CHAPTER FOUR

Rachel wasn't sure what it said about her that the sight of a police cruiser's rotating blues and reds set her heart and mind at ease. This was where she fit in; this was where she thrived. And she saw it as she and Jack arrived in front of Emily's apartment building, an unassuming structure nestled between a laundromat and a bodega. The bubble lights of the police cruisers cast an eerie glow on the brick facade.

They climbed the steps together, her mind briefly flitting to Paige, snug in her bed after having Janell read her a bedtime story. A pang of guilt tugged at her, made somehow even worse by the knowledge that there was a bureau sedan also parked across the street from their house. It seemed to Rachel that for the past six months, ever since Alex Lynch had come after her family, there had pretty much always been some form of protection around their home. Thanks to Alice Denbrough's efforts, her family was in that situation again.

Yes, it made her feel like a terrible and irresponsible mother. But for now, she felt that this was where she needed to be—on the ground, solving crimes, not pushing paper behind a desk. The thought sharpened her focus as she crossed the threshold into the victim's apartment.

The space was sparsely decorated but had a charm about it—a few framed photographs, a vase of wilting flowers on a small dining table, and a couch that looked both well-loved and lonesome. It struck her as the home of someone who invested more in experiences than belongings, a sentiment that Rachel could appreciate, even under the current circumstances.

There were two cops already on the scene, one of whom approached them right away. He was an older, portly black man, his face grim and tight.

"Feds?" he assumed.

Jack had his ID out, showing it to the officer. "Special Agents Rivers and Gift. How long have you been on the scene?"

"About half an hour. Me and my partner were the first ones out."

"Has forensic been by?"

"Not yet, but they're on their way."

"Do you mind walking us through it?" Rachel asked.

"Not at all. The victim is Emily Ross, twenty-six years of age. She's in the bathroom."

Rachel's gaze swept across the living room, taking in every detail—the position of the chairs, the stack of mail on the counter, the faint scent of perfume in the air.

"Lead the way," Jack said.

They followed the officer through the hallway, the ominous echo of their footsteps mingling with the distant murmur of the city outside. The bathroom door was ajar, revealing the body right away.

Emily Ross lay crumpled by the bathtub, her lifeless eyes staring at nothing. Dark bruises marred her pale face; it looked especially odd against the white tiles on the floor. There was also a good amount of bruising around her neck, one of which was in a dented U-shape.

"Strangled," Rachel concluded, her voice sounding detached even to her own ears. "Any sign of forced entry?"

"Nothing obvious," the officer responded, flipping his notepad closed. "Neighbors didn't hear anything either."

"The killer might have been someone she knew, then," Jack mused, his eyes scanning the room for evidence.

"Or she never saw it coming," Rachel added. She leaned closer, observing the patterns of discoloration on Emily's skin, trying to piece together the final moments of a life snuffed out too soon. The woman had clearly been punched in the head and face multiple times. Bruising along her temple and left eyes were the worst of it.

Rachel stood, her mind ablaze with questions. "Who called it in?"

"That's the weird part," the cop said. "The precinct got an anonymous call. Told us the victim's name and the address."

"Were you able to trace it?"

"Nope. It was too damned short. It was recorded, though."

Rachel stepped back from the grim scene in the bathroom, a chill running down her spine despite the warmth of Emily's apartment. The place was modest but imbued with touches of character—a potted succulent here, a colorful throw pillow there. But it suddenly seemed quite dark.

"Nobody would've known she was dead if not for that call," the cop said. "There's no way to know how long it would have taken for someone to find out. Maybe if she missed work tomorrow, or a friend called, concerned that Ms. Ross wasn't answering her phone."

"Any idea where she works?" Rachel asked, already turning to look at the apartment.

"No. But there's a flyer in the living room. Maybe not a flyer, but like one of those books you get at the theater with the cast and crew listed in it. And she's one of the names."

"You mean a playbill?" Jack asked.

"Sure."

Jack thought about something intensely for a moment, a frown stretching across his face. "Sarah Jennings," he said softly.

"Who?" Rachel asked.

"Sarah Jennings. A homicide from three days ago. Unsolved as of now. She was also an actress."

"Damn, that's right," the cop said. "I remember hearing about that."

"You heard about it?" Jack asked, puzzled.

The cop nodded, clearly unsettled. "Yeah. We…we got an anonymous call about her, too."

The apartment went quiet as they started piecing together the macabre pattern that was emerging. "An anonymous tip after the fact for two actresses," Rachel said. "It's like they're playing a game, wanting to make sure the bodies are found as quickly as possible."

"It also means we're likely looking at a serial," Jack said.

The officer nodded gravely. "Jennings was three days ago, same deal. No clear signs of forced entry, no witnesses. Just that damned phone call."

"No trace on that, either?" Rachel asked.

"No. These calls were very short. No chance for us to even say a word."

Rachel turned away from the bathroom and surveyed the living room. It was tidy and clean. A small bookshelf by the couch featured a few books on theater and movies. A few paperback novels shared the space as well. She then walked into the kitchen, and something on the refrigerator caught her eye right away. The fridge was plastered with flyers and magnets like a patchwork mural of everyday life. One flyer in particular stood out—it was for a local play, bold letters announcing the title, dates, and cast. At the very bottom, almost as an afterthought, was Emily's name. And not too far away from it, Sarah Jennings was listed.

The connection was too stark to be coincidental. Two actresses having starred in the same show, both murdered, both announced posthumously through cryptic calls.

Her pulse quickened with the realization that they were dealing with something far more sinister than random acts of violence. This killer was deliberate, methodical, and seemed to harbor a vendetta against a very certain small community.

Rachel took one last look at the flyer, taking a photo of it with her phone. She then walked into Emily's hallway, where she and Jack rejoined.

Jack nodded over to the cop and said, "He says Sarah Jennings was found with her throat slit, in her apartment."

"Both found alone, and both reported by an anonymous tipster," she said.

"Looks like our killer has a type or... a message," Jack replied, his tone equally measured.

"Or an audience he's trying to impress," she added, thinking aloud. "If he's going after actresses, there has to be something drama based behind it, right?"

"I think there's a good chance, yeah. If it was the killer who made those calls, he wanted them to be found right away. He wants people to know what he's doing."

"Directing us to find the bodies, making sure we follow the script," Rachel said.

Jack nodded, stepping away for a moment to confer with the cop who had been assisting. "Hey, can your supervisor send us Sarah Jennings's case files? We need to cross-reference anything that might link the two victims."

The officer nodded gratefully, glad to have a reason to not be looking at the dead body in the bathroom. "Sure, I'll request them right away," he said.

Jack gave him his email address and the cop took it down. During this exchange, Rachel looked back in the bathroom. She saw the bruising, the swollen, dead eyes. And somewhere far too close to the surface, she could feel that anger breathing. She'd hoped coming out onto a case would stem it, that directing her attention to something other than Alice Denbrough would maybe help control it.

But it was here, too, as she looked at the dead face of a woman who had died too soon. A thought then occurred to her, and she headed directly back to the kitchen. Jack followed her this time and they came to a stop at the refrigerator door. She looked at that same playbill and this time, not so distracted by the names, looked at another bit of information right in the center.

"Jack," she murmured, tapping the paper with her finger. "The play...there was a showing tonight."

He leaned in closer, his eyes narrowing as he read the details. "Means our guy could've been waiting for her to come home. He knew her schedule, even."

Rachel's gut twisted. "And what about Sarah Jennings? Was it the same deal?" She couldn't shake the idea that the murderer was staging his own sick show, with his own imagined curtains closing just as these women stepped off their stages.

"Let's go have a look at where Sarah Jennings was found," she suggested.

"Sounds like a plan."

The assisting cop overheard their conversation and came over with a sigh. "Sarah's place is just like this," he said, his voice low, tinged with unease. "Also killed in her apartment, late at night."

"Got the address?"

"Not on me. It's in the files which you should have in your inbox any moment now."

"Thanks for all of your help," Rachel said.

"Of course."

The cop gave a wave goodbye and Rachel and Jack left the apartment. On their way out, they passed by another official-looking duo. Rachel recognized one of them as a member of the forensics team. They nodded and waved as they passed one another.

They exited the apartment and stepped back out into the night. And as they hurried back to their car, Rachel did her very best to ignore the slight yet persistent pain at the back of her head.