Page 53 of Rest In Peace

"Then why are they all dead?" I shot back.

"Because—" Ryan faltered for a moment, his certainty wavering.

"Because we're dealing with a calculated killer," I said, filling the silence he left. "And unless we work together, there will be more bodies."

"More grandstanding," he sneered. "I've heard enough. You're out of your depth here."

"Am I?" I countered. "Or are you just afraid to admit that you need help?"

"Help?" The word seemed to strike a nerve, his posture stiffening.

"Look at the facts, Ryan. The notes, the methodical planning—it screams serial."

"Serial…." The fight seemed to drain out of him, replaced by a reluctant consideration. "If you're wrong?—"

"But what if I'm right?" I pressed, holding his gaze.

He stared at me, the storm in his eyes churning into something else—a grudging respect, maybe even the dawning realization that I wasn't just an interloper. I was here because I needed to be—because Pete Hancock, lying cold and still on the floor, wouldn't be the last unless we put our heads together.

“I don’t want you here.” He turned to face his officers. “Please, make sure she leaves.”

"Wait," I said, my voice slicing through the buzz of radio static and murmured orders. Two uniformed officers halted mid-step, their hands firm on my arms. Detective Ryan's glare could have cut glass, but I met it without flinching.

"Let her speak," Ryan barked, curiosity overcoming irritation.

I reached slowly into my jacket, watching the officers tense, and pulled out my badge, flipping it open with a practiced flick. "I’m a special agent with the FBI, and I’m allowed to be here."

The room stilled, the weight of my declaration hanging heavy in the air. I saw the shift in their eyes—from dismissal to reluctant respect.

"We know that, but this is not an FBI investigation," Ryan repeated.

"It’s about to be. Look at the pattern, Ryan." I stepped closer, lowering my voice to a compelling timbre. "Three victims, three notes, identical words. Three murders make a serial killer.”

"Local cases," he countered, but his stance had softened somewhat. “There’s no proof they’re connected.”

"Think bigger," I urged. "These aren't isolated incidents. They're pieces of a larger puzzle, and right now, you're missing the box."

"Convince me," Ryan challenged, crossing his arms.

"Each victim knew something, something critical enough to get them killed. We need to find the connection before there's another 'You Knew' note sitting on your desk."

"Dammit." Ryan's curse was more resignation than anger.

"This is a serial killer, Ryan. Without a doubt." My gaze didn't waver. "And that means FBI jurisdiction."

"Special Agent or not, you've no right to come here and mess with my case!" Ryan's voice cracked like a whip through the stillness of the crime scene. He advanced on me, his jaw set and eyes blazing with a fury that was hard to ignore.

"Ryan," I started, keeping my tone level, "you need to listen."

"Listen?" His laugh was hollow and bitter. "To you?"

"Sarah didn't kill Steven." My words came out crisp and confident in the charged silence.

"Based on what? Your gut?" Sarcasm dripped from every syllable as he glowered at me.

"Based on evidence and patterns that don't fit her profile." I unflinchingly met his glare.

"Patterns and profiles?" he scoffed, stepping closer—so close that I could see the reddening in his cheeks. “You're seeing ghosts, Agent."

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