That was when she saw the headlights.
They came from the access road below—two points of yellow light moving slowly up the hill, their beams cutting through the darkness like searching eyes.Isla's hand froze on the gear shift, her heart suddenly loud in her ears.
It could be anyone.A late-night security patrol.A lost driver looking for directions.A photographer brave or stupid enough to venture out in weather that had kept every sensible person indoors.
Or it could be him.
The vehicle crested the final rise and pulled into the parking area—an old pickup truck, its paint faded to something between blue and gray, its engine rumbling with the particular note of machinery that had seen better decades.It parked near the base of the tower, maybe fifty yards from where Isla sat with her headlights off, her engine idling in the darkness.
For a long moment, nothing happened.The truck sat there, exhaust plumes rising from its tailpipe, its occupant apparently gathering courage or checking equipment or simply savoring the moment before whatever came next.
Then the driver's door opened, and a figure emerged into the floodlit snow.
Male.Average height.Heavy winter coat that obscured his build.He moved with the careful deliberation of someone navigating treacherous ground, his boots finding purchase on ice that would have sent a less cautious person sprawling.He went to the truck's bed and began unloading equipment—a tripod, a camera bag, something that looked like a large duffel.
Isla reached for her binoculars, training them on the figure's face.The floodlights cast harsh shadows across his features, but she could make out the details: mid-forties, stubbled jaw, the particular intensity of someone focused entirely on the task at hand.
Ethan Benson.
She'd been right.After all the second-guessing, all the doubt, all the long, cold hours of waiting—she'd been right.
The relief lasted approximately three seconds before the implications crashed over her.
She was alone.Her backup was twenty minutes away at minimum, probably longer in these conditions.And she had just watched a serial killer—a man who had murdered three people in the past two days—arrive at the location she'd chosen as her stakeout position.
Isla set down the binoculars and reached for her phone, typing a message to James with fingers that trembled now from something other than cold: He's here.Enger Tower.Need backup NOW.
The response came immediately: On my way.ETA 25 minutes.DO NOT ENGAGE.
Twenty-five minutes.An eternity in a situation that could go sideways in seconds.
She watched Ethan carry his equipment toward the tower, his movements unhurried, almost ceremonial.He climbed the stone steps to the observation deck and began setting up his tripod, positioning it with the same meticulous care his father must have used fifty years ago.Through the binoculars, Isla could see him checking angles, adjusting the height, making micro-corrections that spoke to years of practice.
He was preparing to create his final composition.All he needed now was a subject.
The thought sent ice down her spine that had nothing to do with the temperature.She'd come here expecting to catch Ethan in the act, to intercept him before he could claim another victim.But there was no victim here.No photographer walking into his trap, no target presenting themselves at this isolated location in the dead of night.
No one except her.
Isla's hand moved to her service weapon, feeling its familiar weight at her hip.She was armed, trained, prepared for confrontation.But Ethan Benson had killed three healthy adults with a hammer, had staged their bodies with the precision of an artist completing a canvas.He was strong, motivated, and operating on terrain he'd clearly studied extensively.
And he was standing on the observation deck of Enger Tower, silhouetted against the floodlights, calling out to the darkness.
"I know you're there."
The words carried across the frozen air, distorted by the wind but unmistakable.Ethan had stopped adjusting his equipment and was standing at the edge of the observation deck, his face turned toward the parking area below.
"The police found my apartment.I saw the cars, the activity.You've figured it out by now—who I am, what I've done, why I've done it."His voice was calm, almost conversational, as if he were discussing the weather with a friend."So if you're watching, if you've come to stop me, you might as well show yourself.I'm tired of waiting."
Isla felt her pulse quicken, her training warring with her instincts.He didn't know she was here—not specifically, not with certainty.He was guessing, probing, trying to flush out surveillance that might or might not exist.If she stayed hidden, waited for backup, she could take him down safely with superior numbers.
But if she stayed hidden, he might leave.Might slip away into the night, find another victim, create another composition before they could track him down.The window was now, the opportunity fleeting.
And there was something else—something that made her blood run cold even as she processed it.
Ethan was still setting up his shot.Still positioning his equipment, still preparing his composition.Which meant he still needed a subject.
She was the only one here.