Page 4

The alarm chirped at six, but Rachel had already started coming awake.

Jack's side of the bed was empty, the sheets cool to the touch.

She lay there for a moment, listening to the quiet of the house, feeling the weight of another day settling over her.

Through the bedroom window, the sky was just beginning to lighten, a pale gray that promised another clear but cold Virginia morning.

Her morning routine had the comfort of muscle memory.

She started in the shower where she stood under the spray until the water ran hot enough to steam the mirror, letting it pound against her shoulders where tension always seemed to collect these days.

The wound to her thigh was nearly done healing and needed no special attention in the shower anymore.

Once out and dry, she chose her favorite gray pantsuits, paired with a cream blouse that softened her reflection in the mirror.

The familiar ritual of very brief makeup application followed—more to look professional than to enhance, though she took extra care covering the shadows under her eyes. Sleep hadn't come easily lately.

As she left her bedroom and passed Paige's room, she made sure to walk quietly.

There was another hour and fifteen minutes before she'd need to wake Paige for school.

Rachel moved on, her footsteps whisper-quiet on the carpeted hallway.

Sometimes these morning moments, tiptoeing past her daughter's room, reminded her sharply of those days during her illness—when every quiet morning felt like a gift she wasn't sure she'd get to keep.

The aroma of coffee drew her downstairs, accompanied by the soft rustle of papers and the quiet tap of fingers on a laptop keyboard.

Jack sat at the kitchen table, suit jacket draped over the back of his chair, scrolling through his phone with one hand while absently working on a half-eaten bagel with the other.

Morning light slanted through the bay window, catching the silver at his temples.

She remembered when those first gray hairs appeared during her treatment.

He'd earned every one of them, standing by her through it all.

"Another long day ahead?" she asked, reaching for her favorite mug—the one with the chip on the rim that she refused to throw away. Jack had tried to replace it twice, but she kept coming back to this one. Some imperfections felt like old friends.

"I hope not." He didn't look up from his phone. "That's why I'm up so damned early. Trying to get a head start."

Rachel cracked eggs into a pan, listening to them sizzle.

These morning moments were precious—increasingly rare snippets of normalcy in their chaotic lives.

Jack reading emails while she cooked, sharing space in comfortable silence.

The scratch of his chair against the floor as he shifted position.

The way he automatically smiled when she briefly looked in his direction, a dance they'd perfected over time.

Even the small irritations felt like comfort: his habit of leaving cabinet doors slightly open, the way he always set his coffee mug precisely on the edge of a coaster instead of centered on it.

She caught herself trying to memorize these details the way she had during her recovery. Old habits died hard. But she was healthy now. The quarterly scans proved it. She didn't need to hoard these moments like a squirrel storing nuts for winter anymore.

She settled across from him with her eggs, watching him work.

His forehead creased in concentration, tie slightly askew.

She thought about reaching over to straighten it, but something else pressed against her thoughts, demanding attention.

The same thoughts that had kept her awake last night, staring at the ceiling while Jack slept beside her.

"Jack." The word came out before she'd fully decided to speak.

He looked up, eyebrows raised. "Hmm?"

"I need to tell you something." She set her fork down, the metal clicking against porcelain. Something in the back of her mind screamed that this was a bad idea. But the words were already there, coming like a storm cloud, "About Cody Austin."

His expression shifted subtly—a tightening around the eyes, a slight compression of his lips. They'd been here before. Too many times, maybe, but she couldn't let it go. Not when she was so certain.

"I have his address," she continued, the words tumbling out now. "And I'm almost certain he's connected to the hospice bombing. More than almost certain—I feel it in my bones."

"Rachel—"

"Just hear me out." She leaned forward, hands flat on the table.

"Look at the timeline. I start volunteering and form this intense bond with Scarlett…

and then Scarlett beats cancer, finally gets to go home, and within weeks of Austin's release, she's murdered. Then, three weeks after that, a bomb goes off at the exact same hospice center where she was treated.”

Jack set his phone down, giving her his full attention. His eyes held that mix of concern and skepticism she was growing to hate. "That's quite a leap."

"Is it?" Heat crept into her voice. "This is what he does, Jack. He's methodical. Patient. He picks targets that matter to people. He's trying to send a message.”

"But what evidence—"

"Damn it, I just know." She sighed, hating the childish way it made her sound. “The timing…”

"The timing could be coincidental," Jack said gently, though he studied the dates on her phone. "You know how this works, Rachel. We can't build cases on intuition alone."

"This isn't just intuition." She pushed her plate aside, untouched eggs cooling.

"Austin spent ten years in prison because of me.

Ten years when he should have been in for life if we'd been able to prove everything he did.

He's smart enough to know a direct attack wouldn't work.

So he's doing what he does best—he's playing mind games.

First Scarlett, then the bombing. He's sending a message that nowhere is safe…that anything I am close to, he can take. It feels like…”

“Say it.”

“It feels like Alex Lynch all over again.”

“Exactly. You’re letting that trauma work its way into your life all over again. You’re just seeing things that aren’t there.”

She could hear the intensity rising in her own voice and knew she was starting to sound obsessed. But she couldn't stop. "Think about it, Jack. If it’s not Austin…and if these two awful events aren’t at all related, that’s one hell of a coincidence.”

Jack rubbed his temple, a gesture she recognized from countless late-night discussions. "Look, I understand why you're making these connections. The bombing happening at your hospice center—I get why that feels personal. But if you take this to Anderson without solid evidence—"

"He'll shut it down. I know." Frustration tightened her throat.

"But what if I'm right? What if we miss this and more people die?

Austin was clever enough to avoid murder charges before.

Who's to say he isn't being just as careful now?

He had ten years in prison to plan this, Jack. Ten years to think about revenge."

“Rachel…four people were killed, including a member of the bomb squad. There’s an enormous team on this. If it is Austin, they’ll find out. And I’m sure Anderson will let you know.”

The silence stretched between them, filled with unspoken words.

She opened her mouth to break the silence, but Rachel's phone buzzed.

The screen lit up with Anderson's name. Her stomach clenched.

For a wild moment, she wondered if he somehow knew what she'd been discussing.

But when she answered, his voice was casual, matter-of-fact.

“Gift, I have a case I’d like you and Novak to tackle.”

“Of course. What do you have?” she asked.

"I need you two on a case near Charlottesville. Looks like it could be a serial in the making. Not sure yet."

"Sir, but what about the meeting about the bombing surveillance—"

“You can miss it. Besides, if we boil it all down, there are no new updates there. And before you go there, yes…I know that case is close to you. So when we do know something new, I’ll make sure you know.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, but the disappointment was thick in her voice.

"Besides,” Anderson said. “I think it would do you good to focus on something else for a while."

The implication hung in the air: stop obsessing over the bombing. Stop looking for connections that might not exist. Rachel's free hand clenched into a fist under the table, nails biting into her palm.

"Yes, sir," she said, keeping her voice neutral. "I'll head out now."

She ended the call, meeting Jack's concerned gaze. "I have to go."

"I heard." He stood, gathering his things. The morning light caught his wedding ring as he reached for his jacket. "Want me to tell Paige—"

"Tell her I said have a good day, and I love her." The words felt inadequate, routine, but they were all she had time for now. "It's in Charlottesville, so if it goes beyond a day, I have no idea if I'll be coming back home or grabbing a hotel."

“We’ll be fine. Just stay in touch.” He got up and kissed her, drawing her in for a quick hug. “And be safe.”

“Aren’t I always?”

He sneered at her, but it broke apart in a small laugh.

They moved around each other in the kitchen's morning light, a dance that should have been familiar but now felt off-step.

As Rachel gathered her keys and badge, she felt the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on her.

Jack's skepticism. Anderson's dismissal.

Her own certainty, burning like an ember in her chest.

At the door, she paused. Part of her wanted to turn back, to make one last attempt at convincing Jack. But what would be the point? Without evidence, she was just spinning theories. And yet...

The morning air hit her face as she stepped outside, carrying a razor-like January chill.

She took a deep breath, trying to clear her head.

There was a case waiting in Charlottesville.

People who needed her focus, her expertise.

She couldn't let Austin—or her suspicions about him—distract her from that.

But as she slid behind the wheel, the heavy certainty of it hit her again…that somewhere out there, Cody Austin was watching, waiting, and planning his next move in a game only he fully understood.