Page 43 of Outside the Room

Isla followed suit, her Glock steady in her hands despite the adrenaline beginning to course through her system. They exchanged a look—the silent communication of partners who had learned to read each other's thoughts in dangerous situations.

Sullivan pushed the door open slowly, and immediately, a gust of frigid air rushed past them, carrying with it the stale scent of old coffee and something else—something that made Isla's stomach clench with unwelcome recognition.

"Jesus," Sullivan breathed, his weapon lowering as they stepped inside.

Michael Thorne hung from an overhead pipe near the window, his body swaying slightly in the draft from the broken glass. His face was turned away from them, but there was no mistaking the finality of his position. Snow had begun to accumulate on the windowsill and across his desk, giving the scene a surreal, almost peaceful quality that belied the violence of what they were witnessing.

Isla forced herself to move closer, her training overriding the sick feeling in her stomach. At first glance, it appeared straightforward—a man who had reached the end of his rope, literally and figuratively. The overturned chair beneath his feet, the makeshift noose fashioned from what looked like electrical cord, the broken window that might have been his final act of defiance or despair.

But something nagged at her. In her years with the FBI, she'd learned that in the middle of a string of violent crimes, nothing was ever as simple as it appeared.

"Look at this," Sullivan said from behind her.

Isla turned to see him standing beside Thorne's desk, where a piece of paper lay half-covered by the thin dusting of snow that had blown through the broken window. She approached carefully, pulling on latex gloves before lifting the document.

The handwriting was shaky but legible, the ink slightly smeared in places as if the writer's hands had been trembling. Isla read slowly, her heart sinking with each line:

I can't live with what I know anymore. I never wanted anyone to get hurt, but I was scared. Scared for my family. O'Connor said if I didn't do what he asked, something would happen to them. I never laid a hand on those people—Marcus, Diana, Sarah—but I passed along information. Told him their schedules, their patrol routes, what they were investigating.

I thought it would just be warnings at first. Scare them off from looking too deep into the manifests. But then Marcus turned up dead, and I knew I was part of something terrible. Diana was next, and I tried to warn her, but she wouldn't listen. Said she had to finish what Marcus started.

When Sarah was killed, I knew I couldn't go on. O'Connor is behind all of this. He's been covering up smuggling operations, using the port's resources, our security protocols, everything. I was just another tool for him to use.

I'm sorry for what I've done. I'm sorry I wasn't brave enough to stop it sooner. My family is safe now—they're with my sister in Oregon. They don't know what I've been part of. I hope they never have to.

—Michael Thorne

Isla finished reading and looked up at Sullivan, who had been reading over her shoulder. His expression was grim but satisfied as if pieces of a puzzle had finally clicked into place.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered. "O'Connor was playing us the whole time. All that grief, all that cooperation—pure theater."

Isla stared at the letter, then back at Thorne's body. The scene felt wrong somehow, too convenient. After days of chasing shadows and false leads, suddenly, they had a confession that tied everything together with a neat bow.

"Why now?" she asked quietly. "Why did Thorne break down tonight, specifically?"

Sullivan was already on his radio, calling for backup and the medical examiner. "Guilt finally got to him," he replied between transmissions. "Or maybe he realized we were getting close. People crack under pressure."

The wind howled through the broken window, stirring the papers on Thorne's desk and causing his body to sway more noticeably. Isla studied the scene with the analytical eye she'd developed over years of investigating suspicious deaths. Something about the positioning bothered her, though she couldn't immediately articulate what.

"We need to process this scene carefully," she said, more to herself than to Sullivan. "Suicide or not, Thorne was connected to our murders."

Sullivan nodded, ending his radio call. "Crime scene team is en route, though the storm is slowing everyone down." He looked at the letter again. "At least we know who we're looking for now. Raymond O'Connor has a lot of explaining to do."

As they waited for backup, Isla continued to examine the office. Everything appeared consistent with a man in despair taking his own life—the overturned chair, the makeshift noose, the broken window that might have been his final act of frustration or symbolism. Yet something about the scene felt staged, too perfectly arranged.

She thought about O'Connor's behavior over the past few days—his apparent grief, his cooperation with their investigation, his concern for his remaining employees. Had it all been an elaborate performance? Or was there something else they weren't seeing?

The snow continued to fall outside, erasing tracks and evidence alike. As Isla stood in the cold office, surrounded by the detritus of a man's final moments, she couldn't shake the feeling that Michael Thorne's death was not the end of their investigation, but rather the beginning of something even more dangerous.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

The administrative building felt different as they approached it with backup officers flanking them through the storm. The same fluorescent lights hummed overhead, the same institutional carpet muffled their footsteps, but now the familiar corridors carried an electric tension that made Isla's skin prickle with anticipation.

Raymond O'Connor was still at his desk when they arrived, exactly where they'd left him hours earlier. He looked up from his paperwork as they entered, his expression weary but unsurprised, as if he'd been expecting them. The resignation in his eyes struck Isla as oddly profound for a man who should have been shocked by their return.

"Agents," he said quietly, not bothering to stand. "I heard about Michael. Terrible business."

"News travels fast," Sullivan observed, his hand resting casually near his weapon. The backup officers positioned themselves strategically around the room, though O'Connor showed no signs of resistance.

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