CHAPTER TWELVE

The late afternoon sun cast a muted glow on the nondescript apartment building as Rachel and Jack ascended the exterior steps, their shoes echoing off the concrete. Rachel's fingers curled into a fist before she rapped sharply on the weathered door of apartment 3B, the listed address of Bryson Lawrence. The silence that followed was loaded, charged with the potential energy of confrontation. This could be a huge step in the right direction, or it could be a bust.

A shuffling sound from within preceded the door cracking open just enough for an eye to peer out. "Who's there?" The voice was tinged with wariness, its owner hidden behind the sliver of safety the door afforded.

"FBI," Rachel announced, her badge held up for Bryson to see through the gap. "Special Agents Gift and Rivers." Her tone was authoritative, yet the underlying current of impatience was unmistakable. She had no time for games or hesitation.

The door remained ajar, the eye scrutinizing them both. There was a palpable pause, a beat too long, and Rachel could almost hear the cogs turning in the man's head as he weighed his options.

"Sir," Jack said, "are you Bryson Lawrence?"

"I am."

"Then I suggest you open the door. We need to speak with you about a case we're working on. And the longer you stand there indecisive like that, the worse things are going to look for you."

Finally, with a resigned sigh that they felt rather than heard, the door swung open.

Bryson Lawrence looked immediately nervous to have them in his apartment. It clung to him like a second skin. His gaze flickered between Rachel and Jack, seeking some semblance of control over the situation that had just walked through his door.

Rachel stepped inside first into the dimly lit living room. Jack followed, his eyes sweeping the space with trained precision. Rachel had no real idea why but as soon as the door closed behind them, she felt that rising anger coming to the surface. Alice had not been mentioned in conversation in a while—likely an intentional move on Jack's part. But still, she felt it rising and she had to make sure to keep it under control. The walls seemed to close in, the apartment now a stage for the interrogation that she didn't quite trust herself to conduct.

"Do you know why we're here?" Rachel asked.

"No," Bryson said. "I don't."

He'd not invited them to sit, and he had remained standing the entire time. The living space they'd entered was small, with just a small love seat as furniture. A large workspace sat against the far wall, taking up a good amount of room.

"We're working on a murder case," Rachel said. "Two local actresses have been killed, and a police report from a year and a half ago gives us reason to ask you a few questions."

"Ah, damn. Really? You're here about that?"

"Yes," Rachel said. She found it odd that he seemed to be relieved about this.

"The night the cops had to pull you out of the Oaken Theater…what were your plans if you'd made it backstage?" Her question was a point-blank shot, leaving no room for evasion.

He shifted uncomfortably, his gaze dropping to the worn carpet before darting back to Rachel's unyielding stare. "There were these two actresses I wanted to meet," Bryson admitted, the words escaping like steam from a pressure valve.

"Who?"

"Miranda Lee and Courtney James."

"Why them?"

He shrugged and looked like an embarrassed kid on a playground who had just been caught talking dirty about girls. "I wanted to meet them."

"The way we hear it, you'd been lurking around for a while," Jack said.

"Yeah, I had. I was…sort of recruiting. Or trying to, I mean."

"How so?"

"My job…it's sort of my job to keep an eye out for attractive women and offer them contracts."

"What sort of contracts?"

The embarrassed, sheepish look came over his face again. "I wanted them to work with me. I'm a video editor. I work on high-end stuff for adult websites."

"High-end porn, you mean?" Rachel's voice was devoid of judgment, yet her words cut through the air sharply.

"Y-Yes." Bryson nodded, pushing on. "It's a legit site. Nothing illegal. All girls are at least eighteen and the contracts are iron clad. Almost ridiculously so."

"If you're just the editor, why were you head-hunting?"

"I get a five-hundred-dollar bonus if I get a girl to reach out to the owners. Then I get another grand if they sign on."

"And this actually works?" Rachel asked, the anger now boiling at the surface.

"Not often."

"How many girls have you signed?"

"Three in all, over the course of about a year. Two were dancers at gentlemen's clubs. One was a waitress. I'd seen Miranda Lee at a performance before and thought she was gorgeous. I know most people think porn is all about the breasts and backside, but the face is just as important…especially when they're expressive."

"Maybe stop talking about that now, yeah?" Jack said.

"She asked, man."

"Is your line of work the reason Claire Murphy filed a restraining order against you?" Jack asked.

Bryson looked trapped, cornered by his own actions. He was already pale but seemed to blanch even further under the scrutiny. He licked his lips nervously, a bead of sweat tracing its way down from his temple. "Claire... she misunderstood," he began, his hands trembling slightly as they clutched at the back of a chair for support.

"Did she?" Jack interjected, his tone skeptical. "Or did she see something in you that scared her enough to keep you away legally?"

"It wasn't like that," Bryson insisted, looking between the two agents. "I thought Claire had talent. She could've been great behind the camera and maybe in front of it, too. And maybe I pushed a little too hard. I thought she'd just say no and that would be the worst of it. But she was really offended and broke things off. She just took it the wrong way."

"Is there a right way to take that?" Rachel asked, unable to help herself.

Rachel studied him, weighing his words against her instincts. His confession was another piece of the puzzle, potentially revealing a coercive nature, one that craved control and perhaps wouldn't take rejection lightly.

"Your work," she started again, shifting gears but not the intensity of her interrogation, "you say it's all legal. You have proof of this?"

"Completely clean, I assure you," Bryson replied, a hint of defensive pride seeping into his voice. "Everything is by the book—age verifications, consent forms, the works. It's a business. Nothing more. And two of the three girls I signed are still working with the company. They seem happy, making great money."

Rachel and Jack stared at him for a moment. Rachel continued to try viewing this through a professional lens but the very nature of the conversation mingling with her anger was making it very difficult.

"Look, I know how it sounds," Bryson said. "But I'm telling you the truth. It's all legit. I can give you the names of the companies, the contacts, whatever you need."

"Whatever we need, huh?" Rachel echoed, her mind racing ahead, contemplating their next move. She could sense the walls closing in on Bryson, feel the fear emanating from him. Whether it was the fear of being caught in a lie or something far darker, she couldn't be sure. Not yet.

"Clean or not, Bryson," Rachel said, her voice firm, "we'll be digging into every crevice of your work. If there's anything dirty hiding there, we will find it."

"Okay! You just let me know what you need."

"Mr. Lawrence," Jack said, "were Miranda and Courtney the only actress you had your eyes on?"

"For starters, yes. I wasn't really familiar with the theater world. It's very different from strippers and all that. They would have been my test run, I guess you could say."

"Were you at any point ever aware of actresses by the name of Emily Ross or Sarah Jennings?"

Bryson thought hard about this for a moment and shook his head. "I'll be honest…the name Sarah Jennings sounds a little familiar, but I couldn't tell you why. Maybe I heard the name or saw it on a playbill."

As badly as Rachel wanted to bring this pig in for some reason, she was beginning to think he was innocent. She'd demand to see a copy of the contracts he'd mentioned but even then…it would likely have absolutely nothing to do with the case.

"Let's talk alibis, Bryson," she said, clipping each word with precision. "Where were you four nights ago?"

The question hung heavy in the room, like smoke from a snuffed-out candle. Bryson shifted uneasily, again going deep into thought. "Four nights ago, I was at a small gathering," he began, the words spilling out with hurried clarity. "Some colleagues from the website. We do this monthly poker game and sort of a drinking binge-type thing."

"Where?"

"The home of one of the owners. He's got a pool and this huge patio."

"And how long were you there?" Jack asked.

"All night. I ended up crashing there."

"And last night?"

"Last night, I was here. I was working all night."

"Can anyone back that up?"

"A few people, yeah. We had this really long Zoom call about some upcoming features and I—"

Bryson was interrupted by the sound of Rachel's phone. She glanced down at the caller ID and saw an unfamiliar number. But as an FBI agent—especially one who had recently had her grandmother killed by a deranged woman who'd also tried kidnapping her daughter—an unknown number never went ignored.

"I need to take this," she said, looking at Jack.

He nodded to her and she left in confidence that Jack would wrap things up by getting names, numbers, a copy of the contract Bryson had mentioned. She slipped out into the hall, answering the call. "This is Agent Gift."

"Agent Gift, it's Marcus Flint."

She recognized the name right away—the director she and Jack had already spoken to.

"Mr. Flint," she said, her tone guarded yet curious. "How are you?"

"I'm fine. But I had this thing that sort of popped into my head earlier today. I'm not sure if it will help, but I figured…well, I mean, it could be huge."

"Go on," Rachel urged, leaning against the wall, her pulse quickening.

And he did just that as Rachel listened intently—standing outside the apartment while Jack remained inside with Bryson, partners tackling the case from two different ends…. hoping one of those paths would lead them to their killer.