Page 9 of Her Last Secret

The top page readWhat We Always Forget,the words centered perfectly. Beneath it, there was:Written and directed by Marcus Flint.

“Marcus Flint…” she said.

“Sounds familiar, right?” Jack asked.

Rachel took out her phone and pulled up the picture of the playbill she'd taken at Emily's apartment—the one from the refrigerator door. She zoomed in to the text along the bottom where the stars' names were listed, and then, beside them, she saw it.

“Directed by Marcus Flint,” she read.

Her gaze locked onto the script's title page as her brain knitted together pieces of a puzzle they hadn't even known they were assembling. “How much do you know about local theater?” she asked.

“Zilch.”

“I’m wondering how common this would be. How many local directors are there, and what would be the likelihood that someone would work so recently with two women who wound up dead?”

“Not sure. We should definitely speak with him.” He checked his watch and sighed. "It's getting late, though...nearly 1:30. I say get his info now and wait until first thing in the morning to see if we can catch him unaware and unsuspecting.”

"Agreed."

As they prepared to leave, Rachel paused in the doorway, her gaze sweeping the apartment one final time. The room was a silent mausoleum, the air thick with an ominous stillness that clung to them both. It wasn't uncommon when walking through places where someone had just died, especially in cases of murder. Her eyes traced over the charming vintage posters on the walls, the cozy clusters of books, and then to the living room rug—stained dark with the memory of a life violently cut short.

“What is it?” Jack asked, stepping closer to her. “What’s bothering you?”

“The phone calls to the police. It almost has to be the killer. And if that’s the case, he’s confident. Which means he’s careful. And he probably already has a plan set in place.”

“So maybe we just need to work toward disrupting that plan.”

She nodded, her eyes going back to the bloodstain on the rug.

“By calling and going after members of such a small, niche group, he’s basically showing us his pattern,” Jack pointed out. “That gives us a huge advantage.”

“Maybe,” Rachel said—though it didn’t feel at all like an advantage. If anything, it felt like the killer was rubbing their faces in it. There was a rhythm to the madness, a sinister thread weaving through the fabric of the case. Director Anderson had briefed Jack on a straightforward investigation, but the few things they’d discovered so far suggested deeper, darker currents.

"Let's call it a night," Jack said, reaching out to rest a hand on her shoulder. "We'll need fresh eyes in the morning."

Rachel gave a reluctant nod, but her eyes lingered on the bookshelves, the photographs of smiling friends, the script in the little office nook. She had always done her best to feel empathy for the victims of their cases, but this one seemed to be hitting her harder than usual.

"Right," she agreed, though her feet felt leaden, unwilling to part with the scene before them. "But Anderson's wrong if he thinks this will be simple."

The floorboards creaked beneath their weight as they retreated from the apartment, leaving the silence to swallow up the space behind them once again.

CHAPTER SIX

Rachel's hand hovered above the doorknob of her front door, a silent signal for Jack to still his movements. She turned the handle with practiced care, easing the door open just wide enough for them to slip through. The familiar scent of their home—lemon-scented polish and the faintest hint of Jack's cologne—wrapped around her like a comforting pair of warm arms..

Jack's reassuring presence was a solid heat at her back as they moved in unison, shadow-like, toward the staircase. She looked over at the couch and saw Janell still asleep. They moved quietly, each step calculated, avoiding the treacherous fourth stair that sang out under the slightest pressure. Rachel led the way, her memory charting a path around the known creaks with the precision of a cartographer. They slowly and quietly made their way down the hallway. As Jack continued to the bedroom, Rachel stopped at Paige's bedroom door.

It was cracked open the slightest bit. Rachel peered inside and saw her daughter sleeping peacefully. She tiptoed into the room and kissed Paige on the head. She was such a strong and resilient little girl, and there were times when Rachel had no idea what she'd ever done in life to deserve such a perfect gift. After another soft kiss on the cheek, she quietly made her exit and continued to her bedroom.

Jack had already put on his bedside lamp and hurried to the shower. While he showered, Rachel brushed her teeth and then they swapped places. By the time she was out of the shower, Jack had gotten into bed, the lamp now off. The only light in the room were pools of moonlight spilling across the floor through the slats of the blinds.

When she got into bed, Jack's arm encircled her waist. She scooted into him and let out a deep, heavy sigh. The tension from the night's grim discoveries began to ebb away, replaced by an acute awareness of the man beside her. Underneath the warm sheets, the world narrowed to the space between them. Jack leaned over, his lips finding hers in the semi-darkness. It was intended as a goodnight—a simple endcap to another day—but the kiss deepened, fueled by an urgency the case had instilled in them. His mouth moved against hers with a gentle insistence, and she responded in kind, letting the kiss chase away the chill of their profession.

As their kiss grew heated, hands roamed with a familiarity and intimate knowledge. Soft sighs and the rustle of fabric filled the room. Outside, the night held its breath, and inside, two hearts were beating a little faster as things came to a close, names whispered into one another’s ears, breaths slowly collected as a whole new kind of exhaustion dragged them into sleep.

But that sleep came slower to Rachel than to Jack. The pleasure she’d felt had not been quite enough to quiet the chaos of her mind. As Jack's steady breathing filled the quiet room, she lay beside him, her eyes tracing the faint outline of moonlight against the wall. She felt safe by his side and in his love, but her cold current of anger still churned.

The anger was a shadowy figure in her mental landscape, elusive yet ever-present. It stalked her through the corridors of her mind, whispering bitter recollections of every moment from the doorbell footage, of every tear she and Paige had shed at Grandma Tate’s funeral. It was an anger born of helplessness—among many other things—a fire fueled by the knowledge that somewhere out there, her grandmother’s killer was free. The woman who had tried to take Paige was free.

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