CHAPTER SIX

Rachel's hand hovered above the doorknob of her front door, a silent signal for Jack to still his movements. She turned the handle with practiced care, easing the door open just wide enough for them to slip through. The familiar scent of their home—lemon-scented polish and the faintest hint of Jack's cologne—wrapped around her like a comforting pair of warm arms..

Jack's reassuring presence was a solid heat at her back as they moved in unison, shadow-like, toward the staircase. She looked over at the couch and saw Janell still asleep. They moved quietly, each step calculated, avoiding the treacherous fourth stair that sang out under the slightest pressure. Rachel led the way, her memory charting a path around the known creaks with the precision of a cartographer. They slowly and quietly made their way down the hallway. As Jack continued to the bedroom, Rachel stopped at Paige's bedroom door.

It was cracked open the slightest bit. Rachel peered inside and saw her daughter sleeping peacefully. She tiptoed into the room and kissed Paige on the head. She was such a strong and resilient little girl, and there were times when Rachel had no idea what she'd ever done in life to deserve such a perfect gift. After another soft kiss on the cheek, she quietly made her exit and continued to her bedroom.

Jack had already put on his bedside lamp and hurried to the shower. While he showered, Rachel brushed her teeth and then they swapped places. By the time she was out of the shower, Jack had gotten into bed, the lamp now off. The only light in the room were pools of moonlight spilling across the floor through the slats of the blinds.

When she got into bed, Jack's arm encircled her waist. She scooted into him and let out a deep, heavy sigh. The tension from the night's grim discoveries began to ebb away, replaced by an acute awareness of the man beside her. Underneath the warm sheets, the world narrowed to the space between them. Jack leaned over, his lips finding hers in the semi-darkness. It was intended as a goodnight—a simple endcap to another day—but the kiss deepened, fueled by an urgency the case had instilled in them. His mouth moved against hers with a gentle insistence, and she responded in kind, letting the kiss chase away the chill of their profession.

As their kiss grew heated, hands roamed with a familiarity and intimate knowledge. Soft sighs and the rustle of fabric filled the room. Outside, the night held its breath, and inside, two hearts were beating a little faster as things came to a close, names whispered into one another's ears, breaths slowly collected as a whole new kind of exhaustion dragged them into sleep.

But that sleep came slower to Rachel than to Jack. The pleasure she'd felt had not been quite enough to quiet the chaos of her mind. As Jack's steady breathing filled the quiet room, she lay beside him, her eyes tracing the faint outline of moonlight against the wall. She felt safe by his side and in his love, but her cold current of anger still churned.

The anger was a shadowy figure in her mental landscape, elusive yet ever-present. It stalked her through the corridors of her mind, whispering bitter recollections of every moment from the doorbell footage, of every tear she and Paige had shed at Grandma Tate's funeral. It was an anger born of helplessness—among many other things—a fire fueled by the knowledge that somewhere out there, her grandmother's killer was free. The woman who had tried to take Paige was free.

She wrestled with the duality of her emotions—how could one feel so cherished yet so enraged? The weight of it pressed down on her, but as the hours ticked by, exhaustion crept in and her defenses began to crumble. Slowly, her body surrendered to the tiredness, her breaths grew deeper, and she finally fell asleep.

***

The morning sun strained through a veil of thin clouds as Rachel navigated the familiar turns to Paige's school. The air was crisp, with the promise of autumn lurking just around the summer's corner. Jack, riding shotgun, turned up the volume on a pop song that had Paige grinning in the backseat.

"You like this song?" Paige asked Jack.

"Um…sure?"

"You can pick the next song if you want."

"Woah, wait a minute," Rachel said. "Do you even know what kind of music Jack li—"

"No, you heard her!" Jack interrupted. "Nine Inch Nails it is!"

Rachel caught her daughter's eye in the rearview mirror and couldn't help but smile. Her lips curved into a playful smile, her movements animated and silly, drawing laughter from both Jack and Paige. For a fleeting moment, the weight of her profession lifted, replaced by the lightness of this domestic moment. Paige belted out the end of the song, wrapping it up with a small giggling fit.

"And the award for Best Performance goes to..." Jack began, crowning an imaginary winner with his hand.

"Paige!" they chimed in unison, awarding their daughter with the title of carpool karaoke queen.

Pulling up to the curb, Rachel watched as Paige gathered her backpack and hopped out.

"Shoot, no Nine Inch Nails after all," Rachel teased.

"I was robbed!"

Paige climbed out of the car, blowing kisses to them as she closed the door. "Have a great day, sweetheart," she called after her, the mask of happiness firm in place.

"Love you, guys!" Paige chirped before dashing off toward the school entrance.

With the drop-off complete, Rachel eased the car back into the flow of traffic. Beside her, Jack shifted in his seat, turning his body to face her. "Headache finally gave up the ghost?" he asked, his voice carrying a note of concern.

"Well, I thought so…but that was before the carpool concert." She laughed and smiled, nodding her head. "And I don't know if listening to Nine Inch Nails would help. But…yes. For now, it's gone."

"For real?"

"Yes, absolutely." She was telling the truth but, based on how she'd hidden such things in the past, Rachel didn't blame him for his doubts. Besides, with Grandma Tate's death and knowing that Alice was still out there somewhere, she thought it made sense that the stress of it all was a likely cause of the headaches.

The rest of the drive was quiet, each lost in their own thoughts as they navigated the city streets toward the theater offices where Marcus Flint worked. Rachel's mind drifted back to the case—the two actresses, the stage director, the cruel echo of life imitating art—and the ever-present undercurrent of tension returned. When they pulled up outside the local theater company, she cast one last glance at Jack, steeling herself for the task ahead. With a killer so calculated and precise, there was no way to accurately predict what would come next.

They found parking easily despite the morning flow of traffic and work-goers. She parked directly in front of the building, and they stepped through the heavy double doors of the theater just twenty minutes after dropping Paige off at school.

Inside, Rachel's senses were immediately assaulted by a medley of dust and aged varnish. The lobby was grand, a relic from a bygone era, but it was the modest hallway off to the side that drew them—a warren of offices buried within the building's heart. The place looked like it might have long ago been a theater but had since been converted into an office space.

They wandered the halls, the sound of their footsteps muted by the thick carpet. The walls were an homage to the past, adorned with vintage movie posters and photographs of stage productions in ornate frames that boasted images of yesteryear's glamour as well as more modern designs.

At last, they located a string of offices near the back of the main hallway. It was a quaint space, its design a nod to the theater itself. A small marquee sign above the door read 'Marcus Flint, Stage Director' in bold, black letters. The door itself was opened about a quarter of the way.

Rachel knocked softly, respectfully. "Mr. Flint?"

"Yes? Come in," came the reply.

She pushed the door open and her eyes darted around the room. A tall and handsome middle-aged man sat behind a cluttered desk. The clutter was comprised of stacks of scripts, loose papers, two enormous binders, and more posters featuring smiling actors frozen in triumphant poses.

"Welcome!" Marcus Flint said. He was trying to sound pleasant and excited, but his voice came off as being very tired. "Who might you be?"

Rachel showed her badge and ID; Jack did the same beside her. "Special Agents Gift and Rivers, FBI."

"Ah, I see," he said, no longer trying on the good cheer. "I…uh, I suppose you're here to discuss the terrible news we've been getting? About poor Sarah and Emily?"

"That's correct," Jack said.

"Please, take a seat." Marcus gestured to the chairs opposite his desk, clearing a few papers to make room. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, as you can imagine," Rachel said, "the fact that two actresses have been murdered so closely to one another in regard to a timeline points to the idea that someone's targeting people involved in the theater. Right now, based on the two victims, we can assume that actresses are his targets. So we're looking for any other links between them and discovered that you had directed both of them very recently, in different shows. Is that right?"

"That's correct, yes. And let me tell you, both of them were remarkable talents." Rachel watched, alert for the subtle tells that might betray deceit, any sort of indicator that he was hiding something. "Both had promising futures ahead of them, and while I am sad beyond measure about what happened, it also makes me very mad. Mad as hell that someone would just decide it was within their own stupid power to kill them."

"Did you know them well?" Jack asked.

"Well, I knew Sarah more than I knew Emily. I'd worked with her more often."

"Can you tell us about your relationship with them?"

"Professional, of course," Marcus answered quickly, perhaps too quickly. But his posture remained open, his expression earnest. "I directed three shows Sarah was in, and one with Emily…this most recent one. The one last night. And God, it happened…well, the way I hear it, she died less than two hours after the show."

Rachel nodded, observing Marcus as he fidgeted with a pen, the strain in his eyes betraying his calm demeanor.

"Emily was one of the brightest stars I've had the privilege to direct," Marcus's went on, his voice cracking slightly. "And Sarah was just about to hit her stride. This is just all so devastating." He shook his head, the motion sending ripples through his disheveled hair.

Rachel leaned in, her senses sharpened by the urgency of needing to find solid answers. "It must be very difficult for everyone involved."

"Difficult doesn't begin to cover it." Marcus sighed heavily, setting the pen down. "Sarah had just received a call from New York for Hamilton , you know—that kind of opportunity is life-changing. And now..." His voice trailed off, lost in the gravity of what might have been.

"Being on Broadway was her dream?" Jack's question wove into the conversation, gentle yet probing.

"More than a dream, it was within reach. She auditioned, and they were seriously considering her for Eliza. You don't get calls like that unless you're exceptional."

"Mr. Flint, I need you to keep in mind why we're here," Jack said. "Your name is one of the few links between them. So we need to ask where you were on the nights Emily and Sarah were killed."

Marcus nodded, seemingly prepared for the inquiry but hurt all the same. He suddenly wore an expression akin to what he might look like if someone called him a dirty name. "I figured you'd ask the moment you showed your badges. It makes sense, I suppose. Last night, after the show's wrap party, I overindulged. Drank a bit too much and ended up sleeping it off at a friend's place. I nearly didn't bother coming into work today, especially after hearing about Emily. My head is still reeling from the drinking and the news."

"Anyone who can confirm that?" Rachel persisted, her tone insistent yet not accusing.

"Half the cast and crew for starters. And a bartender that I'm pretty sure I mercilessly hit on. And then the friend who so willingly offered his pull-out couch."

"And three nights ago? Sarah's murder?" Jack followed up, his own scrutiny unwavering.

"I was out of town, in D.C. My girlfriend lives there," Marcus responded without hesitation. "I can give you her information; she'll tell you I was with her the entire time. She and I were actually coming out of a late breakfast when my friend called to tell me Sarah had been murdered."

Rachel memorized the details, her mind already racing ahead to the next step—verification. The alibis seemed solid, almost too easy. Rachel sensed a shift in Marcus's composure as he mentioned his time in D.C. It appeared that his earlier sadness was giving way to an unsettling revelation. He leaned back in his chair, the creases of worry etched deeper into his features as he exhaled a heavy sigh.

"You know," he started, his voice tinged with a morose inflection, "there's something particularly eerie about all this."

"What's that?" Jack asked.

Marcus frowned and steepled his fingers. "Well, the rumor going around is that Emily was beaten and choked to death." He paused here, his voice cracking as he fought back tears as he said it out loud. "Is that right?"

"It is," Rachel said.

"And I know that Sarah had her throat cut."

"Also correct."

Marcus nodded and said, "I say it's eerie because both women were killed in the same way their characters murdered another character on stage. Emily's character punched and choked out her enemy on stage in the very play she was in last night. And Sarah... well, she played a scorned woman who cut the throat of her cheating husband."

Rachel's pulse quickened, the grim coincidence igniting a spark of insight within her. It was too specific, too aligned with the twisted narrative of a killer who made anonymous calls to make sure his victims were found right away.

"Well, I'd say you're right," Rachel said. "That's pretty damn eerie indeed."

But it was more than just eerie. It spoke of intent and diligent study. It meant their killer was either playing a very sick sort of game wherein he was trying to one-up the plays these women were starring in or revealing an inability to distinguish reality from fiction. And if those were the two likely scenarios, Rachel wasn't sure which one was worse.