CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Moonlight cast long, reaching shadows across Rachel Gift's front yard as Alice weaved between them like a ghost evading the light. Her shoes made no sound on the soft earth; her breath was a controlled whisper against the chill of the night. She moved with hurried precision, eyes locked on the back patio. She was all too aware of the sedan parked across the street, nearly at the end of the block. It gave the two agents inside a great view of the Gift residence, but they had not seen the darkened shadows that fell along behind the patio. The agents parked across the street were oblivious to her presence. They sat encased in the false security of their vehicle, chatting idly, their attention ensnared by the glow of smartphones and the monotony of their stakeout.

She knew this because she'd studied this house; she'd studied and analyzed it to death before she'd first attempted to take Paige…when she'd accidentally killed Rachel's grandmother.

As she slipped through the last sliver of darkness and reached the back patio, a surge of accomplishment passed through her. This was it, the moment she'd been meticulously planning for, an intricate dance of vengeance that hinged on every step being perfectly executed. Her earlier failures were nothing but ashes now—she stood undeterred, unshaken, amid the ruins of those setbacks.

As she became one with the darkness, thoughts of Alex Lynch cascaded through her mind—a tempestuous flood of memories that threatened to erode her sanity. Alex, her beloved and twisted soulmate whose life had been ended by Rachel Gift's hand. The very thought sent spasms of rage and devotion wracking through her body. With each heartbeat, she could feel herself unraveling, the threads of her psyche unwinding as she became more fixated on the image of Rachel paralyzed by terror.

Alice knew the grim finale that likely awaited her tonight. She knew it might very well mean her death. Yet, the prospect didn't deter her; it was an embraced inevitability. What mattered was making sure Rachel Gift came out of this either dead or, if she remained alive at the end, knowing what true fear felt like. Not just fright or terror but the sort of fear that took root deep in a heart and never let go, choking and growing thicker over the course of her life. A fear that would make her worries about the tumor in her head seem like mere hiccups.

She hurried up the patio stairs as quickly and as quietly as he could. There was a moment when she knew she would just barely be exposed to the agents in the car. But it was a fraction of a second, one that she was willing to take. When she was on the patio, again completely concealed by darkness, Alice crouched by the back door, her fingers deft and certain as they manipulated the lock. She had watched this house, memorized its rhythms and routines like a shadow learning to dance with its owner. Days spent observing from a distance translated into meticulous sketches of the layout. Nights were dedicated to the mastery of silent entry—her tools were a nail file and a safety pin; her practice locks were, the unsuspecting doors of abandoned homes that stank of mildew and lost memories. The last she's tested herself on had been an old farmhouse just three miles down the road from the trailer she'd been hiding out in.

The tumbler clicked into place, a whisper of triumph in the still night air. With a gentle push, the door yielded, and she stepped across the threshold. The interior loomed before her, an arena she had entered many times in her mind's theatre. Yet, it was different now, charged with the electricity of reality, each shadow heavy with consequence.

She also knew that the protector agent was here. Carson, she thought his name might be. She'd have to kill him for her plan to work and she was mostly fine with that. She'd killed before, just to get a taste of it. She hadn't enjoyed it as much as she'd hoped; she'd hoped she might share that sinful desire in the same way Alex had enjoyed it. But while she knew she was fully capable of murder, she didn't necessarily enjoy it.

But Carson was going to have to die, a small price for her to finally get even with Rachel.

No sooner had her first step whispered against the tile than the alarm erupted—a shrill siren slicing through the silence. Alice didn't flinch. She'd known about the security system, had counted on its wail to summon her audience. It was part of the choreography, a cue for her to take center stage. She clutched her thin windbreaker against her, feeling the solid reassurance of the knife hidden away beside her breast.

She drifted into the kitchen, her movements languid amidst the cacophony. As the sound drilled into her ears, she adjusted the fabric ever so slightly, ensuring the weapon remained unseen, but close... oh so close. She waited, unsure of what would happen. The next few seconds would be the only bit of uncertainty she'd allowed for in her plan.

Her eyes, cold and patient, traced the familiar lines of the kitchen. She could picture Rachel here, laughing over a cup of coffee, oblivious to the woman bent on her destruction. That blissful ignorance would soon shatter, just as Alice's own had.

She heard footsteps. She heard a soft, female voice—Paige, asking a question. There was a response, a hushed male voice, and then the footsteps again. Carson was on his way, coming across the living room. She saw his murky form as he approached the kitchen. He burst into the kitchen and slapped on the lights. His service weapon was drawn, aimed squarely at Alice. His eyes were hard stones of determination, his stance wide and ready for combat. His stance was professional, his gaze like steel.

"Hands behind your head!" His voice was a sharp command that sliced through the blare of the alarm.There was confusion and fury in his eyes—probably surprised that the woman they'd all been looking for had so willingly come to them…so foolishly.

Alice's heart pounded, but her face was the portrait of terror she wanted him to see. She shook her head slowly, lips quivering as if she could barely hold back a sob. The act was convincing, practiced in mirrors and shadows until it became second nature. She knew it was good, made all the more powerful by her already gaunt face.

"Please, don't shoot," she whimpered, her hands trembling—but not rising to meet his demand. "Please, I don't—"

Carson edged closer, his Glock unwavering. "I said, hands behind your head! Now!"

She hesitated, calculating, watching his gaze flicker with impatience, knowing he couldn't afford to look away from her. Not even for a second. So she nodded and did as he asked, slowly. This may go bad for her, she may not have a—

The moment Paige appeared in the doorway, startled and wide-eyed, was the moment Alice had been waiting for. The girl was scared and half asleep. Alice was slightly disgusted by just how cute and stupid she looked in that moment.

"What's going on?" Paige asked.

Agent Stephen Carson barely looked away from Alice, his eyes just momentarily turning to Paige. In that sliver of distraction, she seized her chance. Her hand darted inside her coat, gripping the knife handle with a death grip.

"Paige, get back—"

But Carson's warning was cut short as Alice's arm shot forward, the blade sinking deep into his chest. There was only a single moment of hesitation before the blade pushed through the bone and muscle.

Carson gasped—a sound almost lost completely beneath the still-blaring alarm—as his knees buckled. His Glock clattered to the floor, his fingers grasping at the air before going still. His body hit the tiles with a finality that sent a shiver across the room.

Silence crept in, filling the space where his breaths had been, and Alice stood over him, a dark angel of vengeance, her control absolute. Alice's hand was steady as she withdrew the knife from Carson's chest, the blade slick with blood. The sound it made was eerily pleasant to her ears. She turned her gaze upon Paige, whose face had drained of color, eyes wide with a terror that mirrored the chaos of the scene before her.

"Please," Paige choked out, her voice barely rising above the wail of the alarm. "Don't."

The plea hung in the air, meaningless to Alice. Her focus never wavered as she took deliberate steps toward the girl she'd been so fixated on ever since her plot for revenge had started. The metallic scent of blood mingled with the acrid tang of fear permeated the kitchen with an almost palpable dread.

Alice took another step forward, knife raised. Paige screamed, the sound erupting from her in a raw cry of terror. It reverberated off the walls, so visceral that it seemed to vibrate within Alice's own chest.

"Quiet," Alice hissed, her tone colder than the steel in her hand. But Paige couldn't hear her over her own screams and the relentless shriek of the alarm.

Alice closed the distance between them, her movements unhurried, almost graceful. She watched Paige's chest heave with panicked breaths, saw the tears streak down her cheeks. This was the fear Alice had yearned for—only it would be in Rachel's eyes soon enough.

"Shh," she said again, more insistent this time, though she knew it wouldn't make a difference. Paige was beyond hearing, beyond reason, enveloped in the grip of pure fear. "I'm not going to hurt you, my dear. No, I need you for bigger things."

The moment stretched, taut as a wire, as Alice stood before Paige, the bloody knife glinting dimly in the overhead lights. She knew what happened next. She was already looking to the front door, waiting for the men from the sedan.

Grinning nervously, Alice reached out to Paige. This was the endgame, and she was ready for it. And though Paige suddenly turned to run, Alice was too quick, too anxious. She reached out and grabbed Paige, pulling her close while she once again raised up the sharp, deadly blade.