Page 6 of Her Last Secret

She thought of her original plan and realized it had been a good one. She’d simply not expected Grandma Tate to get in the way, to become such an obstacle.

No, the plan had been a good one. Paige was the key; she always had been. If the FBI was casting a wide net, she needed to weave a smaller, tighter one—one that could slip through theirs unnoticed. Taking Paige would force Rachel out, compel her to act recklessly.

That was when Alice would strike, when the pain and anger made Rachel vulnerable.

If she had Paige, she had the power. She’d seen what losing her grandmother had done to Rachel. Good Lord, what would become of that woman if she was without her daughter, too?

CHAPTER FOUR

Rachel wasn’t sure what it said about her that the sight of a police cruiser’s rotating blues and reds set her heart and mind at ease. This was where she fit in; this was where she thrived. And she saw it as she and Jack arrived in front of Emily's apartment building, an unassuming structure nestled between a laundromat and a bodega. The bubble lights of the police cruisers cast an eerie glow on the brick facade.

They climbed the steps together, her mind briefly flitting to Paige, snug in her bed after having Janell read her a bedtime story. A pang of guilt tugged at her, made somehow even worse by the knowledge that there was a bureau sedan also parked across the street from their house. It seemed to Rachel that for the past six months, ever since Alex Lynch had come after her family, there had pretty much always been some form of protection around their home. Thanks to Alice Denbrough’s efforts, her family was in that situation again.

Yes, it made her feel like a terrible and irresponsible mother. But for now, she felt that this was where she needed to be—on the ground, solving crimes, not pushing paper behind a desk. The thought sharpened her focus as she crossed the threshold into the victim’s apartment.

The space was sparsely decorated but had a charm about it—a few framed photographs, a vase of wilting flowers on a small dining table, and a couch that looked both well-loved and lonesome. It struck her as the home of someone who invested more in experiences than belongings, a sentiment that Rachel could appreciate, even under the current circumstances.

There were two cops already on the scene, one of whom approached them right away. He was an older, portly black man, his face grim and tight.

“Feds?” he assumed.

Jack had his ID out, showing it to the officer. “Special Agents Rivers and Gift. How long have you been on the scene?”

“About half an hour. Me and my partner were the first ones out.”

“Has forensic been by?”

“Not yet, but they’re on their way.”

“Do you mind walking us through it?” Rachel asked.

"Not at all. The victim is Emily Ross, twenty-six years of age. She’s in the bathroom.”

Rachel's gaze swept across the living room, taking in every detail—the position of the chairs, the stack of mail on the counter, the faint scent of perfume in the air.

"Lead the way," Jack said.

They followed the officer through the hallway, the ominous echo of their footsteps mingling with the distant murmur of the city outside. The bathroom door was ajar, revealing the body right away.

Emily Ross lay crumpled by the bathtub, her lifeless eyes staring at nothing. Dark bruises marred her pale face; it looked especially odd against the white tiles on the floor. There was also a good amount of bruising around her neck, one of which was in a dented U-shape.

"Strangled," Rachel concluded, her voice sounding detached even to her own ears. "Any sign of forced entry?"

"Nothing obvious," the officer responded, flipping his notepad closed. "Neighbors didn't hear anything either."

"The killer might have been someone she knew, then," Jack mused, his eyes scanning the room for evidence.

"Or she never saw it coming," Rachel added. She leaned closer, observing the patterns of discoloration on Emily's skin, trying to piece together the final moments of a life snuffed out too soon. The woman had clearly been punched in the head and face multiple times. Bruising along her temple and left eyes were the worst of it.

Rachel stood, her mind ablaze with questions. “Who called it in?”

“That’s the weird part,” the cop said. “The precinct got an anonymous call. Told us the victim’s name and the address.”

“Were you able to trace it?”

“Nope. It was too damned short. It was recorded, though.”

Rachel stepped back from the grim scene in the bathroom, a chill running down her spine despite the warmth of Emily's apartment. The place was modest but imbued with touches of character—a potted succulent here, a colorful throw pillow there. But it suddenly seemed quite dark.

---