Page 41 of Not This Night

She leaned closer to the window beside the entrance, cupping her eyes with her hands to peer through the glass. Her gaze swept over the interior, scanning for signs of life, movement. Anything.

The dining room was a still-life of abandonment. Plates upturned, glasses toppled, silverware splayed across the tablecloth. A meal interrupted, the food left to cool and congeal—the scene reeked of sudden departure, or worse.

Rachel's throat tightened, a low pulse of alarm throbbing in her temples. Something was off, very off.

She shifted her weight, ready to circle the house for another entry, when a glint on the floor caught her eye. A small object lay just inside the threshold, where the ambient light kissed the polished tiles.

It was a bead. Turquoise, unmistakably so.

Her breath hitched. The color, the shape—it was identical to those she had catalogued at the other scenes. Her mind raced; this wasn't coincidence, it was a pattern. A clue that screamed connection.

"Damn it," she whispered, acutely aware of the gravity of her find. This bead was a silent siren, an omen of the darkness they were chasing.

Rachel's fingers brushed over the tools secured at her hip pocket. Her hands settled on the tension wrench, small and unassuming, yet crucial for what she needed to do next. She glanced back at the window, the unsettling stillness of the dining room taunting her from behind the pane.

"Time's not on our side," she muttered under her breath as she extracted the tool.

The lock before her was a mere obstacle, one she had overcome countless times in training and in the field. With a deft insertion of the wrench, she applied subtle pressure, her other hand working to pick the pins within.

Suddenly, the still morning air shattered with distant shouts. Voices, authoritative and urgent, sliced through the quiet suburbia. Rachel's pulse spiked, her movements ceasing momentarily.

Her phone vibrated against her hip. Ethan's message lit up the screen: "Guards on the move. Be quick."

Shit. Had a neighbor spotted her?

"Copy that," she whispered, her thumb flying across the keypad with a response. Pocketing the device, she refocused on the task at hand.

The tension in her shoulders wound tight as the voices drew nearer. Metallic clicks echoed faintly as she maneuvered the pins into place, her mind acutely tuned to the encroaching danger. Sweat beaded at her temple, but her grip remained steady.

"Come on," she urged herself silently, willing the lock to yield.

Another shout cut closer, the sound of boots on pavement now discernible. Time was a thread, fraying rapidly, each second bringing the guards closer to discovering her position.

"Almost..." Rachel breathed, applying a final nudge.

The lock clicked open, a hushed triumph in the face of mounting peril. She pocketed the wrench and eased the door open with a gentle push, slipping inside the darkened threshold. Behind her, the clamor of the oncoming guards crescendoed, their voices laced with adrenaline.

Inside the house, Rachel stood still for a heartbeat, allowing her eyes to adjust to the gloom. The bead on the floor glinted ominously.

Rachel darted inside away from the window as the window sill whispered shut behind her, falling on slick grooves. Her pulse hammered in her ears, a counterpoint to the distant shouts of the guards. She scanned the entryway, cataloging details: the opulent chandelier overhead, a scattering of glossy magazines on a mahogany table, an eerie stillness that hung in the air like fog.

Immediately her nose picked up the thick, moldering smell of some foulness inside the house, like mix of mold and old compost from a garden. It immediately set her senses on edge and Rachel found her hands tensing, readying herself for whatever she may find.

She moved, instinct guiding her through the lavish foyer. In the dim light, she took in the photos adorning the walls, faces frozen in time—a breadcrumb trail leading deeper into the house. Her training melded with the adrenaline coursing through her veins, each step measured and silent.

The plush carpet muffled her footsteps as she passed an ornate staircase, her gaze flickering over the intricate patterns woven into the fabric. The scent of decay lingered, a pungent mix of that now took on highlights of dry spices…

She glanced along the dinner table.

A thick layer of dust coated the polished mahogany. An array of fine china plates lay still set, some overturned, their untouched contents now a shriveled and desiccated memory of a meal. She peered closer at the mold-speckled remnants; whatever the dish was, it had been left uneaten for weeks, possibly months. The realization sent a chill down her spine.

Rachel knew how to analyze the remnants of carcasses on a hunt. Sometimes, to catch a predator, a hunter had to find its meal and decide how long ago it had left it. But this… she wasn't sure she'd seen anything like this.

The chairs were haphazard, one tipped over onto the floor. A glass laid shattered, its pieces glittering in the dim light. Multiple sets of silverware were spread in disarray across the tablecloth, which was stained with patches of darkened wine and crusted food.

Rachel's gaze fell upon a large roast at the center of the table. It was dried up and shriveled, a hollow carcass of what it once was—a symbol of celebration now a grim centerpiece to an abandoned feast. Time had done its work on this tableau, but Rachel noted something more chilling, the smell.

The scent hit her: a stale mix of rotting food and an underlying tang of something metallic. She stepped back reflexively, her hand covering her nose and mouth. Rachel's mind raced, combining these pieces into a stark portrait: this wasn't just an abandoned dinner—it was an entire life abandoned in haste.

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