CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Rachel's figure cut a solitary figure against the glow of her laptop screen in the otherwise dimly lit conference room. The field office was quiet at this hour, as it typically was after about eight at night. The only noises came from the soft hum of electronics and the occasional whisper of pages from hefty case files being turned.

She was doing her very best not to be discouraged by the fact that she and Jack had once again been forced back to the field office, once again having to dig through files and internet searches in an attempt to find answers. It was always a struggle to sit at the field office in front of a laptop while their villain was out there somewhere, potentially only moments away from striking yet again.

But her focus was unyielding; Rachel's eyes darted across the backlit display, scanning through a digital labyrinth of theater websites and social media profiles. She also tried her very best not to constantly remind herself that this grunt work could be done from home, where her daughter would soon be sleeping in a home without a mother or a great-grandmother.

As she wrestled with that thought, she began to resent her job…a job she had worked very hard to get and to become the best at. She also knew that maybe it wasn't the job that was to blame, but her own ambitions and priorities.

"Hey," Jack said from across the conference room table. "You okay?"

"No."

"Care to share?"

"This shit can be done from home," she said. She surprised even herself with the profanity and the venom behind the comment.

"Then let's go home. I'd like to catch up with Agent Carson, anyway."

"Oh, I'm considering it. But if I go home, my mind won't be fully on the case."

Jack nodded but said nothing. And she appreciated that. He'd become very good at understanding when she needed to simply vent and when she was actively seeking advice and counsel. And this was a case of simply needing to vent.

So she turned her attention back to her research, not even exactly sure what she was looking for. She scrolled and clicked her way through performance schedules, cast lists, and the venues where Emily and Sarah had taken their final bows. Each discovery laid another breadcrumb on the trail to a killer who seemed more elusive than ever.

As Rachel sifted through the histories of these theaters, a pattern began to emerge—one venue, in particular, caught her attention. The Grandiose Theater, a once-thriving bastion of the arts, now revealed itself to be hemorrhaging money. Whereas it had held at least a thirty shows a year in the past, it had been downgraded to roughly a dozen, and with irregular hours in the past two years. Ticket sales were in decline. Rachel's brow furrowed as she clicked through quarterly reports, each one painting a grimmer picture than the last.

The debts were piling up, towering like the stage sets that had once brought stories to life within the Grandiose's walls. Outstanding loans, unpaid vendor invoices, and deferred maintenance costs all told a tale of desperation. The only reason she'd focused on these financial difficulties was because she knew that financial strain could drive people to dark places—places where morals became malleable and lives could be deemed expendable. She'd seen it more times than she could count during her career.

Was it possible that the financial ruin of a theater could be a catalyst for murder? Rachel leaned back in her chair for a moment, allowing herself a deep breath. She supposed a few dead actresses could drum up some sympathy for the theater community. And that could maybe give a boost to ticket sales. Maybe even enough to help re-establish a fledgling theater.

"Money," she muttered to herself, "is always a motive."

"What's that?" Jack asked, engrossed in his own line of research. From what she could gather, he was looking at the criminal database, looking up anyone and everyone who had worked on or behind a stage with Emily and Sarah.

"Nothing. Just thinking out loud."

She continued to search and started to fear she'd gone down a rabbit hole that would lead to a dead end. But then she paused as a thread in the narrative caught her attention—a series of scathing reviews not of the plays but of the theater's management. The Grandiose Theatre, once the crown jewel among local stages, was now tarnished by accusations of mismanagement. The words of former employees and aggrieved patrons painted a grim picture. There were rumors and whispers of unreported impropriety linked to one name: Vincent Hale.

It was a name she'd seen in a few playbills, usually under the Thank You and Acknowledgments sections. Curious, she launched a new search, her fingers a blur across the keys. Gossip blogs, theater message boards, social media accounts—anything that might lead her towards Vincent Hale's less publicized activities. An off-hand comment about his wandering hands here, a veiled reference to late-night "rehearsals" there; the pattern emerged like a stain spreading across fabric. Two people on a Reddit thread centered around the local theater scene described him as "a predator, but the worst kind…the kind you don't even know is a predator until after you've been bitten."

Rachel's pulse quickened; this was no longer just about financial woes. It was about power, fear, and the silence brought by both.

She could find no police reports on Hale, meaning no one had ever actually pressed charges. But the whispers were there, spread out online. And if they were to be believed, the subtext was clear. Vincent Hale had made a habit of exploiting his position, and those who dared to speak up were swiftly reminded of their place. Rachel wondered if Emily and Sarah may have been ensnared in this web of predation. Could their talent and ambition have made them targets? Had they known too much, seen too much?

She knew for a fact that his name had been in playbills where the names of Emily Ross and Sarah Jennings had also been present but, again, it had never been in any position of importance—always a name relegated to the parts people usually only skimmed.

Rachel snapped her laptop shut, a decisive click that marked the end of her digital deep dive. She swiveled in her chair to face Jack, who leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest, eyes questioning.

"I take it you've got something?"

"Vincent Hale," she declared, her voice steady with newfound purpose. She walked him through what she'd found, and even though she prefaced it with Hale not having a police record, Jack looked through the database anyway. Rachel didn't mind; there was no harm in double-checking with a second set of eyes.

When she was done, Jack straightened up, his brows knitting together as he absorbed the weight of her words. "You think he's managed to sort of stay in the background, using those financial troubles almost as a sort of camouflage?" he asked, already knowing the answer from the steel in Rachel's gaze.

"Could be. I mean, the pattern is there—financial trouble, desperate measures, and a silent history of manipulating young actresses."

"Yeah, that does sound like our guy. I say we find him and pay him a visit." Even as he said this, he grabbed an address from the database, discovering that Vincent Hale lived just outside of Richmond, in the Brandermill area.

As they headed for the elevators, Rachel paused for a moment. She felt the tension coil tighter around her as she thought of Paige at home. Rachel pulled out her phone, already feeling guilty. She dialed the landline for their house, hoping Paige would understand…hoping that she could somehow correct herself and show Paige that even when she was away, home was the most important thing—that Paige was always on her mind and despite how it looked from the outside, she was a priority.

Carson answered again, a tactic he'd used when he had assisted before. The thought was that if anyone with intentions of harassing Paige or even Rachel (or, at the time when he'd first worked with them, Grandma Tate) heard a man's stern voice answering the phone, they'd turn away.

After a brief string of chit-chat, he handed the phone over to Paige. "Hey, Mommy."

"Hey, Paige, I'm sorry it's so late, but I just wanted to say goodnight. And I'm sorry I missed dinner."

"That's okay. We got pizza. Hawaiian."

"With pineapple?"

"Yeah, it was delicious!"

In the background, she could hear Carson pipe up. "It's a culinary abomination is what it is!"

Rachel and Paige chuckled at this before Rachel got to the hard part. "I'm sorry, sweetie, but I'm going to be a while. But if you feel uncomfortable there without me, just tell me and I'll drop this. You know that, don't you?"

"Yeah, I know. But I'm fine, Mommy. Me and Agent Carson are going to watch some TV for a while and then I'll go to bed."

"Paige…I'm sorry…"

She felt the need to cry but did her best to swallow it down. That was the absolute last thing Paige needed to hear.

"It's okay, Mommy. Really. I know you've missed this. I know you need to do it."

God, was she really only ten? How the hell had she gotten so smart? So wise.

"I love you, Paige."

"I know you do. I love you, too. Be safe!"

"You, too. Goodnight."

She ended the call and looked at Jack, who was standing by the elevators. She thought she saw the glimmer of tears in the corners of his eyes.

"She gets you," Jack said. "I think she understands your need to work this job more than you think."

"I think so, too. And I'm starting to think she's infinitely smarter than I am."

Jack wrapped his arm around her shoulders and smiled. "Oh, I have no doubt about that."

Rachel playfully nudged him in the ribs as they stepped onto the elevator. And with the night waiting for them outside, Rachel felt that every passing minute was vital now; somewhere out in that darkness, the killer was working just as hard as they were.