Page 50 of Rest In Peace

"Agent Thomas," a uniformed officer beckoned me with a nod. His gloved hand extended toward me. In his palm lay a crumpled, half-burnt piece of paper.

"Where did you find this?" I asked, stepping closer, my senses heightening.

"Right there, on his desk, inside the ashtray," he said, nodding toward the mahogany behemoth that loomed over the chaotic scene.I pulled a pair of latex gloves from my jacket pocket, snapping them against my wrists.

I tried to read what the paper said, but all I could make out was one word.

…KNEW

The word hung heavily in the air, an accusation or a warning—I couldn't tell which. But it bore down on me, sinking hooks deep into my curiosity. What deadly truth had Pete Hancock stumbled upon? And more importantly, who else knew that he knew? Nicki? Steven?

"Anything else with it?" I asked, voice low, as I lifted the remains of the letter closer to my eyes.

"Nothing," the officer replied, watching me intently. "Just that."

"One word," I murmured, "yet it’s screaming volumes." My mind raced, piecing together a puzzle with too many missing parts.

"Knew what, Pete?" The question slipped out, though I knew better than to expect an answer from beyond the grave. My gaze shifted between the letter and the stillness of his form, searching for a whisper of the secret that cost him his life.

I stepped closer, the scent of iron and gunpowder invading my senses as I approached Pete's body. His once-charming features were now etched in eternal shock, the finality of a bullet's kiss apparent on his brow.

The room was still, the only sound the distant murmur of sirens bleeding through the walls. Shadows clung to the corners like silent spectators to our grim tableau.

"Steven… Nicki… and now you," I continued, half-expecting him to sit up and explain it all away with a hearty laugh. But death had claimed its due, and Pete Hancock would speak no more.

A chill brushed against me from the realization that I was missing something crucial—a hidden thread that could unravel this entire mystery.But one thing was certain: if this was the same killer, it couldn’t be Sarah. But how could I prove these murders were linked?

"Who else knows what you knew, Pete?" The question lingered, unanswered.

Then, from the desk, a glint caught my eye. I reached out, the latex of my gloves creaking softly, and picked it up.

A flash drive.

"Hello, what's this?" My voice was a murmur of intrigue, the device cold and heavy in my palm. What secrets did it hold? Was this the knowledge Pete died for?

"Agent Thomas?" a voice called from the doorway, but I barely registered it.

"Later," I replied, pocketing the flash drive without breaking my gaze from Pete's face. "We've got work to do."

Chapter 43

Adam's hands shook as he grabbed a handful of shirts from the drawer, not bothering to fold them before they landed in the open suitcase. Socks and underwear followed, tossed in with the same disregard for order. The urgency in his movements was palpable; every second seemed to hammer against his temples, a relentless tick-tock reminding him that time was a luxury he could no longer afford.

"Come on; come on," he muttered under his breath, zipping open another compartment to shove in a toothbrush still damp from use.

Wild with fear and determination, his eyes darted around the room, ensuring nothing essential was left behind. They paused as they caught sight of the picture frame sitting innocently on the bedside table. It was Nicki, smiling in that carefree way she had, her eyes alight with joy. Adam's frantic activity ceased for a heartbeat, his chest constricting as if caught in a vise.

"Nicki…." The word was a whisper, a ghost of sound that carried the weight of a thousand confessions.

He reached out, fingertips grazing the cool glass that protected her image. At that moment, the chaos of his escape attempt faded into the background, leaving only the piercing clarity of her absence. Regret gnawed at him, etching sorrow deep into the lines of his face.

"God, I'm so sorry." The apology hung in the air, unheard by anyone but the shadows.

"Nicki, this isn't how it was supposed to go," Adam muttered, his voice barely above a breath as he groped through the drawer for socks. The fabric felt like sandpaper against his skin, starkly contrasting the smooth silk of their bed sheets that Nicki had picked out.

He shoved the socks into the suitcase's side pocket, his hands moving on autopilot while his mind spiraled with images of his wife. Each apology that spilled from his lips seemed to echo around the empty room, a testament to his solitude.

"Forgive me, Nicki, please." His throat tightened around the words, the plea suffused with a desperation that he knew would remain unanswered.

---