She took her reheated dinner into the living room, where she sat on the couch and flipped on the TV. She had just settled on a sitcom re-run when her doorbell rang. She set her dinner down on the coffee table, walked over to the front door, and corrected it open just a bit. It was rare that she ever got visitors when Chris was at home, and when she did, it was usually one of the neighbors inviting them to a weekend cookout or some other high-end neighborhood activity. Sometimes it was high school students collecting donations for some activity or another.

  Because it was the end of the day and she had pretty much deescalated into relaxation mode, she didn't think twice about opening the door when she saw the man standing on her porch, holding a small box with the infamous Amazon logo on the side. She didn't remember ordering anything recently but knew that Chris had a bad habit of binge-ordering books and records online.

  It didn't occur to her that it was a bit strange for a delivery driver to knock on the door—especially when they had an Amazon package. Sometimes FedEx would require a signature, but not a UPS driver with an Amazon delivery.

  All of this registered just a bit too late. By the time all of this occurred to her, the man was rushing forward and shoving the door open with his elbow. The door struck Donna directly in the chest. The pain was surprising and overwhelming… so unexpected that she barely even realized that she was stumbling backward and was about to fall.

  The man tossed the box aside and hurried in through the doorway. He closed the door behind him and came rushing toward Donna. She opened her mouth to cry out, but he punched her in the face just as her mouth had opened. In a shocking and confusing moment, she realized that she had seen this man's face before. She was able to get a brief glimpse of it before his fists slammed into her face.

  And she fell back to the floor, already tasting blood in her mouth, her frantic mind clutched to recent memory. She knew where she had seen this face. She'd seen it within the last few weeks, as a matter of fact.

  A patient, she thought. He was at the hospital for something…

  He continued to come at her, this time raising a foot and slamming it into her ribs. When he did, just before the pain exploded in her right side, she noted that he was wearing a plastic covering over his shoes. It was the last thing she saw before the world went momentarily black, and all of the breath went slipping right out of her body. She tried to crawl away, but she could hear the strange sound of his plastic-covered boots following her.

  “Please,” she gasped, still unable to draw in a breath. She was pretty sure he’d broken a few ribs with the kick, and her mouth was filling with blood from the punch.

  She did her best to roll over, trying to get to her feet, confused and terrified of what was happening. He was sneering at her as he drew back his foot again. She blocked this one, but it was still so hard that she was pretty sure she broke three fingers on her left hand. She cried out in little more than a gasp, and then he was on the floor with her.

  There was something in his right hand… a hammer, from the looks of it. But he was holding it weirdly so that the side of it rather than the actual hammer-end or the claw would be used.

  “I don’t… what…" she said.

  But he was raising the hammer over his shoulder, intending to bring it forward like a hard right-handed jab. Her vision was blurry, but just before the hammer came rushing forward, Donna noticed two things. First, the man seemed to be tottering a bit, almost like a drunk man trying to walk as he held the hammer steady.

  And second, she remembered why he’d been at the hospital. She’d come rushing into his room to the tune of his flatlining monitor. She and three other nurses had worked on him, breaking out the paddles and adjusting the meds he’d been hooked to. The bastard had flatlined, and she’d brought him back. So why was he—

  Because he was swaying, the hammer only clipped her on the side of the head. It still hurt worse than anything she’d ever experienced. She didn’t know if someone could actually feel their skull crack, but she sure as hell heard it. And as she tried to scream, he repeated the motion.

  This time, he struck her as he’d intended. The world went black again, but this time her sight didn’t come back.

  Donna faded out of the world with that memory stuck in her mind: of her killer lying dead on a table as she worked fervently to bring him back.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Rachel’s eyes flew open suddenly, her heart hammering in her chest. There was an alarm sounding, something buzzing… something…

  No. It was just a cellphone buzzing. And for the second time that day, Rachel woke up unexpectedly. This time, she felt more startled than she had during her daytime nap. It seemed to take an unnecessary amount of time for her to not only come fully awake but to piece together the events that had led to her falling asleep again in the first place.

  When she opened her eyes, she found herself on the couch. Jack was beside her, his head lolling back, also slowly coming out of sleep. With this tidbit of information, she worked backward, piecing the evening and night together. She and Grandma Tate had played Uno with Paige, and then they’d watched a bit of television. Rachel had then tucked Paige in for bed, only to find a text message from Jack waiting for her when she got back downstairs.

  He’d not been much help at Archer Street, aside from filling the DEA agents in on everything he’d seen when he had stepped into the house earlier in the day. He’d texted to ask if he could come over to hang out for a bit after he wrote up his report. She’d naturally agreed, and he had come over just after 10:00.

  They both sat up now, realizing that they’d dozed off on the couch while watching a movie. They had woken up at the same time due to the buzzing of Jack’s phone on the coffee table. When he picked it up, still quite groggy from being startled awake, Rachel saw that it was 12:17. When he answered the call, he walked into the kitchen as a courtesy; anyone talking above a whisper in the living room could usually be heard upstairs.

  Rachel sat on the edge of the couch, startled and slightly out of it as she listened in. It was a brief conversation, and she wasn’t able to figure out much based on Jack’s side of the conversation.

  “This is Agent Rivers. Yeah… okay, and when was this? Sure. Okay. Text me an address. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

  He ended the call and then walked to the kitchen sink, where he splashed cold water into his face. Rachel followed behind him, grabbing a glass of water when he was done at the sink.

  “Another body?”

  “Yeah, looks like it. Not a doctor this time. A nurse.”

  “The same sort of brutal attack?”

  "Yeah. Sorry, we fell asleep like that. I'll come back in the next few days or so to spend some actual time with you. But I guess I need to go for now."

  “I want in.” She said it in a way that she’d hoped might come out cute and a bit demanding. But she was afraid it came out as selfish.

  “Rachel…”

  “It’s just a crime scene, right?”

  "Yes. But remember earlier today, before we got to Archer Street, you said you wouldn't undergo any physical activity?"

  “Yes. And I know I ended up running after Redman, but if I hadn’t—”

  “I know, I know.” He glared at her, and she saw within just a few seconds that he was going to agree to it. Behind his concern for her, he was just as excited as she was that they were more or less secretly working together on this case. “There will be others all over the scene. Local PD, probably forensics. Do you think you can make a point not to stand out too much?”

  “Yes. Jack… the last thing I want to do is get you in trouble. I swear to you, I’ll be discreet and stay out of the way.” She almost added that she’d even stay in the car if that’s what it took, but she damned good, and well, she wouldn’t be able to do that.

  “Can you be ready in five minutes?” Jack asked.

  “Yes, absolutely. I’ll need to leave Grandma Tate a note, too.”

  “Telling her what, exactly?”

  It was a good question… a good question with an easy answer. If she was going to continue sneaking in to be part of this case, she was going to have to tell the truth about it—especially if she was heading out after midnight. She fully intended to be back in the morning, hopefully before Paige even woke up. But she also couldn't run the risk of leaving the house and not letting Grandma Tate know what was going on. If she woke up and found her Rachel missing, it would make things even worse.

  “The truth, I guess,” she finally said. “I’m sure she’ll raise all kinds of hell, but I think I have to.”

  “If she ends up hating me because of this, I’ll be very disappointed.”

  “Doubtful,” Rachel said as she stepped out of the kitchen. “That woman adores you. Paige does, too.”

  Leaving Jack with a smile on his face, Rachel hurried back through the living room to head upstairs to change.

  ***

  She'd always felt that there was something calming and almost Zen-like about driving through the night toward a stop for a case. It was a strange feeling because usually when they were driving to a location this late at night, there was going to be something bad waiting for them. But the mostly empty roads and the unwinding night ahead of them were calming. And it was no different now as she found herself looking to a likely brief and uncertain future.

  The address that was texted to Jack came from someone on the State Police for a residence just two miles away from the hospital. It was a large, beautiful house with a U-shaped driveway that cut through the center of the large lawn. Of course, she knew that being this close to the hospital, a lot of the houses in the area were owned by doctors. Only, based on the call from the cop, this victim was a nurse, not a doctor—though she supposed the two might be a close enough link for a killer with a violent mindset.

  Two police cars and a basic sedan were parked at the top of the driveway, and the porch light was on. When Rachel got out of the car, she allowed herself a moment to take it all in. While the dizzy spells from earlier in the day had not been very strong or significant, she still saw it as an alarm bell. She wasn't sure if she had simply pushed her body too far or if the sudden burst of motion and energy after nearly four weeks at home sitting on her butt had something to do with it. Regardless, she knew she needed to be more careful this time. As far as she could tell, her body and her senses were completely fine. If anything, being out and about at such an hour and feeling the familiarity of it all seemed to have cleared her mind.

  As they walked to the front door, she noticed Jack looking over at her. She couldn't quite read his expression in this semi-darkness. It was the first time, though, she considered the fact that she may be a burden to him right now. Not only did he have the case to worry about, but now his ill-loved interest was tagging along. Maybe her presence here was serving as a distraction to him. And honestly, she hated herself for not realizing it sooner.

  But it was too late now. They were here, just a few steps from the front door. Jack opened the door and stepped inside. Rachel followed behind him, taking a good look at the hallway in front of her. The body was still there and, just like the other two crime scenes Jack had told her about, there was blood everywhere.

  A lanky-looking cop approached them and gave a nod as Jack showed his ID. “Agents Rivers ad Gift, FBI.”

  "Well, then, help yourself," the cop said, his face slightly pale. "This is a mess. And, as we understand it, it might be a new piece to a case you're working on, yeah?"

  “It looks that way for sure,” Jack said.

  They stepped further into the house, and though the grizzly sight ahead of them was the focal point, Rachel took a moment to look at the rest of the surroundings. An enormous and well-furnished den sat to her right, presented by n large, arched walkway. She could just barely peek into the kitchen beyond it, the entire space made up of an open floor plan. The kitchen could also be seen by staring straight ahead and down the hall. It appeared that the woman, that was now dead on the floor, had been attempting to retreat there. A hallway branched off to the left, heading further back into the house.

  Rachel followed Jack over to the body. There was also a member of forensics on the scene, standing over the body and taking notes. She was all business, her jaw tight and her brow furrowed as she typed notes into a smart pad. She glanced up at the newcomers for only a moment and spoke as if on an automated loop.

  “Donna Newsom, aged thirty-two. Married to Chris Newsom, a surgeon employed at the hospital and with two specialist organizations.”

  “Where is he right now?”

  “In the back bedroom with a cop.”

  “You mind if we have a look?” Jack asked.

  The woman shook her head, still not looking up from her pad. Jack and Rachel stepped in a bit closer. Rachel had seen plenty of violent crime scenes before. Near the beginning of her career—her fourth case, in fact—she had walked into an apartment to find a woman that had been shot in the head with a shotgun from point-blank range. What she saw in the Newsome’s hallway was on that same level.

  The right side of Donna Newsom’s head had been caved in. To say her skull had been dented was an understatement. Blood oozed from at least three different wounds on her head, still flowing lightly and adding to the copious amount already on the hardwood floors. The indentations were too small to have been created with a bat and too blunt and wide to have been a hammer. Maybe a club of some kind or—

  Her train of thought was derailed by a loud wailing from the back of the house. She assumed this was the husband. She couldn’t begin to imagine what it must be like to come home, walking through your front door to find such a sight.

  Rachel stepped away from the body and made her way through the kitchen and den area, looking for anything that might lend some clues. There was an unfinished dinner on the coffee table in the den. The television was on, showing old re-runs of a 90s sitcom. She made her way back to the front door, looking closely at the frame and the door’s edges.

  A cop slowly approached her from behind. “Yeah, I didn’t see anything, either. We’ve checked the windows and the back doors, too.”

  “And no signs of forced entry?”

  “None.”

  She finished her check and then looked back to Jack. He was now speaking to the forensics woman and peering back to the rear of the house. She knew they were going to need to speak with the husband. It was a duty she typically didn't enjoy; trying to get answers out of someone that has just learned within the last few hours that a loved one had been murdered was heart-wrenching. But given that Rachel knew she was on borrowed time and wasn't even supposed to be here made her a bit more grateful for even that opportunity.

  “Agent Rivers, I’m going to take a look around the exterior,” she announced.

  He nodded as the husband once again cried out from the back. This time, it was followed by a clattering noise—likely something being thrown across the room.

  As she made her way down the porch stairs and into the immaculate lawn, she ran over the scant facts of this scene that had already presented themselves. Based on where the body had fallen, she assumed the killer had come in through the front door. There was no way to prove this without a doubt, but Rachel's experience with scenes like this indicated that it was very much the case. That would mean the killer knocked on the front door, and Donna had answered it. Did this maybe mean she knew the killer? Or was it simply that they lived in the sort of neighborhood where answering a knock on the door in the evening wasn't automatically seen as dangerous?

  She walked to the car and grabbed the small flashlight out of the glove box. She spent the next several minutes canvassing the yard, specifically along the edges of the house. Everything about the lawn was well-maintained and perfect. The grass was lush and had some give to it, almost like a cushion. That meant if someone had been walking around the house looking for a way in, they would have certainly left prints.

  But she saw none. She also checked every window she had easy access to, including two on the large back deck. But just as the police officer had told her, there were no signs of a forced entry. The killer had walked directly to the front door and brazenly knocked, fully intending to kill Donna. Rachel assumed he'd wasted no time. Her body had been only slightly halfway down the entryway hall, headed toward the kitchen. Rachel assumed the killer had attacked the moment the door was opened.

  He came to this house intentionally, knocked on the door, and killed a nurse, she thought. She had to have known him to let him in, right?

  She wasn’t sure. And the only way to get more answers was going to be to talk to the husband. She made her way back around to the front porch, where a cop held the glass screen door open for her, and the wails of a bereaved husband seemed to usher her inside.

  Awake, but to piece together

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Rachel wasn’t at all surprised that the husband refused to speak with anyone as soon as the coroner arrived. Rachel and Jack stood aside as the body was removed from the house. The husband, Chris Newsom, roared with age for a moment but then collapsed to his knees not too far away from where his wife had died. He buried his head in his hands and wailed. He could barely process his own grief, much less speak intelligibly to two FBI agents.

  The cop that had been speaking with him and trying to keep Chris under control over the last hour and a half came out of the hallway and into the kitchen, where Rachel and Jack were standing. The cop, an older African American gentleman with a thick mustache, looked worn out and unbearably sad. He saw Rachel and Jack and came over to them, his sorrowful eyes briefly wandering in the direction of where Chris Newsom was grieving on the floor.

  “Does he have any friends or family to call on?” Rachel asked the cop.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18