Page 52 of Rest In Peace

"Get a grip!" he snarled, slamming his palm against the dashboard. The car responded with a slight jolt as though startled by his sudden ferocity. Ahead, the road stretched endlessly, a black ribbon unfurling beneath the stars. "You can do this. You have to."

The engine hummed a steady rhythm, a counterpoint to the erratic drumming of his heart. Adam leaned into the speed, allowing the rush of air through the cracked window to cleanse the stifling dread. He could outrun the sirens and the flashing lights but not the persistent specter of regret tailing him.

"Focus," he commanded himself, his resolve hardening. The past was a shackle he'd left behind in that hastily packed suitcase, the future a path he carved with each turn of the wheels. "I'll get through this," he promised the night sky.

"Keep moving. Don't look back."

The car surged forward, a metallic beast spurred by Adam's will. With each passing second, the city lights dimmed, his old life receding into a memory too painful to hold onto. Ahead lay obscurity and uncertainty but also the faintest glimmer of hope.

"Whatever it takes," he whispered.

Fear and regret might be his passengers, but determination took the wheel, driving Adam deeper into the night.

Chapter 44

Pete Hancock lay sprawled on the carpet, a lifeless marionette with strings cut. His eyes, wide and startled even in death, stared blankly at the ceiling fan circling above like a lazy vulture.

"Who did this to you, Pete?" My voice, barely a whisper, frosted in the chill air as I knelt beside him. The scent of iron tinged my nostrils; it was strong and recent.

A shiver crawled up my spine, not from being cold but from the crawling realization that someone had stood here, in front of Pete, with the intent of ending his life right here and now. My heart thrummed a staccato rhythm against my ribs; each beat spelling out the silent question: Why?

I scanned the room, hunting for a clue, an anomaly in the mundane.

"Who hated you enough to do this or feared you enough to want silence?" I murmured more to myself than to Pete. My mind raced through the possibilities, each more unnerving than the last.

Each tick of the clock overhead punctuated the silence, a countdown to an answer I wasn't sure I wanted to find.

"Hey! What the heck do you think you're doing here?"

The sudden yell ripped through the silence, jarring me from my internal inquisition. I spun around to see Detective Ryan barreling into the room, his face a mask of barely contained fury.

"Ryan," I started, but he cut me off with a wave of his hand, his eyes never leaving mine as he closed the distance between us in a few ground-eating strides.

"Answer me!" His voice was a growl, aggressive and demanding. "Why are you contaminating my crime scene?"

I took a step back. It was clear he saw my presence here as a personal affront, a disruption in his domain.

"Detective, I—" My words were calm and measured, but he wasn't looking for calm.

"Save it!" He was close now, the heat of his anger palpable. "You shouldn't be here. This is my scene, my case!"

His hands balled into fists at his sides, and I could see the tension coiling in him like a spring. Ryan was a storm personified, a man who believed control was akin to law, and I had just broken his cardinal rule.

"Because, Detective," I said, my voice a stark contrast to his rage, "there's a pattern you're missing."

"Pattern? What pattern?" He was inches away now, close enough that I could see the vein pulsing in his temple.

"Every crime scene," I continued, unwavering. "A note with the same words: 'You Knew.'"

His eyes narrowed, suspicion and interest warring within them. "What are you talking about?"

"Three victims, three notes. They were all found by the techs at the scene of the crimes. Steven’s was found on his desk, Nicki’s in the trash, and Pete Hancock’s half burnt in the ashtray. " My heart raced, but my tone remained steady. "I noticed them when going through the case files myself. You didn’t seem to take notice of them, so I did. They’re identical messages. That's not a coincidence."

"Coincidence or not—" he started, but I cut him off.

"Detective, someone is playing a game with us."

"Us?" His laugh was harsh, dismissive. "There is no us. This is my city, my responsibility."

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