now he was definitively cleared, sitting in his apartment under surveillance while another body appeared at another scenic overlook.
Whoever was doing this, they'd absorbed Kramer's worldview without ever needing his direct involvement.Or they'd developed the same twisted philosophy entirely on their own.
"Agent Rivers?"
The voice came from behind them—hesitant, uncertain, barely audible above the roar of the falls.Isla turned to find a young park ranger hovering at the edge of the crime scene tape, his green uniform jacket too thin for the March cold, his face carrying the particular expression of someone who wanted to be anywhere else.
"Yes?"
The ranger glanced at James, then back at Isla, clearly trying to determine which of them was in charge.He settled on Isla—something about her posture, maybe, or the intensity in her eyes.
"I'm, um, I'm Ranger Hendricks.Brian Hendricks."He cleared his throat, his adam's apple bobbing nervously."There's something I think—I mean, someone I think you should maybe know about."
Isla exchanged a glance with James.Witnesses who approached law enforcement voluntarily were either genuinely helpful or genuinely problematic.There was rarely a middle ground.