CHAPTER FIVE

The lock clicked open with an almost imperceptible shudder, and Rachel pushed the door inward, stepping into Sarah Jennings's apartment. The soft glow from the streetlights outside fought its way through half-closed blinds, casting long, reaching fingers across the floor. Jack's steps resonated behind hers, a steady drumbeat against the hush that blanketed the space. Inside, everything was still and eerily quiet.

Rachel stood just inside the doorway for a moment, her gaze flitting over the vintage movie posters on the walls— Splash! and The Sound of Music , just to name a few. A deceptive sense of normalcy hung in the air, colliding with the knowledge of what had transpired within these walls just a few days ago.

They remained silent as they approached the living room. Rachel withdrew her phone, thumbing to the dim glow of the screen where Sarah's case file awaited. The cop back at Emily's place had not been exaggerating; they'd had the case files before they even got back to their car. Now standing in the living room, Rachel began to summarize the files. It felt more personal—more real—to speak it out loud while standing in the space where Sarah Jennings had lost her life.

"Sarah was found just there," she said, nodding toward a spot near the coffee table as she read the digital text aloud. "Neck slit, no hesitation marks. One determined cut. The coroner's report says it was very deep."

"Clean cut?" Jack asked, his voice low and even.

"Very." She scrolled through the report. "The weapon was left at the scene. No prints."

"Why would he leave the weapon at the scene of the crime?" Jack asked. "Seems like an amateur."

"Or, of this truly is something to do with theatrics, maybe he felt it was part of the scene. He's calling the deaths in. Maybe he's proud of his work and wanted it to look like a set or a stage."

"So he left the knife as a prop?"

"Maybe."

Rachel's gaze held fast to the crimson stain marring the otherwise pristine ivory rug—a dark, drying pool that anchored the space with its morbid significance. She stepped gingerly around the perimeter of the stain, feeling almost as if she were stepping over someone's grave. Beyond it was the kitchen, where Jack was searching the fridge for any clues like the ones at Emily's place. But Sarah had apparently preferred a clean and uncluttered refrigerator door. There was nothing on it at all—no magnets, no stickers, nothing.

The kitchen was a postcard of charm, with pastel blue cabinets and checkered tile flooring, each surface clean and items meticulously arranged. Small and quaint, perfect for a woman living on her own.A Keurig coffeemaker, a small toaster, an insulated cup that would never be filled again.

"Nothing out of place here," Jack called back, opening drawers only to find neatly stacked utensils and unopened mail—bills, flyers, brochures.

Rachel then made her way to the bathroom. It was clean nearly to the point of being sterile. Nothing of importance, not even in the medicine cabinet where there were only allergy meds and NyQuil. "Same for the bathroom," Rachel replied from across the hall, noting the folded towels and clear counter.

She made her way down a very short hallway and pushed the door open, revealing the bedroom. Inside, the room was a tapestry of soft hues and gauzy curtains partially covering the night outside. A quilted bedspread lay smooth and untouched since it had been made that final morning. On the dresser, a collection of perfumes and trinkets sat, never to be used again.

"Hey, Rach?" Jack called out from elsewhere in the apartment.

She followed his voice and found him back in the living room. A small desk and chair were pushed against the wall, serving as a small study. There was a laptop and a tidy stack of notebooks and pens. But Jack had picked up something else—a thin stack of paper, bound with a black clasp in the corner.

The top page read What We Always Forget, the words centered perfectly. Beneath it, there was: Written and directed by Marcus Flint.

"Marcus Flint…" she said.

"Sounds familiar, right?" Jack asked.

Rachel took out her phone and pulled up the picture of the playbill she'd taken at Emily's apartment—the one from the refrigerator door. She zoomed in to the text along the bottom where the stars' names were listed, and then, beside them, she saw it.

"Directed by Marcus Flint," she read.

Her gaze locked onto the script's title page as her brain knitted together pieces of a puzzle they hadn't even known they were assembling. "How much do you know about local theater?" she asked.

"Zilch."

"I'm wondering how common this would be. How many local directors are there, and what would be the likelihood that someone would work so recently with two women who wound up dead?"

"Not sure. We should definitely speak with him." He checked his watch and sighed. "It's getting late, though...nearly 1:30. I say get his info now and wait until first thing in the morning to see if we can catch him unaware and unsuspecting."

"Agreed."

As they prepared to leave, Rachel paused in the doorway, her gaze sweeping the apartment one final time. The room was a silent mausoleum, the air thick with an ominous stillness that clung to them both. It wasn't uncommon when walking through places where someone had just died, especially in cases of murder. Her eyes traced over the charming vintage posters on the walls, the cozy clusters of books, and then to the living room rug—stained dark with the memory of a life violently cut short.

"What is it?" Jack asked, stepping closer to her. "What's bothering you?"

"The phone calls to the police. It almost has to be the killer. And if that's the case, he's confident. Which means he's careful. And he probably already has a plan set in place."

"So maybe we just need to work toward disrupting that plan."

She nodded, her eyes going back to the bloodstain on the rug.

"By calling and going after members of such a small, niche group, he's basically showing us his pattern," Jack pointed out. "That gives us a huge advantage."

"Maybe," Rachel said—though it didn't feel at all like an advantage. If anything, it felt like the killer was rubbing their faces in it. There was a rhythm to the madness, a sinister thread weaving through the fabric of the case. Director Anderson had briefed Jack on a straightforward investigation, but the few things they'd discovered so far suggested deeper, darker currents.

"Let's call it a night," Jack said, reaching out to rest a hand on her shoulder. "We'll need fresh eyes in the morning."

Rachel gave a reluctant nod, but her eyes lingered on the bookshelves, the photographs of smiling friends, the script in the little office nook. She had always done her best to feel empathy for the victims of their cases, but this one seemed to be hitting her harder than usual.

"Right," she agreed, though her feet felt leaden, unwilling to part with the scene before them. "But Anderson's wrong if he thinks this will be simple."

The floorboards creaked beneath their weight as they retreated from the apartment, leaving the silence to swallow up the space behind them once again.