CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The last vestiges of sunlight faded into the horizon as Rachel and Jack's car coasted to a stop in front of Gregory Dawson's home. The house was a modest one-story, its facade worn by time yet bearing a certain charm that lingered from a bygone era. It was nestled within a cocoon of drooping willows and wild shrubs that whispered in the evening breeze. Paint peeled lazily from the wooden siding, and the porch sagged under the weight of years. But the windows glowed, indicating there was someone inside.

Rachel stepped out of the car, her senses heightened, taking in the quiet neighborhood. She could hear the distant hum of traffic, the rustle of leaves, and two neighbors laughing about something nearby. Everything seemed deceptively peaceful, untouched by the violent acts she and Jack were investigating.

She approached the door, her footsteps muffled by the overgrown path, and knocked firmly. Moments passed before the door opened to reveal Gregory Dawson—his graying hair unkempt, his eyes wary—as he peered at them through the dimming light.

"Gregory Dawson?" Rachel asked, noting the way his gaze darted between the two of them, annoyance etched on his features as if they were unwelcome interruptions to his evening.

"Who's asking?" His voice was gruff, tinged with an edge that suggested they tread carefully.

"Special Agents Rachel Gift and Jack Rivers," she stated, flashing her badge with a practiced motion. "We're investigating the murders of Emily Ross and Sarah Jennings."

For a brief second, Gregory's mask of annoyance slipped, revealing a flicker of something more than mere curiosity—a shadow of concern, perhaps, or fear. But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by a guarded look as he crossed his arms over his chest.

"Murders?" His voice had risen slightly, a pitch of genuine surprise—or was it well-rehearsed disbelief?

Rachel maintained her composure, her eyes never leaving his. "Yes, two local actresses were recently killed. We believe you may be able to help us with our inquiries."

"Help you?" There was a slight tremor in Gregory's voice, though whether from cold or nervousness, Rachel couldn't tell. "How?"

"By simply speaking with us. May we come in, Mr. Dawson?" Rachel asked in a very subtle tone, one that said she wasn't asking him, but telling him.

Gregory hesitated, weighing his options, before stepping aside with a resigned nod. As they entered the threshold of his home, Rachel felt took inventory of the pain in her head. It had gotten no worse, but it was still there. She imagined it as some unknown monster lurking in the bushes and just waiting for an unsuspecting person to come walking by.

They entered Gregory Dawson's living room, and Rachel's gaze swept across the space that seemed to double as a shrine to theatrical history. The walls were lined with framed posters of classic plays and musicals, their colors muted by the dim light filtering through half-closed curtains. Shelves sagged under the weight of countless scripts and books, each spine worn from use or perhaps reverence.

In one corner stood a mannequin draped in a velvet cape that had seen better days, its crimson fabric dulled by dust but still plush to the touch. A collection of masks, some grinning and others grotesque, peered down from a high shelf, silently observing the intrusion into their sanctuary. It wasn't just cluttered; it was an overcrowded museum of a life steeped in drama and make-believe—a testament to Gregory's love for the theater, or perhaps an escape from his reality.

"Please, take a seat," Gregory gestured towards a floral-patterned couch that seemed out of place amid the spectacle of his theatrical collection. He didn't seem thrilled to make the suggestion. He had the demeanor of a man who understood he may as well make the best of an unpleasant situation.

Rachel chose an armchair instead, noting the way the light played off the gleaming hilts of swords mounted on the wall. She made a mental inventory of each prop's position, the deliberate arrangement not lost on her. They were too meticulously placed for someone not obsessed with detail—the kind of person who might plan something sinister with precision.

A glance at Jack confirmed he shared her wariness. Her instincts, honed from years on the force, whispered that they were circling closer to the core of this dark puzzle.

"You've got quite an impressive collection," Rachel said.

"Thanks. Took some time…and some money. And I know it's all over the place, but…" He shrugged, as if that were a fitting end to the sentence.

Jack leaned against a bookcase, feigning casual interest in a dusty trophy. "Mr. Dawson, we're here because in the course of our investigation, we heard about your unique approach to props," he began, his tone light but probing. "Real weapons for the actors, huh?"

Gregory's eyes flickered toward the swords, then back to Jack. "It's a lost art," he said, crossing his arms defensively. "Theater is about making the audience feel, not just allowing them to watch. When an actor holds a real gun, even if it's unloaded, there's a palpable tension. It's not the same with a replica. You can see the respect and fear in the actor…something even your very best actor isn't going to be able to fake."

"Sounds risky, though," Jack commented, quirking an eyebrow.

"Art is risk," Gregory countered, his voice rising with passion. "Without it, there's no authenticity, no true connection with the crowd. You can't fake that sort of thing. The audience has to believe it, to feel the danger coursing through the air."

Rachel observed this exchange, her attention split between the fervor in Gregory's justification and the weapons themselves. Each piece could be a clue, a potential link to the crimes they were investigating. She envisioned the actors on stage, the weight of real steel in their hands, the adrenaline and worry it might provoke.

"Interesting philosophy," Rachel interjected, her voice cool. "But don't you think it invites unnecessary hazards?"

"Not if you have a staff and prop department that knows what they're doing. And yes, I responded very poorly when I was challenged about my approaches. I know that now; it just took some time of sitting in it, you know? I concede to that. But I still believe I was treated most unfairly."

"Mr. Dawson, in your time within the theater community, did you ever get to know Emily Ross or Sarah Jennings?" Rachel asked as her gaze remained fixed on him, scanning for any flicker of recognition, any twitch that might betray a lie.

"I knew Emily," Gregory answered with a shake of his head, the shadows from the setting sun casting long, mournful lines across his living room. "She was an exceptional talent. Radiated passion in last year's production of Rent . And she had this natural sort of beauty, you know? Reminded me a bit of a younger Sigourney Weaver. But Sarah Jennings? Never heard of her."

"Can you describe the sort of relationship you had with Emily?"

"We were barely even friends. I may have spoken to her a handful of times. And it was all related to the stage. Nothing personal or anything like that."

"How long ago would you say that these interactions occurred?"

"The most recent was the night I got shit-canned. The night that actor went off his rocker about the gun I'd supplied."

"Did you see anything unusual during your time with Emily?" Rachel pressed, all the while aware of Jack's silent support beside her.

"Unusual?" Gregory paused, considering the question. "I don't know if it would be unusual, but whenever I think of Emily Ross, I think about this one show where she just knocked the performance out of the park. She got a standing ovation. There was a woman in the audience, weeping openly. It shook me. The power of performance, you know?" He gestured vaguely toward the rows of photographs lining the walls. "I think it was Emily's mother."

Rachel turned to glance at Jack. Their eyes met, and without words, they shared the weight of what came next. Emily's mother. A visit to Emily's grieving parents was inevitable, a responsibility neither took lightly. With less than twenty-four hours since Emily's life had been abruptly snuffed out, the reality of facing her family was becoming clearer—the next step in the process, perhaps.

"Is there anything else you can tell us that might help with our investigation?" Rachel asked, though she felt they had gleaned all they could from Gregory Dawson. "Anyone out of the ordinary that you think Emily might have crossed paths with?"

"Not really. There's Juliette Warner, I guess. A bit of a nutcase and sort of scorned from the community like I was. But I doubt she'd ever hurt a fly."

Rachel nodded with a grin. "Yes, we've already spoken to her."

"Mr. Dawson, if you do remember anything else, please give us a call," Jack said as he fished a business card out of his jacket pocket.

"Yeah, I will."

Gregory Dawson walked them to the door, even stepping out onto the porch to see them off. As Rachel and Jack stepped off the porch and into the encroaching night, the house behind them felt like a mausoleum of stories untold, each prop a witness to performances of the past.

"Emily's parents are next," Rachel said to Jack once they were outside, the dim glow of the streetlights barely piercing the dark. "We need to get a picture of what her final days looked like."

"If Dawson is right," Jack said, "Emily's mother was at that show, weeping. They must have been close. And that kind of grief... I'm not looking forward to stirring that up again."

Rachel nodded; it was the one part of the job they both hated. Questioning those who had lost loved ones was always difficult, but doing it so soon after the loss was its own special sort of torture.

But Rachel knew these conversations were necessary evils, pieces of a puzzle they were obligated to put together, no matter how much the picture might haunt them later.