Page 17 of Rest In Peace

Chapter 22

His fingers steady and precise, Pete Hancock sliced open the envelope with a letter opener. Within it, a single piece of paper folded neatly in half awaited his attention. He plucked it out, unfolding it to reveal just two words scrawled in a hasty hand:

YOU KNEW

His brow furrowed as he peered at the note, a bemused chuckle slipping out.

"What the heck is this?" His voice echoed faintly in the spacious, book-lined office. The note offered no answers, just the stark accusation printed on an otherwise blank canvas.

"Is this someone's idea of a joke?"

He shook his head dismissively, his mind racing through the roster of recent romantic entanglements. There had been a lot lately. Women came and went. He tired of them quickly and easily. They were fleeting and forgettable by design, connections that burned bright and fizzled fast. It was the way he preferred it—no strings, no complications. He liked it that way. But not all of them took it well when he broke it off or sent them home. Often, they called in the middle of the night, crying, telling him he was an idiot, or even sometimes they yelled and screamed at him. They all wanted the same thing—to drag him away from the life he enjoyed so profoundly, the single bachelor life, where another beauty always waited around any corner. They always wanted the same thing—to tie him down, to make him settle. But he never had—no wife, no children. Life was so much better without any of those complications. They knew what they were getting themselves into, as he was always upfront with them from the beginning—no strings attached. But most of them thought it was just because he hadn’t yet met the right woman. And they were that perfect specimen that would make him change his mind. Except they never were. Not since Julie, the one who broke his heart when she ran off with his best friend. No one had ever been good enough since then and probably never would be.

"Typical," he muttered under his breath.

The women he entertained often mistook his charm for promises of something more profound. Tears were not uncommon, nor was the occasional melodramatic outburst when they realized their mistake.

"Ridiculous," he scoffed, reflecting on the emotional displays he had witnessed, each as predictable as the last. Now this—a cryptic message meant to… what? Spook him? Seduce him back into a dialogue?

"Two can play at that game," Hancock declared to the empty room. With a decisive movement, he retrieved his lighter from the mahogany desk—a silver piece engraved with his initials. The flame flickered to life at his command, dancing across the face of the note until the edges curled and blackened.

The paper crumbled. Unperturbed, Hancock used the dying ember to ignite the end of a waiting cigar.

He drew in deeply, the rich, earthy smoke filling his lungs before he exhaled a languid cloud that mingled with the lingering scent of charred paper as the remains ended in his ashtray.

"Game over," he smirked, settling back into his leather chair, the mystery of the note already retreating from his thoughts like the smoke dissipating into the air.

Chapter 23

As I drove down the streets of Cape Canaveral, the blazing midday sun beat down on my car. A knot formed in my stomach as I approached the scene—a feeling that something was not right. As I held up my badge to the uniformed officer stationed at the entrance, I couldn't help but notice how heavy it felt in my hand. It almost seemed to symbolize the weight of the truth that I knew awaited me inside. The officer's face remained stoic and emotionless as he allowed me to pass through.

"Detective Ryan," I called out as I ducked under the yellow tape, my shoes crunching on the gravel drive.

He turned, his eyes narrowing, not with suspicion but irritation. "What are you doing here? This isn't your case."

I could feel the impatience rolling off Detective Ryan in waves, but urgency threaded my words tight. "I've got new information. You need to hear me out."

"Listen," he said, crossing his arms, a clear barrier going up, "it's simple. A woman was shot. Looks like suicide. I suspect no foul play. The husband came home and found her. The gun was still in her hand."

"Simple?" My voice rose slightly, incredulously. "Her husband finds her with the gun still in her grip, and that's where the story ends for you?"

"Those are the facts," Ryan replied, unyielding.

"Except for the fact this happened right next door to another shooting that happened only days ago." My disbelief hung between us, a tangible thing. This guy was really getting on my nerves.

"Coincidence," he dismissed with a wave of his hand.

"Really? Because I don't believe in coincidences." My eyes met his, trying to ignite in him the same spark of curiosity, of doubt. "Let me have a look."

He sighed and shrugged. "Suit yourself," he muttered, gesturing toward the house.

As I moved past him, the crime scene came into focus—all sterile precision and hushed tones over the dull roar of the air conditioning. The forensics team worked methodically in the living room, documenting every detail of the grim tableau.

"Show me," I instructed, and they pointed to the body's position.

"Shot here," one of them indicated, motioning toward the bottom of the stairs, "straight through the head."

"Just like Steven Chapman."

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