Page 64 of Not This Night

Another click.

Once again, the trunk closed.

Next, the bag. He approached it as a soldier would his weapon—respect for the tool. The zipper's teeth clicked together with each tug, securing the metal and malice inside. He lifted the bag, feeling the weight of the semi-automatic against his side.

The Reaper surveyed the clinic once more. Windows like eyes, doors like mouths—it looked almost alive. A shiver coursed through him, not from fear, but anticipation. His grip on the bag tightened. This was it. The culmination of his pain.

He started forward, each step measured and silent. The brown bag swung lightly against his leg, a metronome. The clinic doors loomed ahead.

He reached for the door. Cold metal against warm flesh.

"Time to pay," he murmured, the words dissipating into the void.

With that, the Reaper stepped into the clinic.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

Gravel crunched under the tires of the unmarked sedan as it pulled up to the coroner's office. Rachel Blackwood killed the engine, her hands tightening on the wheel. She glanced at her partner, Ethan Morgan, his profile stoic in the dimming light.

"Still no answer?" she asked, glancing at her phone for the umpteenth time.

"Nothing," Ethan confirmed, checking his own device with a frown. The silence from Dr. Simmons was getting under their skin.

With a huff, Rachel shoved open the car door and stepped out into the cooling Texas air. Ethan followed suit, his tall frame unfolding from the passenger side. They approached the building, eyes scanning for any sign of life.

It was nearly evening again. The return drive had taken an hour less than the GPS had estimated, but still, it galled Rachel to go to and from across the country.

But they needed the report—needed to establish the information regarding the only double homicide.

"Unbelievable," Rachel muttered, pacing before the darkened windows. Her gaze snapped to the parking lot—empty except for their lone vehicle. "It's like everyone just vanished."

“You… know it’s the weekend, right?”

She blinked owlishly. “What?”

"Rae, it's Saturday," Ethan reminded her gently. "Office hours don't apply."

"Oh… yeah. Okay. Right." Rachel's jaw clenched. She knew the drill, yet the oversight spiked her irritation. Cases didn't pause for weekends. Neither did she.

"Let's go back to the station; we'll get the warrant first thing Monday morning," Ethan suggested, his voice calm, always trying to be the level-headed one.

"The evidence won't wait for paperwork, Ethan." Rachel's voice carried an edge, her piercing eyes reflecting a steely resolve. "We need answers now."

Rachel strode to the front entrance, her boots crunching on the gravel. The glass doors loomed, reflecting their frustrated images in the twilight. She rattled the handle—locked. Her nostrils flared as she scanned the perimeter for another way in.

"Damn it," she spat out. Ethan stood a few paces behind, watching her with an uneasy expression.

"Maybe we should—" he started, but Rachel cut him off.

"Help me up to that window," she said, pointing to a small opening high above them. It was a long shot, but Rachel's mind buzzed with the need to push forward.

"Rae, that's breaking and entering," Ethan protested, his voice laced with both concern and caution.

"Then consider it entering to create a break in the case," she retorted without missing a beat.

Ethan sighed, recognizing the unyielding tide that was Rachel Blackwood on the trail of a predator. He interlaced his fingers, offering them as a step. With a determined grunt, Rachel placed her boot in his hands and hoisted herself up. Her fingers gripped the cold window ledge, muscles tensing as she pulled.

"Careful," Ethan murmured from below, his hands steady, ready to support her or catch her fall.

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