Page 14 of Rest In Peace

The air between them thickened, charged with unspoken words and expectations dashed. She crossed her arms, a defensive barrier that came too late. "You could've mentioned that last night."

He scoffed lightly, a smirk playing on his lips. "Last night was last night. Today’s today." His tone was dismissive, indifferent to the sting he knew his words carried.

She huffed, grabbing her purse from the counter and shaking her head in disbelief. "You're an ass, Hancock."

"Never claimed otherwise," he retorted, watching as she poured the coffee with jerky movements, her irritation palpable.

"Whatever." The word was a venom-tipped arrow shot over her shoulder as she made her way to the door, heels clicking a staccato rhythm of frustration.

"Take care!" he called out, the mocking cheerfulness in his voice following her exit.

The door slammed with finality, its echo bouncing off the walls. Pete chuckled to himself, reveling in the silence that resettled over the room. He loved the chase and the conquest—each weekend a new game. But this one had been particularly dull, forgettable.

Just as he took another sip of coffee, a noise from the front door caught his attention. A muffled thump, like something soft colliding with wood. He frowned, setting down his mug. Perhaps she had forgotten her dignity along with her hair tie.

Annoyed, he stalked to the door and yanked it open, ready to dismiss her with a cutting remark. But the doorstep was empty, save for a solitary envelope lying there, a silent intruder in the stillness of the morning.

“Pete Hancock" was scrawled across the front in looping cursive. He scanned the street, searching for any sign of a messenger, but the neighborhood remained still as if holding its breath. Unease coiled in his stomach as he bent to pick up the envelope, the paper cool and impersonal in his hand.

"Who leaves letters anymore?" he muttered, turning the envelope over—no return address, no stamp, just his name, as though whoever sent it knew he'd be the one to find it.

With a last, wary glance outside, Pete stepped back into the sanctuary of his home, the door closing with a soft click behind him. He turned the envelope over in his hands, apprehension threading through his curiosity. This Sunday, it seemed, had just taken an unexpected turn.

Chapter 19

Iraised my hand and knocked on the heavy, wooden door. The sound reverberated through the sticky air, mingling with the sweet aroma of magnolia blossoms. The house in front of me was a charming old Florida home, its exterior weathered by time yet still retaining its beauty. A perfectly manicured garden surrounded the house, adding to its idyllic charm.

The door's rusty hinges groaned as a petite woman in her early seventies appeared, her silver hair pulled back into a neat bun. She greeted me with a kind smile that crinkled the corners of her bright blue eyes.

"Are you Monica Chapman?" I attempted to soften my professional tone with a touch of warmth.

Her raspy, weathered voice echoed in the empty hallway. "Indeed," she said, her eyes locked on me standing before her. You must be Agent Thomas. You sound taller on the phone." She chuckled, revealing yellowing teeth as she extended a wrinkled hand for a handshake.

"Is Victoria here?" I inquired, stepping just inside the threshold as Monica nodded and gestured for me to enter the living room.

The room grew heavy with tension as we avoided each other's gaze. I finally broke the silence, my voice shaking.

"Condolences on the death of your son. I can't imagine how hard this must be for Victoria. Her father gone and her mother… in jail."

Monica's eyes were filled with sadness, and there was a hint of regret in her voice. "It's a tragedy," she whispered, shaking her head, her hand reaching out to gently touch my arm. "But as her grandmother, it's my duty to do what I can."

She strode across the floor, her movements deliberate, and moved to a door at the end of the hall. My pulse quickened as she turned the handle and pushed it open.

"I think she's awake," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

As I stepped in, my heart lodged in my throat. A small, frail figure lay in the bed, her skin almost translucent under the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Though she looked no older than nine, I knew the truth—Victoria was seventeen, a life measured in years but stolen in moments.

A wheelchair sat like a silent sentinel next to her bed.

"She doesn't talk much," Monica explained, her gaze lingering on her granddaughter. "The chemo sores in her mouth… they make it painful to speak. Her voice isn't what it used to be, either. Please, don't wear her out. She doesn't have a lot of strength."

I nodded, my throat tightening with emotion. I eased into the chair by her bed, careful not to bump the IV stand or disturb the oxygen tubes that fed into her nose. Her pale cheeks were sunken, and her eyes seemed to be searching for something in the dark room.

"Hello, Victoria," I said gently, taking her small hand in mine. "My name is Eva Rae Thomas."

Victoria's eyes flickered toward me, curiosity glinting within their depths. She blinked slowly as though she was processing the information. I could see the struggle in her gaze, the fight between wanting to retreat into herself and the desire to connect with the outside world.

I continued speaking softly, trying to bridge the gap between us. "I'm here to help, Victoria. I want to find out what happened to your parents—especially your dad. Do you remember anything from that night? Anything at all?"

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