Page 4 of Rest In Peace

As if in a dream, she watched herself gather Victoria into her arms—so tiny and fragile, a doll broken by an unseen hand. Her mind raced, thoughts disjointed and wild. This wasn't supposed to happen—not to them—not to their little girl who loved butterfly kisses and bedtime stories.

"Call 9-1-1 or drive ourselves?" Steven's question was weighty, speaking of life-altering decisions made in heartbeats.

"Drive. It'll be faster."

Sarah's decision was instinctual, the protective lioness within her rising. Every second mattered, every moment a precious commodity they couldn't afford to squander.

"Let's go." Steven's hand was on her back, guiding her even as she clutched Victoria closer. They moved together, a unit bound by shared purpose and unspoken vows; their world contracted to the tiny heartbeat between them.

As they hurried to the car, Sarah dared not look back at the home that was supposed to be a fortress against the world. She could only hope and pray that they weren't already too late.

Chapter 3

The salt-laden breeze from the nearby Atlantic wafted through the open door of the Cape Canaveral Police Station as I stepped inside, the sterile light reflecting off my polished FBI badge. The lobby was a muted tableau of beige and gray, punctuated by the occasional splash of color from "Wanted" posters and community announcements.

"I'm here to see the detective in charge of the Chapman case," I announced to the lady behind the counter.

"Agent Thomas," her voice cut through the formality like a knife through butter, her eyes not even glancing at the offered ID. "No need to show me your badge. I know who you are." Her fingers danced over the keyboard, pulling up information with an efficiency that spoke of years behind that desk. "That'll be Detective Ryan," she murmured, pressing the phone receiver to her ear. A beat passed before she motioned me forward. "Go right in."

The detective’s office was a stark contrast to the antiseptic environment outside—papers strewn about, a whiteboard filled with scribbles and lines connecting various points of interest. The man himself, Detective Ryan, looked up from his cluttered desk, his expression a mix of curiosity and caution.

"FBI Agent Thomas," he acknowledged, leaning back in his chair, sizing me up with a detective's practiced eye.

"Detective Ryan," I nodded.

"What can I do for you?" he asked.

"What can you tell me about the Chapman case?"

"Chapman?" He snorted, shuffling papers as if to emphasize the mundanity of it all. "Why the sudden interest in that case? It's not exactly FBI material. Wife shoots husband in bed. Open and shut. They had a fight. He had kicked her out. She was angry. Wait. Are you here to steal my case?" There was a defensive edge to his tone, the kind honed by too many years watching outsiders sweep in and claim the glory.

"Steal?" I echoed, feeling the weight of jurisdictional politics. "No, I just need to take a look at it."

"Look all you want from afar, Agent Thomas," he bristled, standing now, the energy in the room shifting to something akin to two rams butting heads. "But I do mind. I know how you people are. You can't just waltz in here, big-shot FBI agent, and snatch my case from under me."

"Detective Ryan," I began, trying to infuse my voice with calm reason, "I might be able to help?—"

"No way," he cut across, stepping closer, his shadow falling over the paperwork between us, turning it into a landscape of grays. "Don't come in here all high and mighty thinking you can just steal my case. This is mine. Now, if you'd please leave."

"Of course," I said, but anger curled within me like smoke. The detective had made his stance clear; this was his turf, his victory or defeat to claim. But at what cost?

I turned and walked out, each step echoing my frustration. The door closed behind me with a click that sounded far too final, leaving me standing there, the taste of thwarted opportunity bitter on my tongue. But there was no way that was going to stop me. I would do this my own way. Sarah was my friend. I had to make sure justice was served in her case, and I had a distinct feeling that wasn't happening. I knew I had to take matters into my own hands, and that was something I wasn’t afraid to do.

Chapter 4

Nicki's fingers danced across the rough surface of the chopping board, a rhythmic clack accompanying each slice through the carrots. The kitchen was awash with the warm glow of the setting sun, piercing through half-closed blinds and casting long stripes across the countertop. A pot simmered quietly on the stove, tendrils of steam curling up like delicate wisps of smoke.

The click of the front door announced Adam's arrival, and without missing a beat, she wiped her hands on her apron, turning to greet him.

"Hey," he said, his voice weary but warm as he leaned in, his lips finding hers in a brief sanctuary from the world outside. His kiss tasted of promises and long-shared comforts, an intimate ritual marking the end of another day.

"Rough day?" she asked, watching him as he loosened his tie with one hand, the other rifling absently through the stack of mail he'd scooped from the hallway table—bills, flyers, nothing that couldn't wait.

"Could say that," Adam replied, his eyes not meeting hers as they scanned the envelopes. "Did anything interesting happen here?"

Nicki hesitated, the carrot beneath her knife pausing mid-chop.

"Interesting isn't quite the word I'd use," she murmured. She stole a glance at him, gauging his attention before continuing.

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