"Don't."The word came out harder than she intended.She softened it with a breath, a shake of her head."Please.I know what you're going to say, and I can't hear it right now."
"You can't keep this up.Forty-eight hours without real sleep, running on caffeine and adrenaline—"
"I slept."
"For how long?"
She didn't answer.They both knew the truth: a few hours stolen on the couch in her office, restless and dream-haunted, hardly enough to qualify as actual rest.
James set his coffee down and leaned forward, elbows on his knees.The posture was familiar—it was the way he sat when he was about to say something he didn't want to say, something that mattered.
"I talked to Kate this morning," he said quietly."She's worried about you.She's seen agents burn out before, push themselves past the breaking point because they couldn't let go of a case.She doesn't want that to happen to you."
"Kate sent you to check on me?"
"Kate mentioned her concerns.I came because I'm your partner, and I've been watching you run yourself into the ground for the past two days, and I—" He stopped.Took a breath.When he spoke again, his voice was softer."I care about what happens to you, Isla.That's not a crime."
The words hung between them, weighted with everything they never said.Three years of working together, of late nights and shared silences and moments that brushed against the edge of something more.Three years of pretending that the current running between them was just professional respect, just the bond that formed between any good partners.
Isla wanted to reach across the desk.Wanted to take his hand and hold on and let herself feel something other than the relentless pressure of the hunt.But Mitch Connelly was on a slab in Patricia Henley's morgue, and Robert Brune was out there somewhere, and she couldn't afford to be soft right now.Couldn't afford to need anything.
"I know he's close," she said instead."I can feel it, James.He hasn't gone far.He can't have—he's sixty-five years old, no resources, no network.He's surviving hand to mouth somewhere, and if we just keep looking—"
"The search teams have covered every building in the grid.Twice."James's voice was gentle, but firm."If he was in the shipyard area, we would have found something by now.A camp, supplies,something.There's nothing there."
"Then we widen the grid.Expand the search parameters—"
"To where?The entire city?The whole North Shore?"He shook his head."We don't have the manpower for that, and you know it.The Marshals are already talking about scaling back operations.They can't keep forty agents on the ground indefinitely for a search that isn't producing results."
Isla felt the frustration rising in her chest like bile.He was right—she knew he was right—and that made it worse.They were looking for a needle in a haystack, and the haystack kept getting bigger while the needle stayed stubbornly invisible.
"He killed someone I was supposed to protect," she said.The words surprised her; she hadn't meant to say them out loud."Mitch Connelly was a citizen of this city, and Robert Brune murdered him because I didn't catch him fast enough.Because I let him slip away."
"You didn't let him do anything.He's been evading law enforcement for two months—not just you, Isla.The FBI, the Marshals, local PD, everyone.This isn't your failure."
"Then why does it feel like it?"
The question fell between them, raw and honest in a way she rarely allowed herself to be.James held her gaze, and she saw something shift in his expression—a softening, an opening, like a door cracking to let in light.
"Because you care," he said simply."Because you take responsibility for things that aren't your fault, because you think that if you'd just worked harder or thought smarter or pushed further, you could have prevented it.That's what makes you good at this job.It's also what's going to destroy you if you're not careful."
Isla looked away, blinking against the sudden burning in her eyes.She hadn't cried over a case in years—hadn't let herself, not since Miami—but something about James's words had found a crack in her armor.
"I don't know how to stop," she admitted."I don't know how to let go and rest when he's still out there.When he could be hunting someone else right now, while I'm sitting here drinking coffee and pretending everything is fine."
James stood up and moved around the desk.For a moment, Isla thought he was going to touch her—a hand on her shoulder, maybe, or a gentle grip on her arm.She wasn't sure if she wanted him to or dreaded it.
But he just stood there, close enough that she could smell his soap and the faint scent of coffee, close enough that his presence was a solid wall of warmth against the cold that had been living in her chest for days.
"You're not going to catch him if you collapse from exhaustion," he said."You're not going to save anyone if you're too strung out to think clearly.I've watched you work for almost three years, and I've never seen you like this.You're running on fumes, and it's starting to show."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Go home.Sleep.Eat something that isn't from a vending machine.Let the search teams do their jobs without you micromanaging every grid coordinate."He paused."And maybe...let yourself lean on someone.You don't have to do this alone."
Let yourself lean on someone.The words echoed in her head, carrying implications she wasn't sure either of them was ready to face.She looked up at James—at the concern in his blue eyes, the stubborn set of his jaw, the way he was standing close enough to catch her if she fell.
I want to,she thought.God help me, I want to.