Page 26 of Her Last Secret

"Everything okay?" Jack asked, his keen eyes searching hers.

"Fine," she lied, smoothing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Just trying to figure this case out."

Jack nodded, accepting her words at face value, though Rachel saw the flicker of concern he quickly masked. They moved towards their car parked along the curb, the somber hues of twilight painting the cityscape with shades of gloom. And Rachel did her very best not to view the ominous lighting as an indicator of what waited for them in the coming hours.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The last vestiges of sunlight faded into the horizon as Rachel and Jack's car coasted to a stop in front of Gregory Dawson's home. The house was a modest one-story, its facade worn by time yet bearing a certain charm that lingered from a bygone era. It was nestled within a cocoon of drooping willows and wild shrubs that whispered in the evening breeze. Paint peeled lazily from the wooden siding, and the porch sagged under the weight of years. But the windows glowed, indicating there was someone inside.

Rachel stepped out of the car, her senses heightened, taking in the quiet neighborhood. She could hear the distant hum of traffic, the rustle of leaves, and two neighbors laughing about something nearby. Everything seemed deceptively peaceful, untouched by the violent acts she and Jack were investigating.

She approached the door, her footsteps muffled by the overgrown path, and knocked firmly. Moments passed before the door opened to reveal Gregory Dawson—his graying hair unkempt, his eyes wary—as he peered at them through the dimming light.

"Gregory Dawson?" Rachel asked, noting the way his gaze darted between the two of them, annoyance etched on his features as if they were unwelcome interruptions to his evening.

"Who's asking?" His voice was gruff, tinged with an edge that suggested they tread carefully.

"Special Agents Rachel Gift and Jack Rivers," she stated, flashing her badge with a practiced motion. "We're investigating the murders of Emily Ross and Sarah Jennings."

For a brief second, Gregory's mask of annoyance slipped, revealing a flicker of something more than mere curiosity—a shadow of concern, perhaps, or fear. But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by a guarded look as he crossed his arms over his chest.

"Murders?" His voice had risen slightly, a pitch of genuine surprise—or was it well-rehearsed disbelief?

Rachel maintained her composure, her eyes never leaving his. "Yes, two local actresses were recently killed. We believe you may be able to help us with our inquiries."

"Help you?" There was a slight tremor in Gregory's voice, though whether from cold or nervousness, Rachel couldn't tell. “How?”

"By simply speaking with us. May we come in, Mr. Dawson?" Rachel asked in a very subtle tone, one that said she wasn't asking him, but telling him.

Gregory hesitated, weighing his options, before stepping aside with a resigned nod. As they entered the threshold of his home, Rachel felt took inventory of the pain in her head. It had gotten no worse, but it was still there. She imagined it as some unknown monster lurking in the bushes and just waiting for an unsuspecting person to come walking by.

They entered Gregory Dawson's living room, and Rachel’s gaze swept across the space that seemed to double as a shrine to theatrical history. The walls were lined with framed posters of classic plays and musicals, their colors muted by the dim light filtering through half-closed curtains. Shelves sagged under the weight of countless scripts and books, each spine worn from use or perhaps reverence.

In one corner stood a mannequin draped in a velvet cape that had seen better days, its crimson fabric dulled by dust but still plush to the touch. A collection of masks, some grinning and others grotesque, peered down from a high shelf, silently observing the intrusion into their sanctuary. It wasn't just cluttered; it was an overcrowded museum of a life steeped in drama and make-believe—a testament to Gregory’s love for the theater, or perhaps an escape from his reality.

"Please, take a seat," Gregory gestured towards a floral-patterned couch that seemed out of place amid the spectacle of his theatrical collection. He didn’t seem thrilled to make the suggestion. He had the demeanor of a man who understood he may as well make the best of an unpleasant situation.

Rachel chose an armchair instead, noting the way the light played off the gleaming hilts of swords mounted on the wall. She made a mental inventory of each prop's position, the deliberate arrangement not lost on her. They were too meticulously placed for someone not obsessed with detail—the kind of person who might plan something sinister with precision.

A glance at Jack confirmed he shared her wariness. Her instincts, honed from years on the force, whispered that they were circling closer to the core of this dark puzzle.

“You’ve got quite an impressive collection,” Rachel said.

“Thanks. Took some time…and some money. And I know it’s all over the place, but…” He shrugged, as if that were a fitting end to the sentence.

Jack leaned against a bookcase, feigning casual interest in a dusty trophy. "Mr. Dawson, we’re here because in the course of our investigation, we heard about your unique approach to props," he began, his tone light but probing. "Real weapons for the actors, huh?"

Gregory's eyes flickered toward the swords, then back to Jack. "It's a lost art," he said, crossing his arms defensively. "Theater is about making the audience feel, not just allowing them to watch. When an actor holds a real gun, even if it's unloaded, there's a palpable tension. It's not the same with a replica. You can see the respect and fear in the actor…something even your very best actor isn’t going to be able to fake.”

"Sounds risky, though," Jack commented, quirking an eyebrow.

"Art is risk," Gregory countered, his voice rising with passion. "Without it, there's no authenticity, no true connection with the crowd. You can't fake that sort of thing. The audience has to believe it, to feel the danger coursing through the air."

Rachel observed this exchange, her attention split between the fervor in Gregory's justification and the weapons themselves. Each piece could be a clue, a potential link to the crimes they were investigating. She envisioned the actors on stage, the weight of real steel in their hands, the adrenaline and worry it might provoke.

"Interesting philosophy," Rachel interjected, her voice cool. "But don't you think it invites unnecessary hazards?"

“Not if you have a staff and prop department that knows what they’re doing. And yes, I responded very poorly when I was challenged about my approaches. I know that now; it just took some time of sitting in it, you know? I concede to that. But I still believe I was treated most unfairly.”

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