Page 52 of Not This Night

Bethany's shoulders relaxed, a weight seeming to lift from her with Rachel’s words of validation, and she nodded.

"Let's hope it's not too late," Bethany murmured, a shadow of concern passing over her features.

"Every second counts," Rachel acknowledged, her stance poised and ready for action. "And thanks to you, we're one step closer."

Rachel pivoted on her heel, a silent signal to Ethan. Without a word exchanged, they moved in tandem through the grand foyer, their boots echoing crisply against the marble floor. The air was thick with anticipation.

Outside, dusk smeared the horizon with streaks of crimson and mauve, the dying light painting the world a murderous shade that made Rachel’s stomach turn. Her hand found the door handle of their unmarked car, and she glanced at Ethan, seeing her own focus mirrored in his eyes.

"Got the plate number?" he asked, voice low but clear.

“You did,” she replied without looking. “In that little notebook of yours.”

He smirked. “Aww, you really do need me.”

“Don’t let it get to your head. You’re basically my secretary.”

“Oof.”

"Dispatch," Rachel's fingers danced over the radio, "this is Blackwood. Requesting a run on Texas plates—"

Ethan read off the sequence he'd jotted in his notebook, each digit punctuated by a shared breath held between them.

"Standby," the dispatcher's voice crackled over the line. They waited, the silence in the car stretching taut as a bowstring.

"Registered to a Charles Withersnow," the dispatcher finally returned, the name slicing through the static like a bullet.

"History?" Ethan's question hung in the charged space.

"Ex-con," the dispatcher replied. “Armed robbery. Two arrests. One prison sentence.”

“How long?”

“Three months. Oh,” the dispatcher said. “He just got out.”

“When?” Rachel asked, eager.

“Let me check…” The voice trailed off. “Three weeks ago.”

Ethan and Rachel shared a significant glance. Three weeks… right when the murders started.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

The Reaper's boots clanked against the metal roof of the red truck. He stood sentinel, binoculars in hand, eyes narrowed to slits as he surveyed the gated community below. Police cruisers, their lights strobing silently in the waning light, dotted the perimeter.

"Damn it," he muttered under his breath.

From this vantage point, he could see the commotion—a swarm of uniforms moving with purpose, yellow tape glittering like a serpent in the dusk. The two bodies had been found.

His grip on the binoculars tightened, knuckles whitening. A surge of fury coursed through him, hot and blinding. Revenge seethed within, a dark tide rising. They shouldn't have found them so soon—not yet.

"Should've known," he growled, the words tumbling out raw and edged.

This one was different. Too close. Way too close.

He scanned the scene again, heart pounding, the hunt pulsating in his veins. Every flashing light, every officer on scene—fuel for the fire burning inside him. They were all pawns in a game they didn't even know they were playing.

"Too early," he hissed, the frustration coiling in his chest. "This changes nothing."

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