Page 49 of Rest In Peace

"Victoria," she whispered, her voice breaking. “What have we done to you?”

But there was no answer, just the echo of her fears bouncing back at her from the walls of the lonely house. Her hand wavered as she took another drink, the bottle slipping slightly. Sarah caught it, her grip iron-tight, fueled by a mother's desperation.

Her worried expression, a mask of uncertainty and fear, reflected in the darkened windowpane—a silent witness to her unraveling. She didn't see it, though; her eyes were lost in the past, fixated on memories that now seemed tainted with lies.

Drink followed drink until the room slipped away entirely and, with it, her consciousness. Sarah collapsed onto the couch, the uncorked bottle slipping from her grasp and rolling onto the floor, forgotten. Her last coherent thought was a prayer for strength; tomorrow, she would have to face the truth, whatever it may be.

Then, darkness took her, granting a temporary reprieve from the nightmare that awaited her in the waking world.

Chapter 42

The air crackled with panic as I shouldered open the front door and stepped into the chaotic house, filled with scared faces and the echoes of a party that had ended abruptly.

"FBI Agent Eva Rae Thomas," I announced to the officer at the door, my voice a calm contrast to the bedlam, badge outstretched like a shield parting a sea of wide-eyed onlookers.

"Ma'am, you can't just—" a uniformed officer started, reaching for my arm.

"Can and will," I cut him off, not breaking stride, my gaze locked on the staircase rising above the foyer, an artery to the heart of this chaos. The badge glinted in the dim light, an unequivocal statement of purpose. I was here for answers; boundaries be damned.

The foyer convulsed with frenzied whispers and stifled sobs. An officer's pen scratched rapidly over a notepad as he hunched over, coaxing fragmented tales from shell-shocked partygoers. A woman in a sequined dress clutched a tissue, her mascara bleeding down her cheeks like dark rivulets of regret.

"Where’s the body?" I barked out, my question slicing through the murmurs.

"Upstairs, Agent Thomas," said a voice tinged with solemnity. I knew this guy. It was Officer Edwards with Cape Canaveral PD. His eyes were heavy with the night's weight. He gestured toward the grand staircase where shadows danced on the wall, cast by the flashing lights outside.

"Lead on," I commanded, brushing past a cluster of guests who recoiled at my approach, their faces a gallery of ghoulish masks painted with fear and confusion. Edwards nodded, his steps sure but slow as if each one took effort in the gravity of dread that filled the house. “What have we got?”

“A Male, living alone, was hosting a party for his friends when it happened. His name is Pete Hancock.”

"Was he alone when it happened?" My voice rose above the dissonance of grief and disbelief that echoed off the walls.

"Seems so," Edwards replied without looking back, "the rest were downstairs, oblivious, until someone walked up there and found him, a woman."

"Oblivious…" I mused, the word lingering in the air between us like a specter. We walked up the stairs, leaving behind the chaos.

The office door was open, and I saw him right away. Pete Hancock lay sprawled across an ornate rug, his once-charming features frozen around the indignity of a single gunshot wound that marred his forehead. The blood had pooled in a dark halo on the Persian weave, his eyes staring up at a ceiling he would never see again.

"Handsome devil," I muttered, kneeling beside him, my gaze taking in the designer suit that now served as his death shroud. "Too young for this to end."

"Mid-thirties," Officer Edwards confirmed from over my shoulder. "Could charm the stars from the sky, they said."

"Stars aren't what's falling tonight," I replied, standing back up. A chill ran through me as I looked around the room. Three shots, three victims, all within a stone's throw of each other. My mind raced, connecting invisible dots that floated in the air like the remnants of a spider's web.

"Nicki and Steven," I said aloud, turning to Edwards. "They were shot too, and both lived with their spouses just down the street. Random violence doesn't usually stick so close to home."

Edwards crossed his arms, his brow furrowed. "You think there's a connection?"

"Maybe." My voice trailed off as I peered into Pete Hancock's lifeless eyes. "What did you three know?" I looked up at Edwards. “Bring me the woman who found him, please.”

A woman's tear-streaked face turned to me, her hands trembling. "We were just… I was just looking for him, I swear."

I glanced at the bubbles fizzing out their last bit of life in the half-empty flute on the desk.

"No one actually heard the shot," her voice piped up. “I guess the music was so loud, we just… even if we did hear it, we probably just didn’t think it was anything. I don’t know.”

"Did anyone leave the party early? Slip away?" I pressed, scanning the faces for a flicker of guilt or fear.

"I didn’t notice," the woman whispered. "We were having a good time, and then… it was too late."

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