Page 22 of Her Last Secret

“Tired, but fine.”

“So do you think these treatments were the ones that did it? The ones back in Seattle?”

“Maybe. But you know I don’t like to speculate.”

“I know. I’m just…I don’t know. Am I terrible for saying I’m a bit more nervous and excited for your next tests than the wedding?”

“Weird, maybe. But not terrible.” She smiled as they reached the car and said, “But I get it. I’m just worried the results will say nothing has changed. I’m worried we’ll be walking down the aisle with that bad news resting between us.”

“If that’s the case, the bad news can wait,” Jack said. “I’m not going to let any bad news ruin my wedding day. God, I can’t wait to marry you, Rachel.”

They shared a brief kiss before getting into the car. The kiss and his words made her heart flutter. She was often in awe of the steadfastness of this man who had been her constant in a whirlwind of loss and pain. Peter's sudden death had left her adrift in a sea of grief, but Jack had been the anchor, pulling her back to solid ground. And when Grandma Tate had passed, it was his shoulder that absorbed her tears, his quiet strength that helped her navigate the consuming sorrow. And he’d not just been there for her, but for Paige, too.

And then, of course, there’d been the cancer. She had no idea how she would have made it through the pain, the weakness, the travel, and the overall hopelessness without him by her side.

"It worries me, Jack..." she trailed off, her thoughts spiraling. How could a heart so full of love for this man still harbor such intense animosity towards Alice? The question gnawed at her, an itch deep beneath her skin that she couldn't quite scratch.

"Hey," Jack said, stopping just short of the car and turning to face her, his eyes searching hers. "Whatever is going on…whatever happens and whatever those test results say, we'll tackle it together. Just like we always do."

Rachel nodded, the ghost of a smile gracing her lips. "One thing at a time, though," she said, doing her best not to get emotional. "Let's go pay Mr. Lawrence a visit. I'd like to not have this case over our heads while walking down the aisle."

"Agreed,” Jack replied, starting the engine. The car hummed to life as they once again rode out into the city, chasing down answers and dangerous men…and doing it the way they’d done it for the better part of three years: together.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The late afternoon sun cast a muted glow on the nondescript apartment building as Rachel and Jack ascended the exterior steps, their shoes echoing off the concrete. Rachel's fingers curled into a fist before she rapped sharply on the weathered door of apartment 3B, the listed address of Bryson Lawrence. The silence that followed was loaded, charged with the potential energy of confrontation. This could be a huge step in the right direction, or it could be a bust.

A shuffling sound from within preceded the door cracking open just enough for an eye to peer out. "Who's there?" The voice was tinged with wariness, its owner hidden behind the sliver of safety the door afforded.

"FBI," Rachel announced, her badge held up for Bryson to see through the gap. “Special Agents Gift and Rivers.” Her tone was authoritative, yet the underlying current of impatience was unmistakable. She had no time for games or hesitation.

The door remained ajar, the eye scrutinizing them both. There was a palpable pause, a beat too long, and Rachel could almost hear the cogs turning in the man’s head as he weighed his options.

“Sir,” Jack said, “are you Bryson Lawrence?”

“I am.”

“Then I suggest you open the door. We need to speak with you about a case we’re working on. And the longer you stand there indecisive like that, the worse things are going to look for you.”

Finally, with a resigned sigh that they felt rather than heard, the door swung open.

Bryson Lawrence looked immediately nervous to have them in his apartment. It clung to him like a second skin. His gaze flickered between Rachel and Jack, seeking some semblance of control over the situation that had just walked through his door.

Rachel stepped inside first into the dimly lit living room. Jack followed, his eyes sweeping the space with trained precision. Rachel had no real idea why but as soon as the door closed behind them, she felt that rising anger coming to the surface. Alice had not been mentioned in conversation in a while—likely an intentional move on Jack’s part. But still, she felt it rising and she had to make sure to keep it under control. The walls seemed to close in, the apartment now a stage for the interrogation that she didn’t quite trust herself to conduct.

“Do you know why we’re here?” Rachel asked.

“No,” Bryson said. “I don’t.”

He’d not invited them to sit, and he had remained standing the entire time. The living space they’d entered was small, with just a small love seat as furniture. A large workspace sat against the far wall, taking up a good amount of room.

"We're working on a murder case," Rachel said. "Two local actresses have been killed, and a police report from a year and a half ago gives us reason to ask you a few questions."

“Ah, damn. Really? You’re here about that?”

“Yes,” Rachel said. She found it odd that he seemed to be relieved about this.

“The night the cops had to pull you out of the Oaken Theater…what were your plans if you’d made it backstage?” Her question was a point-blank shot, leaving no room for evasion.

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