Page 22 of Rest In Peace

Chapter 30

Pete Hancock slumped into the worn leather of his living room armchair. With a forced chuckle that failed to mask his unease, he tried to dismiss the words in the letter as nothing more than a joke in poor taste. But the laughter died in his throat, strangled by the crawling dread that had taken residence in his gut since the moment he'd torn open the envelope.

The house creaked and groaned around him, a symphony of unsettling noises that kept his nerves frayed. He listened intently as branches, like skeletal fingers, scraped against the siding with every gust of wind. A sudden crash from outside jolted him upright; a trash can toppled over, its contents spilling onto the pavement. His heart raced, and he sprang to his feet, darting to the window to peer into the darkness.

His heart pounded as he scanned the darkness, anticipating what he might find. But there was nothing except the debris swirling around in the gusts of wind, creating a symphony of chaos and fury. No one was watching from the shadows; no faces peered through the windows above; it was just him and the storm's wild dance.

"Get a grip, Hancock," he muttered, pressing his forehead against the cool glass. "You're just being an idiot."

As he paced back and forth, his mind raced through memories of past relationships. Most had ended without any animosity, just the gradual fading of attraction or incompatible goals. But one face kept resurfacing in his thoughts—a woman with piercing green eyes and fiery red hair. What was her name again? Tiffany? Or was it Teresa? He didn’t recall. But they had dated for a few weeks, more than what he usually did with anyone. He had liked her. The sex had been very good and intense, and she was so beautiful he decided to keep her around for a little while… until he got bored with her, which happened pretty quickly. Especially their arguments, oh, boy, there had been a lot of heated ones. He could still feel the intensity of their arguments and the passion that once drew them together. Yet now, it only brought up painful emotions and doubts about her true intentions. The idea nagged at him, refusing to be dismissed easily.

Tiffany, that was her name—definitely. He remembered clearly now. She was crazy as a bat.

Or was it Brittany?

She'd had that look. The one that could flip from adoration to something darker in a heartbeat. Even now, the memory of her gaze sent shivers down his spine. When they'd parted ways, her anger had been palpable, a storm much like the one raging outside his home. Could it really be her behind this twisted game?

A floorboard creaked upstairs, slicing through the cacophony of the wind. Pete's breath hitched, his pulse thundering in his ears. The primal instinct of fear drowned out rational thoughts. Was it just the house settling, or was someone else here with him?

He couldn't stand the uncertainty. Survival outweighed skepticism as he bolted across the room, not daring to look back. His movements were swift, fueled by adrenaline, as he reached the hidden compartment behind the bookshelf. With practiced ease, he retrieved the gun, the cold metal a familiar weight in his hand.

Now armed, Pete faced the shadows of his home, every sense heightened, ready for whatever—or whoever—might come.

Chapter 31

THEN:

Sarah's fingers drummed a staccato rhythm on the leather armrest, her gaze never leaving Victoria. The little girl, with curls as wild as her spirit, was nestled among a fortress of colorful blocks on the carpet, her laughter the sweetest melody in the otherwise silent room.

"Look, Mommy, a castle!" Victoria's voice chimed, her small hands placing the last block atop her creation.

"Beautiful, just like you," Sarah responded, attempting a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. The worry lines etched on her forehead betrayed her constant vigilance.

Suddenly, Victoria's laughter hitched—a sharp, jarring sound—and her body stiffened. Blocks clattered to the ground as she fell sideways, her tiny frame shaking uncontrollably.

"Victoria!" Sarah was on the floor instantly, her heart racing, her body trembling with fear. "Baby, stay with me."

"Mom-m-mmy…" Victoria's voice was a ghost of a whisper between convulsions.

"I'm here, darling. I'm here." Sarah cradled her daughter's head, her hands gentle yet firm, cushioning it from the hard floor. Memories of hospital corridors, white walls, and solemn nodding doctors flooded her mind. They had warned her—the seizures would come again.

"Shh… It's going to pass." Sarah's words were a mantra, a lifeline thrown into the chaotic sea of helplessness that threatened to drown her. She fought back tears, not knowing what to do but trying her best to remain calm.

The door hinges creaked, a soft murmur in the tense silence. Steven's shadow fell over them before he knelt, his presence a stark contrast against the chaos of moments ago. He reached out with steady hands, taking their daughter away from Sarah, cradling Victoria's shivering form.

"Hey, little warrior," he whispered, his voice a gentle balm. "Ride it out. You're doing great."

Sarah's fingers uncurled from Victoria's shirt, retreating as Steven took over. She watched, feeling a pang of helplessness as her husband's calm seemed to weave an invisible shield around their daughter.

"Is it easing up?" Sarah asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Almost there," Steven nodded, eyes locked on Victoria's face, reading every subtle shift of her features.

A heavy breath escaped Sarah as she observed Victoria's body relax, inch by inch. There was an art to Steven's touch, a silent communication that seemed to reach their daughter in depths Sarah longed to fathom.

"Mommy?" Victoria's voice was faint, laden with exhaustion.

"Right here, baby," Sarah leaned close, brushing a tissue across Victoria's sweat-dampened forehead. Her heart clenched at the sight of her daughter so fragile and spent. How she missed her daughter’s hair and longed to take that bandana off.

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