CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

The city blurred past the windows as Jack navigated through the dark, quiet streets. The eerie stillness of everything seemed to fit the moment perfectly as the digital numbers on the dashboard clock read 2:04. The energy of this new potential lead had shoved Rachel's weariness aside and she now felt more primed and focused than ever. They of course had no way to know for sure if Theodore Barnes was their killer, but something about the connection simply felt right to Rachel.

While Jack drove, Rachel continued to sift through the digital footprint Theo Barnes had left behind.

"Listen to this," Rachel said, breaking the night silence that hung between them like a charged cloud ready to burst. "Barnes is a complete ass in most of these reviews. Most are just brutal—right here, he described this director's vision as 'ham-fisted theatrics unfit for even the most forgiving of audiences.'"

"Ouch," Jack replied, taking a quick glance at her screen before returning his eyes to the road.

"But some of the reviews I'm seeing for when Barnes was an actor himself are just as bad."

"An actor turned critic…there's going to be some hard feelings, I'm sure."

"Looks like it," Rachel muttered, scrolling through more pages of information. She stopped abruptly, her finger hovering over the screen. "Then, about half a year ago, maybe a little less, it's just like he just vanished into thin air."

"So maybe he decided it was time to do something more than just gripe and bitch about the industry that had been so cruel to him," Jack commented. "Maybe he wanted to take it to the next level."

As they spoke these theories out loud, Rachel started to feel more certain that Barnes was their guy. This was the lead they'd been desperate for—a suspect with a motive rooted deep in the visceral world of theater, where critique could make or break careers, foster deep-seated resentment.

Her eyes remained glued to her phone screen, but her mind raced ahead to what they might find at Barnes's residence. Would they finally come face-to-face with the killer? Or would they stumble upon yet another cryptic clue in this maddening puzzle?

The neighborhood seemed to swallow them whole as they drew closer to Theo Barnes's residence. Rachel's eyes darted from one house to the next, scanning the quiet facades painted in the pitch black of early morning hours. Victorian homes with peeling paint and overgrown gardens blurred past them, each one a silent witness to the countless stories harbored within their walls. Their car rolled to a halt a block away from their destination, tucked between two others under the boughs of a weeping willow.

"Ready or not…" Rachel said tersely, her hand already on the door handle.

They moved swiftly, their shoes crunching on the gravel path. Rachel's gaze never stopped roving; a creaky gate, a flash of movement behind a curtain, the whistle of wind through the leaves were all potential harbingers of danger. It was a sense she often got—a sort of sixth sense some agents developed over time—when every nerve in her body felt that she was closing in on something either dangerous or monumental.

As they approached Theo's house, Rachel noted its neglected appearance—shutters hanging slightly askew, weeds conquering the front steps. The home was still far better than some she'd seen in the slums and poorer neighborhoods, but it seemed almost derelict when compared to the well-tended homes around it.

They stepped up onto the porch, and Jack knocked right away. He rapped hard on the wood, the sound echoing ominously.

"Theo Barnes!" Jack called out. Silence was his only reply, the quiet mocking his urgency. Rachel shrugged at him, and he knocked again, harder this time. Again, there was nothing.

"Nothing. Let's circle around back," she suggested, not waiting for Jack's response before heading toward the narrow alley alongside the house.

The rear of the property was even more desolate, choked by untamed ivy and tall grass. A small porch sat in disrepair, perhaps a project started long ago and simply abandoned. There were no lights back there and the faint glow of distant streetlights out front were completely blocked. They ambled along in darkness toward the back door.

And it was then, as Rachel started for the wooden steps on the half-finished back porch, that she heard a faint, muffled cry. It was distant and low, muted by the walls of the house. Rachel froze, her blood turning to ice.

"Did you hear that?" she whispered, fear and resolve mingling in her voice. Jack nodded, his expression grim.

They edged closer to the back door with urgency in their step, their every muscle stretched taut in anticipation. Rachel continued to listen for more cries of distress as she and Jack stood poised on either side of the back door. She thought she might have heard it again but couldn't be sure.

With a nod to Jack that was barely perceptible in the darkness, Rachel's hand tightened around the grip of her gun, which she'd drawn from her holster in one fluid motion. Jack's frame coiled like a spring, his leg muscles tensing before he delivered a powerful kick to the door.

The sound of splintering wood shattered the silence, a stark contrast to the stealth with which they'd approached. The door swung open, hinges groaning in protest, revealing the gloom of an unkempt kitchen. The smell of stale air mixed with something that she thought might be garbage that had sat a day or two too long.

They crossed the threshold, eyes darting across the room, scanning for threats or victims. Their practiced movements had Rachel turning to the right, Jack to the left, their Glocks held out in front of them. The house was quiet, though she didn't think it was empty. She could sense previous movement within the space, another of those weird borderline-eerie sensations that practiced agents seemed to develop over time.

"Clear left," she called out, her voice low and controlled despite the pounding in her chest. Her gaze cut through the dimness, catching every shadow, every potential hiding spot where danger could lurk.

"Right's clear," Jack responded.

The kitchen was a mess of dirty dishes and scattered mail. The living room sat ahead and they strode toward it side by side. The moment their feet crossed the threshold, the stillness of the house was broken.

A figure erupted from a shadowed alcove to Rachel's left, where darkness had cloaked his waiting form. His face was contorted in a mask of fury and desperation, his eyes wild as they fixed on his intruders.

"FBI!" Rachel yelled. "Freeze right where you are!"

But the figure had no intention of listening. And by the time Rachel had her gun leveled up to fire, the figure's body had slammed into her and slashed out at Jack. As Rachel stumbled back toward the kitchen, she saw the gleaming of the knife blade as it tore through the air, heading in Jack's direction.