Page 8 of Her Last Secret

"Jack," she murmured, tapping the paper with her finger. "The play...there was a showing tonight."

He leaned in closer, his eyes narrowing as he read the details. "Means our guy could've been waiting for her to come home. He knew her schedule, even.”

Rachel's gut twisted. "And what about Sarah Jennings? Was it the same deal?" She couldn’t shake the idea that the murderer was staging his own sick show, with his own imagined curtains closing just as these women stepped off their stages.

"Let's go have a look at where Sarah Jennings was found," she suggested.

"Sounds like a plan.”

The assisting cop overheard their conversation and came over with a sigh. "Sarah’s place is just like this," he said, his voice low, tinged with unease. "Also killed in her apartment, late at night."

“Got the address?”

“Not on me. It’s in the files which you should have in your inbox any moment now.”

“Thanks for all of your help,” Rachel said.

“Of course.”

The cop gave a wave goodbye and Rachel and Jack left the apartment. On their way out, they passed by another official-looking duo. Rachel recognized one of them as a member of the forensics team. They nodded and waved as they passed one another.

They exited the apartment and stepped back out into the night. And as they hurried back to their car, Rachel did her very best to ignore the slight yet persistent pain at the back of her head.

CHAPTER FIVE

The lock clicked open with an almost imperceptible shudder, and Rachel pushed the door inward, stepping into Sarah Jennings’s apartment. The soft glow from the streetlights outside fought its way through half-closed blinds, casting long, reaching fingers across the floor. Jack's steps resonated behind hers, a steady drumbeat against the hush that blanketed the space. Inside, everything was still and eerily quiet.

Rachel stood just inside the doorway for a moment, her gaze flitting over the vintage movie posters on the walls—Splash! and The Sound of Music, just to name a few. A deceptive sense of normalcy hung in the air, colliding with the knowledge of what had transpired within these walls just a few days ago.

They remained silent as they approached the living room. Rachel withdrew her phone, thumbing to the dim glow of the screen where Sarah's case file awaited. The cop back at Emily's place had not been exaggerating; they'd had the case files before they even got back to their car. Now standing in the living room, Rachel began to summarize the files. It felt more personal—more real—to speak it out loud while standing in the space where Sarah Jennings had lost her life.

"Sarah was found just there," she said, nodding toward a spot near the coffee table as she read the digital text aloud. "Neck slit, no hesitation marks. One determined cut. The coroner’s report says it was very deep."

"Clean cut?" Jack asked, his voice low and even.

"Very." She scrolled through the report. "The weapon was left at the scene. No prints."

“Why would he leave the weapon at the scene of the crime?” Jack asked. “Seems like an amateur.”

“Or, of this truly is something to do with theatrics, maybe he felt it was part of the scene. He’s calling the deaths in. Maybe he’s proud of his work and wanted it to look like a set or a stage.”

“So he left the knife as a prop?”

“Maybe.”

Rachel's gaze held fast to the crimson stain marring the otherwise pristine ivory rug—a dark, drying pool that anchored the space with its morbid significance. She stepped gingerly around the perimeter of the stain, feeling almost as if she were stepping over someone's grave. Beyond it was the kitchen, where Jack was searching the fridge for any clues like the ones at Emily's place. But Sarah had apparently preferred a clean and uncluttered refrigerator door. There was nothing on it at all—no magnets, no stickers, nothing.

The kitchen was a postcard of charm, with pastel blue cabinets and checkered tile flooring, each surface clean and items meticulously arranged. Small and quaint, perfect for a woman living on her own.A Keurig coffeemaker, a small toaster, an insulated cup that would never be filled again.

"Nothing out of place here," Jack called back, opening drawers only to find neatly stacked utensils and unopened mail—bills, flyers, brochures.

Rachel then made her way to the bathroom. It was clean nearly to the point of being sterile. Nothing of importance, not even in the medicine cabinet where there were only allergy meds and NyQuil. "Same for the bathroom," Rachel replied from across the hall, noting the folded towels and clear counter.

She made her way down a very short hallway and pushed the door open, revealing the bedroom. Inside, the room was a tapestry of soft hues and gauzy curtains partially covering the night outside. A quilted bedspread lay smooth and untouched since it had been made that final morning. On the dresser, a collection of perfumes and trinkets sat, never to be used again.

“Hey, Rach?” Jack called out from elsewhere in the apartment.

She followed his voice and found him back in the living room. A small desk and chair were pushed against the wall, serving as a small study. There was a laptop and a tidy stack of notebooks and pens. But Jack had picked up something else—a thin stack of paper, bound with a black clasp in the corner.

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