CHAPTER FIFTEEN

They arrived at the home of Emily's parents just before dusk, the day bleeding out its last light across a sky brushed with strokes of orange and pink. The neighborhood was an idyllic slice of suburbia, where each trimmed lawns was like an island in the middle of a calm sea. Each yard was bordered by a picket fence that gleamed white even in the fading light. Houses stood shoulder to shoulder, yet each held its own character.

Rachel and Jack shared an uncomfortable glance, knowing what was coming. Rachel took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and knocked on the door. They heard hurried footsteps on the other side right away. When the door was opened, a middle-aged woman stood on the other side. Her face was a map of sorrow, eyes red-rimmed and brimming with recent tears. She managed a weak smile as if politeness was a reflex she couldn't quite suppress even now.

"Yes? Can I help you?"

Rachel worked her way through introductions, showing her badge as if it weren't really all that important. The FBI badge and ID carried an entirely different kind of weight in situations like these.

"We were hoping to come in and ask you some questions," Jack said after Rachel's intro.

"Yes, of course. Please come in."

The woman, who had introduced herself as Patricia Ross, led them into her home. They stepped into the well-loved house, maneuvering through a living room dotted with clusters of family members, some in hushed conversation, some lost in their own silence. The air was heavy with a symphony of sniffles and low murmurs, the scent of coffee and something freshly baked mingling in among it all. Rachel could feel the sadness and grief in the air, slightly oppressive.

Patricia guided them past a wall adorned with framed memories of Emily: her bright smile, her graduation, her opening nights on the stage. There was one particular picture of her dressed as Sandy from a high school production of Grease. Each frozen moment felt like a whisper of the life that had ended far too soon.

They turned into a small office area, where a man sat alone behind a desk, staring at nothing in particular along the back wall.An empty tumbler glass sat on the desk and a bottle of bourbon sat nearby.

"Andy?" Patricia said. "There are two FBI agents here, wanting to speak with us."

Andy Ross's slumped shoulders forming a silhouette against the fading light that trickled in through half-closed blinds. The shelves around him were cluttered with an assortment of legal tomes and binders. When he turned to face them, Rachel's heart broke. She wasn't sure she'd ever seen such a broken man, and she'd seen lots of pained, grieving parents over the years. It looked as if Mr. Ross's insides had turned to jelly, and he was trying to remember how to stand.

"Mr. and Mrs. Ross," Rachel began, her voice steady despite the thick tension, "I understand how difficult this must be, but any information you can provide might help us catch Emily's killer. And we believe this man has also taken another life, another actress, a few days before Emily. So we really need all the information we can get."

Patricia, her hands trembling softly, nodded. "We'll do anything to help," she whispered, voice brittle as glass.

Andy only nodded. His eyes were vacant, his lips drawn tight.

"Over the course of the last few weeks, had Emily ever mentioned feeling unsafe?" Rachel asked, her gaze locked onto Patricia's. "Maybe just something as simple as an argument with a friend or co-worker? Something like that?"

A flicker of recollection sparked in Patricia's eyes, and her breath hitched. "Yes, actually," she confirmed. "She... she talked about feeling like she was being watched. Said it was probably nothing—just the price of being an actress wanting fame and attention—but she claimed it was a feeling she couldn't quite shake for about a week or so."

Rachel leaned forward, her instincts on high alert. "Did she give you any details about it? Anything at all?"

Patricia shook her head, her expression folding into deeper lines of regret. "No description. She brushed it off, laughed about it even. Emily never thought anyone would actually hurt her. I think…God, even with something like that, Emily was so worried that she was thinking too highly of herself. Andy and I always joked with her…about how a girl who doesn't necessarily like the spotlight had chosen the wrong profession." Her words hung heavy in the room, a painful testament to innocence lost.

Andy's face was etched with sorrow as he finally managed to speak. "She had this lightness about her, always looking on the bright side. We didn't know... we should've seen how serious it was."

"Do you think there's something to it?" Patricia asked. "Do you think she was really being followed?"

"We simply don't have enough information to answer that just yet," Jack said regretfully.

Rachel's gaze sharpened, the gears in her mind turning as she pieced together the new information. "Did these stalking incidents... did they happen close to the time Emily was killed?" she asked, her voice maintaining an even keel despite the simmering urgency beneath.

Patricia and Andy exchanged a glance, a silent communication passing between them. It was Andy who responded, his voice low and measured. "Yes, it was just a few weeks before..." The words seemed to catch in his throat, as if saying them out loud tied the tragic events together in a way that couldn't be undone.

"Emily didn't think much of it, like we said," Patricia added, wringing her hands, the skin red and raw from constant worry. "She mentioned it so casually one evening over dinner, laughing off our concern."

Rachel absorbed this, her brows knitting together. She could almost picture the scene: a family dinner, the clink of silverware on plates, the warmth of conversation—and then Emily, with a dismissive smile, recounting a chilling encounter as though it were nothing more than an odd nuisance.

"Did she say how often this man appeared? Was there a pattern?" Rachel pressed on, aware that she was treading on delicate ground but unable to let the lead go cold.

Again, the parents shook their heads, the mother adding, "It was sporadic. Sometimes she'd see someone lurking after a show, or notice the same figure while out running errands. But she was always surrounded by people, and she felt safe in the public eye. And she had convinced herself it was nothing to worry about."

The room seemed to close in around them, the air heavy with what-ifs and regrets. Rachel sensed the palpable weight of their sorrow—a mourning not only for their daughter but for the missed signs, the overlooked details that might have saved her.

"And what else do you know about her personal life?" Jack asked. "Was she dating anyone?"

"There's a guy she was seeing off and on," Patricia said. "A will-they-won't-they situation if there ever was one. He's been out of town for the past few weeks, though."

"Do you know where?"

"Somewhere in London. He's a writer who got some sort of grant to do research for a book. They were crazy for each other but just could never make it…make…"

Patricia's eyes brimmed with fresh tears, and Andy's arm tightened around her shoulders, a fortress against the onslaught of grief. The small office, lined with shelves of family photos and mementos, felt almost like a funeral parlor.

"We can give you some time," Rachel said. "I'm sorry if we—"

"No, it's okay," Patricia said, sniffling. "This is important. We need to…need to help however we can."

Both Rachel and Jack waited a moment before continuing. Jack broached the next question, sounding respectful. "During the last few weeks, did you notice anything about Emily that seemed off to you? Any changes in her behavior or habits?"

Patricia shook her head, her voice a mere whisper between stifled sobs. "No, nothing. She was her usual self. Happy. Full of life." Her words broke as she crumbled under the weight of her memories. Tears streamed freely down her cheeks, and Andy reached for her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"Emily was always so vibrant," Patricia continued, gasping through her grief. "She had this light about her, you know? It's impossible to think we'll never see that again."

Rachel felt the sorrow in the room thicken like fog over a graveyard. It was almost like another living, tangible thing had stepped into the space with them. The pain in Patricia's cry echoed against the walls, amplifying the loss that had settled over the household.

With a subtle glance toward Jack, Rachel recognized the unspoken agreement between them—it was time to leave. They'd put these people through enough and weren't likely to get more useful information, anyway. They slowly headed for the door simultaneously, looking back to the Ross parents with compassion.

"Thank you for speaking with us," Rachel said, her voice low and steady, mindful of the delicate atmosphere. "Your strength is incredibly valuable to our investigation. We'll leave our contact information with some of the people in the living room in the event you think of anything else."

Andy nodded, mustering a hollow semblance of gratitude. "We just want whoever did this to be caught."

As Rachel and Jack made their way out of the office, a relative brushed past them, offering a somber nod before slipping into the room to comfort Patricia and Andy. The muffled sounds of consolation ebbed away as the door closed behind them.

Stepping outside, the crisp air felt like a slap to Rachel's face, jolting her back to the task at hand. Her jaw set in determination, the pieces of the puzzle scattering in her mind, seeking connection. Despite the dead-end feeling gnawing at her gut, Rachel clung to the thread of truth they had uncovered. A potential stalker—a potential lead that had come directly from the mouth of one of the victims.

"Feels like we're grabbing at shadows," Jack murmured, echoing her thoughts as they walked down the path leading away from the house.

"Maybe," Rachel replied, her gaze fixed ahead. "But shadows are cast by something real. We'll find it, whatever it takes."

"That's pretty deep," Jack said with a tired grin.

They got back into the car with yet another vague lead, but no clear direction. And with night falling, Rachel couldn't help but feel that the killer was out there, planning another strike while they fumbled blindly in the darkness.