CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"First of all, I'm so damn sorry that I didn't think of this earlier," Marcus Flint said. "I feel sort of like an idiot."

"That's okay, Mr. Flint. What is it?"

"Well, there was a bit of a scandal last year that revolved around a guy named Gregory Dawson. Up until all that went down, I thought he was a good guy, really dependable, you know? He used to design props for some of the local theaters." Marcus's tone dropped an octave, taking on a conspiratorial edge. "He had a reputation for pushing boundaries, but as a lot of people came to find out, it wasn't exactly in a good way."

"Pushing boundaries?" A frown creased Rachel's brow as she absorbed the information, the implication of danger already forming in her mind. "How so?"

"Let's just say he took authenticity to a whole new level," Marcus continued. "The guy actually provided actors with real weapons instead of props. Said the audience could feel that sort of authenticity. He thought the way the audience perceived every possible danger or threat from the stage added to the overall enjoyment of a performance. A good theory, but…it could also get quite dangerous."

Real weapons on stage. Rachel's pulse quickened at the thought. A prop designer who didn't play by the rules was a liability—one they couldn't afford to overlook. She was sure real weapons were used here and there on stage. Maybe things like hammers or even pocket knives. But given the nature of their case, she was willing to give more thought to it.

"That's not all; it gets worse," Marcus added. "One time, he swapped a prop gun for a real one during a performance. No bullets, thank God, but when the actor realized, he nearly lost it. Had a full-blown panic attack right on stage and after, lashed out at Gregory. It was a mess. Apparently, the actor's brother had killed himself a few months before. A pistol, right inside the mouth."

"Jesus," Rachel muttered under her breath. Such recklessness could not be without motive or, at the very least, some sort of skewed anger. What drove a man like Gregory Dawson to flirt so dangerously close to disaster? Did prop managers and stage designers really take their craft so seriously?

"And you think he might be violent enough to do something like murder someone?" she asked.

"I personally have no idea. But when he realized he was out of work here in Richmond, he went on a bit of a social media rampage. He revealed affairs he knew about between actors, revealed some really bad gossip between actresses, that sort of thing. It was toxic as hell but it blew up in his face. No one will give him the time of day these days."

"Did you know him personally?"

"Yeah. I worked with him twice. He was quiet, kept to himself. Like I said, the sort of guy you just knew was going to get the job done."

"Thanks, Marcus. I'll look into it," Rachel assured him, her voice steady despite the turmoil of thoughts whirling inside her head.

"Good. I really hope you can figure out who did this. Everyone is scared right now, but no one wants to cancel shows. The actors, in particular. The show must go on and all of that."

They ended the call but even then, Rachel remained still for a moment, considering this new information under the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights in the hallway. The controversy surrounding Gregory Dawson was a lead they couldn't ignore—one that might very well hold the key to unraveling the case.

She reached for the door to head back inside but stopped, her fingers just inches away.

The headache was back.

It was little more than a dull throb at the base of her skull and it really wasn't all that painful. But she had to acknowledge it, and to respect it for what it might mean. She massaged her temples, willing the discomfort to subside. Alongside the pain, an unshakable fatigue clung to her, its weight dragging at her limbs like invisible chains.

Rachel knew she should report her symptoms, knew that Jack, and Paige, would want her to be cautious. But the case was heating up, and she couldn't afford to step back now—not when lives might hang in the balance.

Oh, stop it, she told herself. This same old song and dance is getting really fucking tired. Are we doing this again?

It was good to be able to be so harsh and brutal with herself. It had seemed to come easier after Grandma Tate died. She nodded, deciding that she would tell Jack if it got any worse. Right now it was very minor and, for all she knew, could just be related to not getting much sleep.

She took a few deep breaths before opening the door and stepping back into Bryson Lawrence's apartment. When she entered, Jack was taking down the names and numbers of people who had been on the Zoom call with Bryson on the night Emily had been killed.

"That was Marcus Flint," she told Jack when he looked up from his phone. "He just gave us something—a lead I think is definitely worth looking into."

Jack's eyes narrowed, the implications clear to him. "Sounds good. Mr. Lawrence and I are just finishing up here. And he knows not to leave the city for the next few days. Right, Mr. Lawrence?"

"Right." He still looked embarrassed, perhaps from having to explain to federal agents what he did for a living.

Bryson walked them to the door almost apologetically as they made their way out. As they headed down the stairs and to the car, Rachel filled Jack in on Gregory Dawson. Speaking it out loud to him, she thought it felt more like an actual thread—that Dawson could indeed be the missing link they'd been looking for.

As she spoke, the subtle pulsing at the back of her head threatened to burgeon into a full-blown headache. It was now reaching to the space behind her eyes, a dull ache. She kept her face neutral as Jack, phone pressed against his ear, once again called the field office for more information. Rachel didn't know if it was her imagination or if this case had involved more calls to Records and Research than any other they'd worked on together.

Rachel watched him, an ache gnawing at her conscience. She had promised—promised herself, Paige, and Jack—that she wouldn't keep secrets about her health any longer. Yet here she was, silent about the symptoms that were slowly creeping in like shadows at dusk. She rationalized the silence; they couldn't afford distractions, not when they were this close to uncovering truths hidden in layers of deceit. If the headache got worse, she'd speak up. And if they happened to close the case in the next few hours, she'd come clean even with this minor headache.

"Got his address," Jack reported, ending the call. He pocketed his phone with a decisive motion, his eyes locking onto Rachel's. "You tired of driving around yet?"

She smirked at him. "Getting there."

Despite the good-natured comment, she felt the guilt twist within her, melding strangely with the anger that had been simmering just beneath the surface for too long. Anger at the killer, at the situation, at her own body betraying her.

"Everything okay?" Jack asked, his keen eyes searching hers.

"Fine," she lied, smoothing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Just trying to figure this case out."

Jack nodded, accepting her words at face value, though Rachel saw the flicker of concern he quickly masked. They moved towards their car parked along the curb, the somber hues of twilight painting the cityscape with shades of gloom. And Rachel did her very best not to view the ominous lighting as an indicator of what waited for them in the coming hours.