Chapter 19

I jolted up in my seat, the screams tearing into the silence of the night—a piercing, frantic sound that set my pulse hammering. Instinct took over. I had been working, going over evidence and the case files repeatedly, without being able to get to the bottom of this case,so I decided to go for a drive. To clear my thoughts. Without even knowing it, I ended up in front of Will and Angela's house,wondering about their story. And that's when I heard it.

The screams didn't let up—desperate, chilling. Every second counted.

I snatched my badge from the passenger seat, put it around my neck, and opened the car's front door. The Florida air slapped me awake. I sprinted across the dew-damp grass, my gun firm in my grip, ready for whatever hell awaited.

My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat a drumroll urging me faster. The soles of my feet slapped the pavement, and my breath came in ragged gasps as I raced toward the house. Adrenaline surged, turning my blood to fire, honing every sense to a razor's edge. The night air was a humid whip against my skin, but inside, I burned with a single purpose—to stop whatever horror those screams had promised.

"Carol!" I shouted, reaching the front doorandhammering my fist into it.

No answer, only the echo of my own voice against the silent facade of the house. "It's Agent Thomas! Open up!"

Still nothing. Panic clawed at my gut, the silence more terrifying than the screams that had ceased.

Without hesitation, I repositioned my weight and drove my foot into the door, just beside the handle. The frame splintered with a satisfying crack, and the door flew open under the force of my kick. Gun raised, senses on high alert, I crossed the threshold. The darkness of the house loomed before me, a gaping maw hiding untold terrors, and I stepped into its depths.

The stillness was a void that my heartbeat shattered. Upstairs, I found her in the bedroom. Carol Rudolph, a crumpled heap of life unlived, sprawled across the bedroom floor. Blood—a stark, crimson halo—seeped into the white carpet, staining it with finality. Her eyes stared at nothingness, a silent scream etched onto her face. A blunt object, a lamp, its purpose twisted to violence, lay discarded nearby, smeared with the evidence of brutality.

"God," I choked out, bile rising. The room spun, andevery nerve ending within me recoiled, but I steadied myself. This was no time to falter. I noticed the window was open. That wasn't a common sight in Florida, where you always strived to keep the heat out. I ran to look down and saw the ladder discarded in the grass below. The killer was gone.

I yanked my phone from my pocket, fingers trembling as I dialed 911.

"This is Eva Rae Thomas, FBI. I need units at 166 Hawthorne Road immediately. We have a homicide." My usually steady voice betrayed a tremor of urgency, threading through each syllable like a live wire.

"Please, hurry," I added, almost whispering as if volume could beckon speed. "She's gone."

The wail of sirens crescendoed as red and blue lights strobed through the windows. I stepped back from Carol's lifeless form, my mind whirring with the cold machinery of protocol and procedure. Within minutes, the house swarmed with uniforms, their grim faces a mirror to my own dread.

He arrived like a shadow cast by a looming storm cloud: Detective Larson. The air seemed to bristle as he stepped into the room, his gaze locking onto me with a familiarity that spelled trouble. Larson was broad-shouldered, his jaw set in a way that suggested smiles were a rarity. His eyes, sharp and calculating, had always regarded me with suspicion, even before tonight's grim discovery.

"Thomas," he grunted, barely a greeting but loaded with disdain.

"Larson," I acknowledged, keeping my voice neutral despite the heat rising in my chest.

"Let's take a walk," he said, gesturing with a tilt of his head toward the door. It wasn't a request.

I followed him outside, the night air doing little to cool the tension between us. We reached his cruiser, its doors yawning open like a trap. He gestured again, this time more pointedly. "Get in."

There was no use in arguing.

The ride to the station was a silent duel of wills. My fingers itched for something to do, a report to fill out, anything to distract from the weight of Larson's glare in the rearview mirror.

We arrived, and the sterile light of the interrogation room welcomed me with a harsh buzz. Larson slid a recorder across the table, the click of its button punctuating the beginning of a long night.

"State your name for the record."

"Eva Rae Thomas."

"Agent Thomas, tell me why you were at the victim's house tonight."

"I heard screams, and I went to help."

"Armed and ready to kick down doors? That's quite the neighborhood watch program you're running. What were you doing in that neighborhood?"

"I couldn't sleep."

"And went for a drive in that particular neighborhood? Quite the coincidence, don't you think? On the very night of a murder?" His words jabbed at me like accusations made steel.

"I was looking at the Jennings' house."

"Kind of an odd hour to do that. Where were you before the screams?"

"In my car."

"Anyone to corroborate that?"

"Are you seriously suggesting?—?"

"Answer the question, Thomas."

"Of course not. I was alone."

"Right," he sneered, as if my answer left a bad taste. "And tell me again, why were you in Carol Rudolph's house?"

I sighed, annoyed at this. "I heard screams, Detective. I ran there to help. I protect people. Or at least, I try to."

"Try and fail, apparently." His tone was a mix of mockery and challenge.

"Enough, Larson. You have zero reason to hold me."

"Except for being the only suspect in a murder case."

"Because I reported it?"

"Because you found the body. Because you have no alibi. Because?—"

"Because you've never liked me. Is that it? Personal vendettas now count as evidence?"

He leaned forward, hands flat on the table. "This isn't personal, Thomas. This is about justice."

"Then find the real killer instead of wasting time with me."

"Trust me, I intend to."

Larson stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor like an echo of his frustration.

"You're free to go… for now. But don't leave town. We're not finished here."

"Wouldn't dream of it," I retorted, pushing back from the table, my resolve hardening like armor. "And when you're done chasing shadows, I'll be finding the truth."

I walked out of that interrogation room, a mixture of indignation and adrenaline fueling each step. Larson might have doubted me, but I knew one thing for certain: a killer was loose, and we had been looking in all the wrong places. The answer I needed to find now was why. Why did Carol have to die? I was determined that if we found that out, we would know who our killer was.

The doors of the police station swung shut behind me, the echo of their finality sending a chill down my spine. Dawn was breaking, painting the sky in strokes of pink and orange, but its beautywas lost on me. I took a ragged breath, the taste of freedom bittersweet on my tongue.

I was out, yet not cleared; liberated, yet shackled by suspicion. The detective's eyes still burned into my back, his doubt a shadow that clung as tightly as the salty breeze of Cocoa Beach. I touched my badge, feeling its outline—a reminder of who I was and what I needed to do.

As I Ubered back to my car, I kept thinking of Carol. Her lifeless body flashed before my eyes, haunting and urging me to act. My fingers itched for the comfort of my gun, for the sense of control it gave when everything else was slipping through my grasp like sand.

Once back in the neighborhood, I slid behind the wheel, the leather seat cold against my weary body. Every bone in me screamed for sleep, for escape from the night's relentless questioning. But slumber was a siren's song—tempting, yet dangerous.

The key turned, the engine roared to life, and with it, so did my resolve. The detective be damned; his narrow suspicions wouldn't deter me. There was a killer out there, a predator masking in plain sight, and I would not rest until I had unmasked them. I grabbed my phone.

"Diane, we need to talk," I said. "Meet me at the Coffee House on St. George's Street in an hour."

I hung up, determined as ever. As I pulled away from the curb, the sun crested the horizon, its rays like fingers peeling back the darkness. A new day, a fresh start.

"Carol, I will find who did this to you," I promised the silent dawn. "And they will pay." My grip tightened on the steering wheel. No more running, no more hiding.

The real killer was about to meet their match.