Chapter 42

The air crackled with panic as I shouldered open the front door and stepped into the chaotic house, filled with scared faces and the echoes of a party that had ended abruptly.

"FBI Agent Eva Rae Thomas," I announced to the officer at the door, my voice a calm contrast to the bedlam, badge outstretched like a shield parting a sea of wide-eyed onlookers.

"Ma"am, you can"t just—" a uniformed officer started, reaching for my arm.

"Can and will," I cut him off, not breaking stride, my gaze locked on the staircase rising above the foyer, an artery to the heart of this chaos. The badge glinted in the dim light, an unequivocal statement of purpose. I was here for answers; boundaries be damned.

The foyer convulsed with frenzied whispers and stifled sobs. An officer"s pen scratched rapidly over a notepad as he hunched over, coaxing fragmented tales from shell-shocked partygoers. A woman in a sequined dress clutched a tissue, her mascara bleeding down her cheeks like dark rivulets of regret.

"Where's the body?" I barked out, my question slicing through the murmurs.

"Upstairs, Agent Thomas," said a voice tinged with solemnity. I knew this guy. It was Officer Edwards with Cape Canaveral PD. His eyes were heavy with the night"s weight. He gestured toward the grand staircase where shadows danced on the wall, cast by the flashing lights outside.

"Lead on," I commanded, brushing past a cluster of guests who recoiled at my approach, their faces a gallery of ghoulish masks painted with fear and confusion. Edwards nodded, his steps sure but slow as if each one took effort in the gravity of dread that filled the house. "What have we got?"

"A Male, living alone, was hosting a party for his friends when it happened. His name is Pete Hancock."

"Was he alone when it happened?" My voice rose above the dissonance of grief and disbelief that echoed off the walls.

"Seems so," Edwards replied without looking back, "the rest were downstairs, oblivious, until someone walked up there and found him, a woman."

"Oblivious…" I mused, the word lingering in the air between us like a specter. We walked up the stairs, leaving behind the chaos.

The office door was open, and I saw him right away. Pete Hancock lay sprawled across an ornate rug, his once-charming features frozen around the indignity of a single gunshot wound that marred his forehead. The blood had pooled in a dark halo on the Persian weave, his eyes staring up at a ceiling he would never see again.

"Handsome devil," I muttered, kneeling beside him, my gaze taking in the designer suit that now served as his death shroud. "Too young for this to end."

"Mid-thirties," Officer Edwards confirmed from over my shoulder. "Could charm the stars from the sky, they said."

"Stars aren"t what"s falling tonight," I replied, standing back up. A chill ran through me as I looked around the room. Three shots, three victims, all within a stone"s throw of each other. My mind raced, connecting invisible dots that floated in the air like the remnants of a spider"s web.

"Nicki and Steven," I said aloud, turning to Edwards. "They were shot too, and both lived with their spouses just down the street. Random violence doesn"t usually stick so close to home."

Edwards crossed his arms, his brow furrowed. "You think there"s a connection?"

"Maybe." My voice trailed off as I peered into Pete Hancock"s lifeless eyes. "What did you three know?" I looked up at Edwards. "Bring me the woman who found him, please."

A woman"stear-streaked face turned to me, her hands trembling. "We were just… I was just looking for him, I swear."

I glanced at the bubbles fizzing out their last bit of life in the half-empty flute on the desk.

"No one actually heard the shot," her voice piped up. "I guess the music was so loud, we just… even if we did hear it, we probably just didn't think it was anything. I don't know."

"Did anyone leave the party early? Slip away?" I pressed, scanning the faces for a flicker of guilt or fear.

"I didn't notice," the woman whispered. "We were having a good time, and then… it was too late."

"Agent Thomas," a uniformed officer beckoned me with a nod. His gloved hand extended toward me. In his palm lay a crumpled, half-burnt piece of paper.

"Where did you find this?" I asked, stepping closer, my senses heightening.

"Right there, on his desk, inside the ashtray," he said, nodding toward the mahogany behemoth that loomed over the chaotic scene.I pulled a pair of latex gloves from my jacket pocket, snapping them against my wrists.

I tried to read what the paper said, but all I could make out was one word.

…KNEW

The word hung heavily in the air, an accusation or a warning—I couldn"t tell which. But it bore down on me, sinking hooks deep into my curiosity. What deadly truth had Pete Hancock stumbled upon? And more importantly, who else knew that he knew? Nicki? Steven?

"Anything else with it?" I asked, voice low, as I lifted the remains of the letter closer to my eyes.

"Nothing," the officer replied, watching me intently. "Just that."

"One word," I murmured, "yet it's screaming volumes." My mind raced, piecing together a puzzle with too many missing parts.

"Knew what, Pete?" The question slipped out, though I knew better than to expect an answer from beyond the grave. My gaze shifted between the letter and the stillness of his form, searching for a whisper of the secret that cost him his life.

I stepped closer, the scent of iron and gunpowder invading my senses as I approached Pete"s body. His once-charming features were now etched in eternal shock, the finality of a bullet"s kiss apparent on his brow.

The room was still, the only sound the distant murmur of sirens bleeding through the walls. Shadows clung to the corners like silent spectators to our grim tableau.

"Steven… Nicki… and now you," I continued, half-expecting him to sit up and explain it all away with a hearty laugh. But death had claimed its due, and Pete Hancock would speak no more.

A chill brushed against me from the realization that I was missing something crucial—a hidden thread that could unravel this entire mystery.But one thing was certain: if this was the same killer, it couldn't be Sarah. But how could I prove these murders were linked?

"Who else knows what you knew, Pete?" The question lingered, unanswered.

Then, from the desk, a glint caught my eye. I reached out, the latex of my gloves creaking softly, and picked it up.

A flash drive.

"Hello, what"s this?" My voice was a murmur of intrigue, the device cold and heavy in my palm. What secrets did it hold? Was this the knowledge Pete died for?

"Agent Thomas?" a voice called from the doorway, but I barely registered it.

"Later," I replied, pocketing the flash drive without breaking my gaze from Pete"s face. "We"ve got work to do."