Page 27 of Her Last Secret

“Mr. Dawson, in your time within the theater community, did you ever get to know Emily Ross or Sarah Jennings?" Rachel asked as her gaze remained fixed on him, scanning for any flicker of recognition, any twitch that might betray a lie.

"I knew Emily," Gregory answered with a shake of his head, the shadows from the setting sun casting long, mournful lines across his living room. "She was an exceptional talent. Radiated passion in last year's production of Rent. And she had this natural sort of beauty, you know? Reminded me a bit of a younger Sigourney Weaver. But Sarah Jennings? Never heard of her."

“Can you describe the sort of relationship you had with Emily?”

“We were barely even friends. I may have spoken to her a handful of times. And it was all related to the stage. Nothing personal or anything like that.”

“How long ago would you say that these interactions occurred?”

“The most recent was the night I got shit-canned. The night that actor went off his rocker about the gun I’d supplied.”

"Did you see anything unusual during your time with Emily?" Rachel pressed, all the while aware of Jack's silent support beside her.

"Unusual?" Gregory paused, considering the question. "I don’t know if it would be unusual, but whenever I think of Emily Ross, I think about this one show where she just knocked the performance out of the park. She got a standing ovation. There was a woman in the audience, weeping openly. It shook me. The power of performance, you know?" He gestured vaguely toward the rows of photographs lining the walls. "I think it was Emily's mother."

Rachel turned to glance at Jack. Their eyes met, and without words, they shared the weight of what came next. Emily’s mother. A visit to Emily's grieving parents was inevitable, a responsibility neither took lightly. With less than twenty-four hours since Emily's life had been abruptly snuffed out, the reality of facing her family was becoming clearer—the next step in the process, perhaps.

"Is there anything else you can tell us that might help with our investigation?" Rachel asked, though she felt they had gleaned all they could from Gregory Dawson. “Anyone out of the ordinary that you think Emily might have crossed paths with?”

“Not really. There’s Juliette Warner, I guess. A bit of a nutcase and sort of scorned from the community like I was. But I doubt she’d ever hurt a fly.”

Rachel nodded with a grin. “Yes, we’ve already spoken to her.”

"Mr. Dawson, if you do remember anything else, please give us a call," Jack said as he fished a business card out of his jacket pocket.

“Yeah, I will.”

Gregory Dawson walked them to the door, even stepping out onto the porch to see them off. As Rachel and Jack stepped off the porch and into the encroaching night, the house behind them felt like a mausoleum of stories untold, each prop a witness to performances of the past.

"Emily's parents are next," Rachel said to Jack once they were outside, the dim glow of the streetlights barely piercing the dark. "We need to get a picture of what her final days looked like."

“If Dawson is right,” Jack said, “Emily’s mother was at that show, weeping. They must have been close. And that kind of grief... I'm not looking forward to stirring that up again."

Rachel nodded; it was the one part of the job they both hated. Questioning those who had lost loved ones was always difficult, but doing it so soon after the loss was its own special sort of torture.

But Rachel knew these conversations were necessary evils, pieces of a puzzle they were obligated to put together, no matter how much the picture might haunt them later.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

They arrived at the home of Emily's parents just before dusk, the day bleeding out its last light across a sky brushed with strokes of orange and pink. The neighborhood was an idyllic slice of suburbia, where each trimmed lawns was like an island in the middle of a calm sea. Each yard was bordered by a picket fence that gleamed white even in the fading light. Houses stood shoulder to shoulder, yet each held its own character.

Rachel and Jack shared an uncomfortable glance, knowing what was coming. Rachel took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and knocked on the door. They heard hurried footsteps on the other side right away. When the door was opened, a middle-aged woman stood on the other side. Her face was a map of sorrow, eyes red-rimmed and brimming with recent tears. She managed a weak smile as if politeness was a reflex she couldn’t quite suppress even now.

“Yes? Can I help you?”

Rachel worked her way through introductions, showing her badge as if it weren’t really all that important. The FBI badge and ID carried an entirely different kind of weight in situations like these.

“We were hoping to come in and ask you some questions,” Jack said after Rachel’s intro.

“Yes, of course. Please come in.”

The woman, who had introduced herself as Patricia Ross, led them into her home. They stepped into the well-loved house, maneuvering through a living room dotted with clusters of family members, some in hushed conversation, some lost in their own silence. The air was heavy with a symphony of sniffles and low murmurs, the scent of coffee and something freshly baked mingling in among it all. Rachel could feel the sadness and grief in the air, slightly oppressive.

Patricia guided them past a wall adorned with framed memories of Emily: her bright smile, her graduation, her opening nights on the stage. There was one particular picture of her dressed as Sandy from a high school production ofGrease. Each frozen moment felt like a whisper of the life that had ended far too soon.

They turned into a small office area, where a man sat alone behind a desk, staring at nothing in particular along the back wall.An empty tumbler glass sat on the desk and a bottle of bourbon sat nearby.

“Andy?” Patricia said. “There are two FBI agents here, wanting to speak with us.”

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