Page 7 of Rest In Peace

Beyond the window, palm trees swayed in the salty ocean air, their rustling leaves a comforting sound. But Sarah couldn't focus on their calming rhythm. The image of last night's events played over and over in her mind, each detail seared into her memory. She couldn't shake the feeling of disbelief as she thought about their neighbor, Sarah, being arrested for murder. It didn't make sense—sure, their marriage and separation had been messy, but could it have really led to such a heinous act? Killing the man she had once loved and had a child with?

"Victoria," she whispered, the name leaving a bitter taste. Poor kid. She’d been shipped off to an aging grandmother when she needed parents the most. It seemed unbelievable. Yes, Nicki knew that Sarah was a drunk. She had come to the house more than once after the split and yelled at him from outside the house, and once, they had to call the cops on her. It was Adam who wanted to do it, not Nicki. But she knew now it had been the right thing to do. Sarah needed to stop the drinking, and Nicki thought that she had. It had been months with no episodes, and when she met her at Publix one day, she was completely sober and told her she was in AA now and had been sober for three months.

So, what happened?

Nicki went outside. She sat on her porch swing, enjoying the warm breeze and the sounds of crickets chirping, when a loud rustling sound made her jump. She frantically looked toward her front door, scanning for any signs of movement. Her heart pounded in her chest as she imagined what could be causing the noise—was it a pesky raccoon or something more dangerous like a gator? She couldn't help but think of the videos she had seen online of wild animals invading people's homes in the middle of the night.

There it was again. That unmistakable sound of something meddling where it shouldn't.

"Okay, Nicki. Just a raccoon," she muttered to herself.

She walked inside and grabbed a pot and pan, the tools of suburban defense. Ready to make a racket, to send whatever critter scurrying, she crept to the door. Hand trembling, she reached for the knob, braced for chaos.

But there was no wild animal in the quiet shadow of the front porch. Instead, there was an envelope. Her name was etched on the front in sharp, deliberate letters. No raccoon wrote that.

She snatched the envelope and turned back inside, every nerve on edge.

Chapter 9

As I drove away from the prison, my tires kicked up a cloud of dirt, and my doubts followed me like unwelcome passengers. I couldn't shake the image of Sarah's glazed eyes as we spoke during the interview. A thick fog of confusion engulfed me as I tried to understand how she could still function on that fatal night with such a high level of alcohol in her system. Most people would have blacked out, but she seemed to have a remarkable tolerance. She was actually able to drive her car to his house.

I couldn't shake off the vivid images from the witness accounts. Her car careened down the lane, leaving a trail of debris in its wake before colliding with a trash can, the metallic thud echoing through the neighborhood. And then her body stumbling out and staggering toward his house. It was clear that she was severely intoxicated, an understatement to describe her condition.

How could I believe her when she told me what happened? But for some reason, I did. When my mind told me not to, my heart told me otherwise. Something wasn’t right about this whole thing.

I believed her. I didn’t know why, but I did.

Her rap sheet flashed through my mind. She had been in the hands of the police several times before. Once from being pulled over and getting a DUI, the second time when she showed up at her old house, wasted, and started to scream at and attack Steven, her estranged husband, and the neighbors had enough of her. That didn't bode well for her defense—not exactly a pristine record.

I fumbled for my phone; the number for the Cape Canaveral Police Station had already been pulled up. I pressed call and waited anxiously as the line rang. Finally, Detective Ryan answered with a heavy sigh, his voice sounding drained.

"Agent Thomas. Twice in one day? To what do I owe the honor this time?" he said with a mocking voice.

"The daughter," I said, gripping the steering wheel tighter. This guy rubbed me the wrong way. If it was his arrogance or his laziness, I didn't know—probably both.

“What about her?” His voice was flat, disinterested.

"Why didn't you interview her?" I asked. "She was in the house. She was a potential witness. If Sarah claims the gun went off before she entered the house, she could have heard it. Or at least she must have seen something. Didn't she run to her dad's bedroom when the shot was fired? Or even if she was too scared to, she might have peered through a crack in the door or at least heard her mother enter?"

Laughter crackled through the line. My grip on the phone tightened, knuckles whitening. What was it with this guy?

"What's so funny?" My voice was sharper than intended.

"Know anything about the daughter?" he shot back.

"No, why?" I felt tension coiling within me.

"Find out yourself if you're such a sharp FBI detective."

Click. The line went dead.

Fury bubbled up in my chest, sending a burst of heat through my body. My clenched fists slammed into the steering wheel, the sound reverberating in the small space of the car. Embarrassment flooded in next, making me feel small and foolish. I took deep breaths, trying to quell the tumultuous emotions raging inside me. But I knew this wasn't the end of it… not by a long shot.

Chapter 10

THEN:

The harsh, fluorescent lights of the emergency room illuminated Victoria's face in a pale, ghostly glow. Sarah's voice trembled with fear as she pleaded for help, her hands longing for something or someone to hold onto, to cling to, while the world crumbled beneath her.

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