Page 10 of Her Last Secret

She wrestled with the duality of her emotions—how could one feel so cherished yet so enraged? The weight of it pressed down on her, but as the hours ticked by, exhaustion crept in and her defenses began to crumble. Slowly, her body surrendered to the tiredness, her breaths grew deeper, and she finally fell asleep.

***

The morning sun strained through a veil of thin clouds as Rachel navigated the familiar turns to Paige's school. The air was crisp, with the promise of autumn lurking just around the summer's corner. Jack, riding shotgun, turned up the volume on a pop song that had Paige grinning in the backseat.

"You like this song?” Paige asked Jack.

“Um…sure?”

“You can pick the next song if you want.”

“Woah, wait a minute,” Rachel said. “Do you even know what kind of music Jack li—”

“No, you heard her!” Jack interrupted. “Nine Inch Nails it is!”

Rachel caught her daughter's eye in the rearview mirror and couldn't help but smile. Her lips curved into a playful smile, her movements animated and silly, drawing laughter from both Jack and Paige. For a fleeting moment, the weight of her profession lifted, replaced by the lightness of this domestic moment. Paige belted out the end of the song, wrapping it up with a small giggling fit.

"And the award for Best Performance goes to..." Jack began, crowning an imaginary winner with his hand.

"Paige!" they chimed in unison, awarding their daughter with the title of carpool karaoke queen.

Pulling up to the curb, Rachel watched as Paige gathered her backpack and hopped out.

“Shoot, no Nine Inch Nails after all,” Rachel teased.

“I was robbed!”

Paige climbed out of the car, blowing kisses to them as she closed the door. "Have a great day, sweetheart," she called after her, the mask of happiness firm in place.

"Love you, guys!" Paige chirped before dashing off toward the school entrance.

With the drop-off complete, Rachel eased the car back into the flow of traffic. Beside her, Jack shifted in his seat, turning his body to face her. "Headache finally gave up the ghost?" he asked, his voice carrying a note of concern.

“Well, I thought so…but that was before the carpool concert.” She laughed and smiled, nodding her head. “And I don’t know if listening to Nine Inch Nails would help. But…yes. For now, it’s gone.”

“For real?”

“Yes, absolutely.” She was telling the truth but, based on how she’d hidden such things in the past, Rachel didn’t blame him for his doubts. Besides, with Grandma Tate’s death and knowing that Alice was still out there somewhere, she thought it made sense that the stress of it all was a likely cause of the headaches.

The rest of the drive was quiet, each lost in their own thoughts as they navigated the city streets toward the theater offices where Marcus Flint worked. Rachel's mind drifted back to the case—the two actresses, the stage director, the cruel echo of life imitating art—and the ever-present undercurrent of tension returned. When they pulled up outside the local theater company, she cast one last glance at Jack, steeling herself for the task ahead. With a killer so calculated and precise, there was no way to accurately predict what would come next.

They found parking easily despite the morning flow of traffic and work-goers. She parked directly in front of the building, and they stepped through the heavy double doors of the theater just twenty minutes after dropping Paige off at school.

Inside, Rachel’s senses were immediately assaulted by a medley of dust and aged varnish. The lobby was grand, a relic from a bygone era, but it was the modest hallway off to the side that drew them—a warren of offices buried within the building's heart. The place looked like it might have long ago been a theater but had since been converted into an office space.

They wandered the halls, the sound of their footsteps muted by the thick carpet. The walls were an homage to the past, adorned with vintage movie posters and photographs of stage productions in ornate frames that boasted images of yesteryear's glamour as well as more modern designs.

At last, they located a string of offices near the back of the main hallway. It was a quaint space, its design a nod to the theater itself. A small marquee sign above the door read 'Marcus Flint, Stage Director' in bold, black letters. The door itself was opened about a quarter of the way.

Rachel knocked softly, respectfully. "Mr. Flint?"

“Yes? Come in,” came the reply.

She pushed the door open and her eyes darted around the room. A tall and handsome middle-aged man sat behind a cluttered desk. The clutter was comprised of stacks of scripts, loose papers, two enormous binders, and more posters featuring smiling actors frozen in triumphant poses.

"Welcome!" Marcus Flint said. He was trying to sound pleasant and excited, but his voice came off as being very tired. “Who might you be?”

Rachel showed her badge and ID; Jack did the same beside her. “Special Agents Gift and Rivers, FBI.”

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