CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

"We have a situation," Leery said, his voice thin and trembling. "And you need to listen very carefully."

"Just tell me, damn it!" Rachel yelled.

"Alice Denbrough is here. She's locked herself in the downstairs bathroom with Paige. She's threatening to... to harm her if we attempt to breach. She only wants to speak with you."

The blood in Rachel's veins turned cold. "What?" The word was barely audible, a whisper of disbelief. Her hand clenched the phone so tightly she felt the plastic creak.

"She stabbed Carson. He might be dead. We don't know. We came running as soon as the alarms started going off. By the time we got in, it had all happened."

"She…she…" Everything in her body felt as if it were on lockdown, including her ability to form words. Jack had noticed the fear in her voice and was looking at her with grave concern.

"Agent Gift, she's made it clear any aggression from our side will result in her killing your daughter. We've already called Director Anderson and—"

"I'm coming," Rachel said and ended the call.

She allowed herself just a moment, a mere second to absorb the fear and horror. And then she let in the anger that she'd been suppressing these last six weeks. She felt it step forward, taking the controls. It felt like a nest of bees surging through her heart and stomach.

"Jack." Her voice broke as she turned to him, her hands trembling like autumn leaves in a storm. "Alice has Paige. She's locked them in the bathroom." Each word was a physical effort, pushing through the tightness in her throat.

"At...at your house?" he exclaimed.

"Yes."

"Jesus, Rachel…" Jack's eyes widened, reflecting the same horror that twisted inside her. He moved closer, his own hands reaching out as if to physically pull the fear from her.

"Nobody can go in," she said quickly, fighting against the tears that threatened to spill over. "She'll only talk to me. If anyone else tries, she says she'll kill Paige."

She started for the door, pulling away from Jack.

"Damn it, Rachel, you can't—" Jack started, but Rachel cut him off.

"I have to, Jack. I have to go now!" The urgency in her voice brooked no argument, even as it wavered. This was not a plea; it was a declaration. She knew what Jack was thinking: a plan had to be formed before she ran into a situation that had clearly been designed as a trap of some kind.

But there was no time for plans. And honestly, the rage she felt coursing through her didn't give a damn about a plan.

"Okay, okay," Jack said, his voice low. "Just... just be careful."

He was near tears himself, and she loved him for it. But God, she was going to have to leave here without him and step into the storm waiting at her house. Could she do this without him? They shared a pained look that communicated the situation wasn't the best, but protocols had to be followed. Someone had to stay here with Barnes until backup arrived.

Yes, the anger seemed to say. In fact, do you really want him to see the way you're going to handle this?

"Are you okay with him?" she asked, looking down to Theo. "And Natalie, too?"

"Yes, just go! The ambulance is on the way, and the backup crew should already be on the corner."

Their hands touched fleetingly, an exchange of warmth and silent understanding that screamed louder than words ever could. It was a momentary comfort, a fleeting reprieve before she plunged into the storm. She felt the quick squeeze of his fingers, a lifeline promising he'd be there when this was over.

The world outside was a blur as Rachel darted to her car, her heart pounding like a caged animal desperate for escape. The familiar throb of a headache pulsed at her temples, matching the rhythm of her racing thoughts. Anger surged through her veins, hot and bitter, fueling her resolve. She latched on to it, quite certain it would be the one single emotion that would get her through this.

She started the engine and the tires screeched against the pavement as she sped off, the road ahead a dark, narrow tunnel of focus. As houses and trees whizzed past her window, Rachel's hands trembled on the wheel—not from fear, but the uncontrollable rage that set her nerves on fire. Her vision blurred, not just from the tears spilling unchecked down her cheeks, but from the sheer, unadulterated anger that clouded her judgment.

She was going to kill this woman. She knew it, and she had to accept it. All her training was thrown out of the window. Forget restraining and arresting. She was going to kill this heartless bitch…the woman who had already taken the life of Grandma Tate, the woman who seemed fixated on destroying her life.

The idea of taking a life, cold-blooded, was not foreign to her; her training had prepared her for the possibility. But the reality of it—the weight of it—bore down on her now with an intensity that wasn't nearly as appalling as it should have been.

Could I actually kill this woman in cold blood?

Each mile closer to home, each second ticking away, brought her nearer to an answer she wasn't sure she wanted to know. But deep down, in the darkest recesses where primal instincts reigned, she felt a certainty that frightened her.

"Yes," she realized, the word slipping out between clenched teeth. "For Paige, I could."

Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the steering wheel tighter, the leather creaking under the strain. She was no longer just Rachel Gift, the FBI agent. In that moment, she was an enraged mother who would burn down the entire world if it meant keeping her daughter safe.

***

She pulled the car into her driveway, angling it in beside yet another unmarked bureau sedan—Director Anderson's she supposed. The car skidded to an abrupt halt. She was out before the engine ceased its tremor, the door slamming like a small bomb in the quiet of her neighborhood. Adrenaline surged through her veins, painting the world in sharp contrasts—the black night, the soft light coming through her living room window, and the red flush of emergency vehicle lights casting a sinister glow at the corner. Apparently, an ambulance had already arrived for Carson.

Has she killed him, too? Rachel wondered. Was Grandma Tate not enough for her? Was putting her vile hands on my daughter not enough for her?

She opened the front door, and her eyes instantly saw the small throng of people waiting for her. One of them, she supposed, was Agent Leery, and another his partner. Then there was Anderson, and then another agent she didn't know. And at that moment, she didn't care who it was.

"Which bathroom?" was all she said.

"Downstairs," one of the agents said.

She didn't say another word as she passed through the living room, marching directly to the bathroom at the end of the downstairs hall.

"Rachel! Wait!" Director Anderson said sternly from behind her. He strode forward and grabbed Rachel by the arm, but Rachel tore herself free. She barreled forward like a bullet from a chamber, her focus locked on the hallway and the closed bathroom door at the end of it.

"Don't touch me!" Rachel barked.

"Rachel, you can't—" Anderson began, but Rachel was already beyond reach, her steps thundering down the hallway, each one a drumbeat heralding war.

"Alice Denbrough!" she screamed. "I'm here."

She made herself stop shy of the bathroom door, reminding herself that Paige's life was at risk. Leery had said any sort of attempt to get inside would be met with consequences. The agents behind her shifted uneasily, their training at odds with the unbridled fury emanating from the woman they knew to be as disciplined as she was formidable. Anderson still stood close, his face not holding its usual professional demeanor. He was scared of what might happen next but was unable to stop her. Perhaps he, too, understood that a mother with no options is so much more ferocious than a trained federal agent.

Standing this close to the bathroom door, the sounds of muffled sobs seeped through the barrier, and Rachel's heart clenched. Paige. That madwoman's hands were on her. Rachel's mind teetered on the brink of panic, but she forced it down, locking it away in a corner of her iron will.

"Alice!"

"I hear you, Rachel, darling," came Alice's taunting voice from the other side, laced with false sweetness that made Rachel's skin crawl. "I'd love to see you face-to-face, but first, let's make a little trade, shall we?"

The agents exchanged glances, their hands inching towards holsters and radios. Director Anderson stepped forward, his authoritative tone at odds with the situation's volatility. "Alice, this is Director Anderson. Let's talk about—"

"Shut up!" Alice's interruption was sharp as broken glass, the false cheer gone. "Not you. I want them all gone, Rachel. Every last one. You have sixty seconds or this blade is going to go right through Paige's throat" The threat hung in the air, unspoken yet unmistakable.

"Mommy…"

It was Paige's voice, strangled and soft, thick with tears. It was the first time since entering the house that Rachel buckled at all. It was like a punch to the stomach. She wheeled around to the three agents and Anderson. In that moment, he was not her director or supervisor; he was simply a body in the way of her being able to rescue her daughter.

"Out! Now!" Rachel's growl was feral, her command leaving no room for argument. "Every one of you, get out of my house!"

"But—" Anderson began to protest.

"NOW!" Rachel's roar was almost like that of an animal, pure rage and a guttural response to the moment. In a flurry of movement, the agents began to file out, their faces grim yet obedient. Anderson lingered, his eyes locking with Rachel's in a silent battle of wills before he too acquiesced, stepping toward the front door and back into the night.

Rachel heard the front door opening as they all filed out and stepped into the night. When the door closed behind them, Rachel turned back toward the bathroom.

"Alright, Alice," Rachel said to the door, her voice steady despite the tempest raging within. "It's just you and me." Her hand rested against the cool wood, betraying none of the tremor that threatened to shake her apart. "Let her go."

"I'm trusting you, Rachel. If I come out there and see a single agent, I'll kill her."

"Understood," Rachel snarled. "Now come out from behind that door, you coward."

"First, you will toss your sidearm away. Throw it down the hall. I want to hear it land."

Rachel's hand hovered over her Glock, secured at her hip. Her fingers grazed the cool metal, a reluctant goodbye to the familiar weight of security. With a sharp exhale, her arm moved in a wide arc, sending the gun skidding across the hardwood floor into the shadowy depths of the living room. The sound of it crashing against an unseen obstacle was jarringly loud in the stillness.

"I'm unarmed," Rachel announced, her voice ringing out with a forced calm. "Now, let Paige go."

Seconds dragged on, each one laden with unspoken threats, until the click of the lock disengaging shattered the suspense. The door creaked open slowly, and Rachel was finally able to see the thin face she'd studied so many times from the doorbell footage.

It was no demon or monster, just a woman.

And as she stepped out of the bathroom, holding Paige tightly against her with a blade to her throat, Alice Denbrough actually smiled.