Cause of death risk fact.., p.1
Cause of Death (Risk Factor Trilogy Book 1), page 1
Isobel Bishop
Cause of Death
Copyright © 2026 by Isobel Bishop
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
Preface
1. Tom
2. Shay
3. Tom
4. Tom
5. Tom
6. Tom
7. Shay
8. Tom
9. Shay
10. Tom
11. Tom
12. Shay
13. Shay
14. Shay
15. Shay
16. Shay
17. Tom
18. Shay
19. Prologue
Also by Isobel Bishop
Preface
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This story contains mature themes and dark content that may not be suitable for all readers. Please take care while reading, and refer to the Trigger Warnings list if needed.
TRIGGER WARNINGS
Explicit sexual content
Graphic description of violence
Blood & gore
Murder
Dismemberment
Genital mutilation
Kidnapping
Drugging
References to pedophilia (non-graphic)
References to rape (non-graphic)
References to suicide (non-graphic)
References to domestic violence (non-graphic)
1
Tom
Andrew Preston.
Twenty-one years old.
Ivy League student, double-majoring in business and finance. Top of his class.
As the heir to the Preston real estate empire, his future was already set—paved in gold, polished by generations before him, handed down like a birthright.
Intelligent. Kind. Effortlessly charming.
That was how most people would describe him.
But I knew better. Beneath that polished facade, something rotten lived inside Andrew Preston.
Depraved. Monstrous. Sadistic.
His victims knew exactly what he was capable of. All it took was a well-timed distraction, a few clear and tasteless drops slipped into a drink, unnoticed—and just like that, the night would shift in his favor.
Andrew Preston liked them defenseless. Pliant. Entirely at his mercy.
Getting caught had never been a real concern for him. His parents, while not the most loving, were devoutly protective of their brand. Any hint of scandal was snuffed out before it ever reached the light of day, buried under quiet settlements and generous donations to the right people.
Or at least, that had been the case—until tonight.
Dim neon light filled the private room, its bluish hues blurring the edges of everything it touched. Low bass throbbed through the floor, distant and muffled, like a pulse drifting through murky waters. An expensive bottle of vodka sat on the table, long since abandoned, condensation leaving faint streaks down the glass. Off to the side, a figure lay sprawled across the leather sofa, motionless and silent.
Andrew Preston’s eyes, once full of cunning and arrogance, were now glassy, staring into nothingness. His skin was pale and clammy to the touch, as though all warmth had been drained from his body, leaving only a fragile shell behind. The rise of his chest was so faint it was almost easy to miss. It wouldn’t be long until his heart stopped beating altogether.
Unlike stimulant overdoses, which tended to be violent and ugly, heroin was a silent killer. The body would gradually shut down, like a candle flickering out. It was a mercy, one that Andrew Preston didn’t deserve, but it couldn’t be helped. I’d come to learn that the most convincing lies were the ones that settled into the cracks already there. A reckless overdose, a tragic suicide—it didn’t matter which version of the story took root as long as the outcome remained the same.
No one else would suffer at the hands of Andrew Preston ever again.
I continued to watch his chest rise… Then fall… Then stall…
The staff would find him in a few hours; the scene awaiting them was nothing they hadn’t seen before. A sour mix of stale vomit and sweat thick in the air, empty bottles scattered across the room, white powder dusting the edges of the table, a used syringe peeking between the leather cushions.
There would be hushed voices, a few urgent calls made to management and the authorities.
Unfortunate… they’d ultimately say. But not surprising.
I slipped away from the club unnoticed, vanishing into the night. Outside, the air was crisp, carrying with it the urban perfume of wet asphalt and exhaust fumes. I drew in a slow breath, letting the satisfaction settle in my chest.
This one had been easy.
Easy to stage.
Easy to sell.
The narrative would write itself.
Andrew Preston’s party-boy reputation, history of substance abuse, and reckless behavior would make it seem like his poor life choices had finally caught up to him. He’d be written off as just another cautionary tale about wasted potential, a sermon ready-made for parents to deliver to their own wayward children.
And the world? It was better off without Andrew Preston in it.
The drive home was uneventful, familiar streets rolling past me in a blur. The farther I got from the city, the quieter everything became. Buildings gave way to trees, and the constant hum of traffic faded into the softer drone of tires on old asphalt. The sky cleared, and the stars returned in their multitudes, glinting in the darkness. Tucked away from the main road, the outline of a house began to emerge, a dense wall of trees crowding close behind it.
Dry leaves rustled beneath my shoes as I stepped out of the car. A faint scuffling sound came from somewhere deep inside the forest, followed by a soft beat of wings. But just as I was reaching for my house keys, something made me pause.
Wedged between the door frame, starkly white against the dark wood, was an envelope. It carried no name or return address. Inside, there was only a note.
People pretend to care about what’s right, but few of them act on it.
You do.
I admire your clarity. You see things differently than most.
I just wanted you to know, there’s someone out there who sees you, too.
—A friend
The handwriting was angular and neat, each letter formed with obvious care, although the paper itself told a different story. It was creased at the center, as though it had been folded and unfolded countless times before being delivered to me.
While the note didn’t read like a threat at first glance, it was far from harmless. It held a lot of different meanings, each interpretation more troubling than the last.
Recognition wasn’t part of my design. The version of me that moved through the world wasn’t built for that. It spoke the right words, it smiled when expected, it nodded at the right times—socially acceptable, even likable, but altogether unremarkable. However, it seemed that someone had managed to see past the mask. They’d taken a peek behind the veil and, for whatever reason, it made them want to reach out.
I folded the note and slid it into my pocket.
Unease hummed under my skin like static, but it was almost immediately eclipsed by something far stronger—interest. To be seen, after shaping your entire life around going unnoticed, sparked a strange kind of thrill.
I’d be lying to myself if I said I wasn’t curious to see what happened next.
* * *
Twenty-seven down: Two-faced by nature.
My pen hovered midair, stalling above the paper in my hand.
Deceitful?
Too short.
Disingenuous?
Close, but not quite. Something else, then…
“Tom…”
Naomi’s voice broke my train of thought. She had claimed the chair across from me, spinning lazily in place, the old leather creaking quietly in protest.
“Thomas… Tommy… " she continued in that sing-song tone she slipped into whenever she wanted my attention. “Are you planning on acknowledging my existence anytime soon, or should I just keep entertaining myself over here?”
“I’m working,” I said, tapping my pen against the margin.
The creaks came to an abrupt halt as Naomi stopped herself mid-turn. She straightened, her expression flat and unimpressed. “You’re doing crossword puzzles…”
The correct answer continued to scratch at the edges of my mind, hovering just out of reach. Nonetheless, I set the paper aside.
“Better now?” I asked, giving her my full, undivided attention.
“Much.” Naomi grinned, wide and entirely unapologetic.
Maintaining personal relationships had always been somewhat of a challenge. Naomi was one of the few people I made a genuine effort to kee p around, if only to keep up appearances. It helped that she never took it personally when I took a few hours to reply to her texts or canceled plans at the last minute. She was an easygoing person by nature, which was exactly the kind of friend I needed.
The clock on the wall caught my eye. It was nearing noon.
“Do you want to go grab something to eat?” I asked.
Naomi wrinkled her nose at the thought. “Maybe later. Got called in for a floater earlier. The body had been in the water for a few weeks, so everything had turned kind of, you know…” She made a vague gesture with her hand. “...soupy.”
I hummed thoughtfully. “Funny you should say that, I could actually go for some hot soup right now.”
Naomi snorted, just as I knew she would.
“There’s something seriously wrong with you, Hayes.”
Except, it wasn’t Naomi who said it. That smooth cadence, laced with a subtle hint of authority, could only belong to one person.
Detective Sawyer stood in the doorway, her posture military-straight, arms crossed over her chest in a way that made it clear she wasn’t here to make small talk.
“Detective,” I greeted her, offering a polite smile that did nothing to thaw the ice in her eyes. “Apologies—I didn’t hear you knock. Is there something I can help you with today?”
“It would help if you did your job.”
She proceeded to move through my office as though it had her name written on the door. Her presence crowded the space in an instant, the thinly veiled impatience filling the room to the brim.
“Is Linda Fell’s tox screen done?” Detective Sawyer asked, but I could tell there was only one acceptable answer to that question.
Straight to the point, then. Alright.
It took me a few moments to locate the file, which was tucked neatly beneath a stack of other lab reports. All the while, I could feel the detective’s gaze burning a hole into my back. She’d do well to take a few pointers, considering the perpetual state of her own office, which hovered somewhere between organized chaos and a full-blown disaster zone.
I retrieved the file and turned to hand it to her. “As you can see, the toxicology screen shows a high concentration of diacetylmorphine in Linda Fell’s system.”
“Heroin, then. Interesting…” Naomi mused to herself, sounding intrigued.
I couldn’t say I shared her interest.
The only thing that truly stood out about Linda Fell’s death was the brutality of it. There hadn’t been a single defensive wound on the victim, no signs of struggle or restraint marks, nothing to suggest she’d fought back, except for one glaring detail that dominated the entire case. Her hands had been severed clean at the wrists, removed with something extremely sharp, the edges of the wounds almost perfectly smooth.
The killer couldn’t help but show off, so it seemed. Personally, I never understood the appeal. There was a quiet elegance to being efficient and discreet, as far as I was concerned. Violence for the sake of violence held little to no interest for me.
Of course, I’d be lying if I said the urge never resurfaced. Every so often, I’d come across something vile and monstrous enough to stir it, but I never let it take the reins.
Linda Fell’s murderer seemed to be of a different ilk—not that I expected our principles to overlap. Most of the killers I’d come across were monsters themselves, preying on the defenseless and weak. Cowardice dressed up as dominance.
Detective Sawyer remained silent at the news, seemingly lost in thought. I couldn’t help but notice, with the clinical detachment that came from years of studying corpses, that the shadows under her eyes looked darker than usual today, making her already sharp features seem even more drawn. Her white button-up shirt was slightly wrinkled at the collar, like she hadn’t bothered ironing it this morning. Her cuticles were raw, compulsively picked at until they bled in places. But despite all of this, her eyes remained bright and alert, gleaming with a single-minded focus.
At last, Detective Sawyer gave a small, decisive nod, seemingly satisfied with whatever conclusion she’d reached. “I want the completed autopsy report on my desk first thing tomorrow morning,” she told me, one foot halfway out of the door, before she paused. “Oh, and by the way, the word you’re looking for is duplicitous.”
By the time I processed what she’d said, the door was already swinging shut behind her.
Detective Sawyer never failed to leave me feeling off-balance.
It wasn’t her intelligence that made her unsettling. Plenty of other detectives had that in spades, but she was something else entirely. It was the way her mind worked, like a well-oiled machine engineered for this exact purpose. It was easy to admire, like lightning threading across a dark sky—fascinating to look at until it struck too close. Should she ever turn that focus on me, who was to say what she might find?
It also didn’t help matters that she clearly didn’t like me.
It showed in the way her gaze sharpened the moment it landed on me. In the faint, subconscious stiffening of her shoulders whenever I entered the room. In the quiet tension that hummed beneath our every interaction.
It put me off more than I’d care to admit.
I’d spent years sculpting the perfect persona. As a forensic pathologist, I had a reputation for being competent and meticulous in my work. To my coworkers, I was friendly and polite, though not overly social. Known, but never noteworthy. Easily overlooked.
And it worked. Everyone bought it.
Everyone except Detective Sawyer.
Despite my best efforts, she remained distant and cold, almost antagonistic at times. Her instincts were too sharp, too finely honed by years of hunting killers who hid in plain sight. She must have sensed something off about me, even if she couldn’t pinpoint exactly what, like a prey animal sensing a predator nearby.
Actually, no.
She wasn’t prey.
She was another predator.
And that was what made her so dangerous. There were times I swore she could see through me, every carefully buried thought and secret laid bare under the weight of her stare.
But I knew that was an irrational fear to have.
My kills always masqueraded as something else: suicides that fit the profile, run-of-the-mill accidents, natural deaths attributed to underlying health conditions. Most people were more than willing to accept the easiest explanations. As far as Detective Sawyer was concerned, my crimes didn’t even exist.
Still, it didn’t hurt to be cautious.
When I looked back, I found Naomi watching me with open amusement.
I cleared my throat.
As it turned out, my carefully crafted attempts to seem more likable to Detective Sawyer had an unfortunate side effect: most of my coworkers were now convinced I was hopelessly pining after her—not that I’d done much to correct that assumption. If anyone wondered why I kept trying to win the detective over, despite her obvious disinterest, the romantic angle suited me just fine. But logic and rationality offered no defense against the small, infuriating sting of rejection.
“Don’t say a word,” I warned Naomi before she could open her mouth.
She pressed her lips together and mimed zipping them shut.
I exhaled slowly through my nose and grabbed the crossword puzzle off my desk, filling in the blanks.
D-U-P-L-I-C-I-T-O-U-S
Annoyingly, the word was the perfect fit.
2
Shay
Donovan sat behind his desk, displeasure etched into every line of his face. The massive stretch of polished wood took up half the room, most definitely not overcompensating for anything. An array of medals gleamed proudly on the wall behind him, a spotless illusion of integrity, perfectly preserved behind glass. The rest of the office wore the same uninspiring beige as every other bureaucratic tomb in the building, interrupted only by military commendations and yellowing newspaper clippings from decades ago.
“Any new leads?” Donovan asked, his gold watch catching the light as he flipped through the file.
“Not yet, sir. We’re still working on it.”
There was a low hum. Another page turned.
“And what about Jared Finch?” Donovan asked, with all the energy of someone going through the motions.
“We haven’t found any evidence linking him to the crime scene.”
