Page 29 of Outside the Room

Moving to the bedroom, Isla went through the motions of preparing for bed—washing her face, brushing her teeth, changing into the worn FBI Academy t-shirt that served as pajamas. The routine was mechanical, devoid of the comfort such familiar actions should provide. In the bathroom mirror, her reflection stared back with shadows under her eyes and tension in the set of her shoulders. She looked older than she had in Miami, the strain of recent months etched into the subtle lines around her mouth and between her brows.

She switched off the bathroom light without meeting her own gaze again and moved to the bed, sliding between sheets that were cold against her skin. As she lay in the darkness, listening to the wind outside her window, she tried to focus on the case rather than the emptiness of her personal life or the phantom presence of Alicia Mendez that sometimes seemed to watch her from the corners of dark rooms.

Two victims who had discovered something in shipping manifests. Weight discrepancies. Bradley's smuggling operation. Nash Global and its CEO in a photograph with O'Connor. The victims' similar wounds, the locked containers, the missing evidence.

The pieces were there, waiting to be assembled into a coherent pattern. If she could solve this case and protect the port, maybe she could begin rebuilding what she'd lost in Miami. Not redemption, exactly—nothing could bring Alicia Mendez back—but perhaps a path forward that wasn't defined solely by that single catastrophic error.

With that marginally comforting thought, Isla finally drifted into uneasy sleep, her dreams filled with frozen bodies, endless rows of shipping containers hiding secrets beneath their steel surfaces, and always, always, Alicia Mendez's eyes staring accusingly as Isla arrived too late to save her.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Morning arrived with unexpected clarity, the previous day's snowfall giving way to brilliant sunshine that glinted blindingly off Lake Superior's frozen expanse. The beauty of it was lost on Isla as she approached the port, immediately noticing increased activity that contradicted the lockdown orders they'd put in place the night before.

Trucks moved steadily through the gates, containers being loaded and unloaded from vessels that should have remained immobile during the investigation. Dock workers bustled about their business with the practiced efficiency of a normal workday.

Isla spotted Sullivan standing near the main security checkpoint, tension evident in his rigid posture as he spoke with a port authority official. She quickened her pace, pulling her coat tighter against the brutal cold that bit at any exposed skin despite the sunshine.

"What's happening?" she asked as she reached him. "I thought we had the port locked down."

Sullivan turned, his expression a careful mask that didn't quite hide his frustration. "Politics happened," he said grimly. "The governor personally intervened late last night."

"On what authority?" Isla demanded, watching as another truck passed through the checkpoint carrying a massive container.

"On the authority of being the governor," Sullivan replied with barely concealed bitterness. "The call came down to Channing around midnight. Economic pressure. Without concrete evidence linking the murders directly to active shipping operations, we couldn't justify maintaining the closure."

Isla felt a surge of anger. "Two federal employees are dead. Isn't that concrete enough?"

"Not when millions of dollars are at stake." Sullivan gestured toward the harbor, where a massive freighter was currently being loaded. "That vessel alone is carrying cargo worth over fifty million. Every hour it sits idle costs the shipping companies and their clients thousands."

"So, what are we supposed to do? Watch potential evidence literally sail away?" Isla couldn't keep the frustration from her voice. The case was challenging enough without political interference.

Sullivan shook his head. "We've implemented a compromise. Every container is being photographed and logged digitally before movement. Security has been doubled, with agents stationed at all exit points. We're doing what we can within the constraints we've been given."

Isla was about to respond when she spotted Channing's Bureau SUV pulling into the parking area. The Special Agent in Charge emerged looking as immaculate as ever, though the tightness around her eyes suggested she was no happier about the situation than they were.

"Rivers, Sullivan," she greeted them crisply as she approached. "I see you've noticed our change in operational parameters."

"With all due respect, ma'am," Isla began, "reopening the port undermines our investigation. We're trying to track irregular shipping patterns that might be connected to two murders."

"You think I don't know that, Agent Rivers?" Channing's tone was measured but carried an edge of steel. "I spent half the night on the phone with the governor, the director, and representatives from seven shipping companies. This compromise was the best I could negotiate under the circumstances."

Sullivan shifted slightly, positioning himself between the two women as if sensing Isla's rising frustration. "What's our timeline now?"

Channing's expression softened marginally. "Forty-eight hours to show significant progress. After that..." She hesitated, unusual for her typically direct communication style. "After that, there's talk of bringing in a specialized team from the Great Lakes Regional Task Force. They'd take point on the investigation."

"They'd try to take over from the FBI," Isla translated flatly.

"They'd provide additional resources and expertise," Channing corrected, though her tone lacked conviction. "Look, I'm fighting to keep this investigation with you two. I believe in your capabilities. But I need something concrete to justify that faith—something beyond theories about manifest discrepancies and possible smuggling connections."

Isla felt the weight of the statement. Another failure, another reassignment looming if they couldn't deliver results quickly. The familiar pressure tightened in her chest.

"What resources do we have available right now?" Sullivan asked, practical as always.

"I've assigned two forensic accountants to assist with the manifest analysis," Channing replied. "And you've got priority access to the data analysts at the field office. Whatever you need, it's yours—just get me results I can take to the brass."

She glanced toward the entrance to the port, where several news vans had assembled. "And be prepared for media attention. The local outlets have already coined a name—they're calling this the 'Shipping Container Killer' case."

"Fantastic," Isla muttered. "Nothing like a catchy nickname to complicate things."

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