Page 43 of Rest In Peace

"Who's there?" Her voice was barely a thread in the vastness of silence, betraying her fear.

The room remained undisturbed except for the macabre scene at its center. Books were aligned perfectly on shelves, and pens were laid out in an orderly fashion. There were no overturned chairs or scuffs on the floor, and not a single paper was out of place—an eerie order that screamed wrongness.

"Think, Mary, think," she muttered, words like lifelines to her own sanity. "What now?"

Her gaze caught on the phone on Pete's mahogany desk. But no, calling from here could taint evidence. She couldn't risk it. Her phone was downstairs in her purse.

"Help…." The whisper was for herself, a reminder that she wasn't helpless. She needed to move, to find safety, to alert others. Yet her feet felt rooted in place as if the plush carpet held her captive.

"Get out," she commanded herself, voice strengthening with resolve. "You need to get help."

She glanced back once more, a silent vow to Pete that she would unravel this nightmare. Then, turning on her heel, she fled the study; every step away from the horror was a mix of terror and determination.

Mary's heels clicked a hasty retreat from the study. She kept her palms raised, wary of brushing against the walls, her eyes scanning for unseen obstacles. The blare of the party grew louder, a siren call back to a world ignorant of the death that lay silently above.

"Easy," she whispered to herself. "Don't touch anything."

She reached the thrumming energy of the party. Faces blurred before her, laughter and clinking glasses a grotesque soundtrack to the tragedy unfolding.

"Need to find someone… anyone," she muttered, her voice lost in the cacophony.

Her gaze latched onto a cluster of familiar faces by the fireplace, people she'd laughed with and shared secrets with. Trust was a luxury she couldn't afford, yet necessity demanded it.

"Michael!" Her voice cut through the noise, sharp and urgent. A tall man with a shock of sandy hair turned, concern etching his features at the sight of her pallor.

"Mary? What's?—"

"Upstairs," she gasped, each word punctuated with the beat of her heart. "Pete… he's dead."

"Dead?" Michael's eyes widened, his drink forgotten in his hand. "What do you mean?"

"Dead." The finality of the word hung between them, heavy and undeniable. “I think he’s been… shot.”

"Shot?" He echoed, disbelief shading his tone. "Are you sure?"

"There’s blood everywhere," she said, her voice trembling as the image flashed again before her eyes. "We need to call the police. Now."

"Okay, okay." Michael set his jaw, determination replacing the shock. He reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone with steady hands. "I'll make the call. You stay with me, alright?"

"Thank you," Mary managed, her relief mingled with sorrow. She leaned slightly toward him, seeking the solace of his presence, her mind still spinning with the night's grim revelation. "I don't know who would do this," she confessed in a near-whisper.

Mary's breath came in short, sharp gasps as she stared at the sea of bodies surrounding them. The laughter and clinking glasses starkly contrasted the horror etched into her every feature.

Was the killer still here? Among these people?

"Call the police, now!" Mary's command sliced through the haze of her shock.

Michael's fingers flew over the phone screen, his professionalism surfacing amidst the chaos. "I'm dialing," he assured, glancing at Mary with eyes that demanded facts. "Details, Mary. I need details for them."

"His study. A pool of blood. He's not moving. Not breathing. I’m pretty sure I saw a gunshot wound." The words tumbled out, raw and unfiltered.

"Stay with me, Mary. Focus." Michael's voice held steady, a counterpoint to the thumping bass. He relayed the information into the phone with practiced precision.

Mary fought to anchor herself in the present, away from the haunting image of Pete's lifeless form. Her hands fisted at her sides as she drew a deep breath, trying to still the tremor in her limbs.

"Officers are on their way," Michael reported, pocketing his phone. The weight of urgency hovered between them.

"Good, good." Mary nodded, repeating the word like a mantra. Her mind raced, scanning through every interaction, every passerby who might have crossed Pete's path tonight. Was it the killer?

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