Page 27

Rachel sat in her car and simply looked at her home for a moment. Peaceful and quiet, it seemed to call to her. She smiled at it, proud of the life she’d accumulated and place within its walls. It was still and silent as she stepped out of the car and eased the front door open. It was slightly after two in the morning, so she was careful to turn the handle fully before pushing to avoid the slight squeak that always seemed loudest in the quiet hours. The security light on the porch cast long shadows through the foyer, and she paused just inside, letting her eyes adjust to the familiar darkness. These late night returns had become routine over her years with the Bureau, but tonight felt different—perhaps because of the three lives they'd saved, or maybe because of the nagging thoughts about Scarlett that refused to fade.

The soft glow of the kitchen nightlight—a habit Jack had developed during her cancer treatments when she'd sometimes needed midnight glasses of water—provided just enough illumination to navigate the ground floor. Rachel stood motionless in the foyer, drinking in the peaceful atmosphere of her home. The living room to her right held shadowy shapes: Paige's textbooks spread across the coffee table, Jack's reading glasses perched on the coffee table, the family photos on the mantel.

The air still carried traces of dinner, the rich aroma of tomato sauce and herbs lingering hours after the meal. Rachel smiled, imagining the familiar debate between Jack and Paige—her husband steadfastly defending his traditional spaghetti while their daughter championed her favorite baked ziti. And his text from earlier had informed her that they ended up having neither, so no one had won the argument, she supposed.

She kicked off her shoes by the door, knowing Jack would probably trip over them in the morning. The thought brought a tired smile to her face—some habits never changed, no matter how many times he good-naturedly complained about her "shoe hazards."

Every muscle in her body ached for sleep, but the events of the day clung to her like a second skin she needed to shed. The downstairs bathroom would let her shower without disturbing her family. As she gathered clean towels from the linen closet, Rachel caught her reflection in the hallway mirror. She looked exhausted, but there was a familiar spark in her eyes, the one that always appeared after closing a case.

The hot water felt like heaven as she stepped under the spray, and Rachel closed her eyes, letting the steady drumming against her shoulders ease some of the day's tension. Her mind wandered back to Benson Layne's basement, to the moment they'd broken open those cages. The faces of the women they'd rescued played across her closed eyelids: Andrea Haskins, Monica Turner, Sarah Dupree—each one bearing the strange, confused expression of captives who'd been treated with twisted kindness rather than cruelty.

Monica Turner’s words echoed in her memory as she worked shampoo through her hair: "He brought us food three times a day. He made sure we had clean water. He even asked if we needed medicine." The bewilderment in her voice had been haunting. Sarah Dupree had been equally baffled, describing how Layne would read Bible passages to them, insisting he was saving their souls by forcing them to live. Sarah Dupree had perhaps been the most disturbing, her vacant stare and repeated whispers of "I don't understand why" speaking volumes about the psychological damage Layne had inflicted.

She knew she and Novak would have some paperwork to do, and a report to write up, but for now she was fine to consider it all wrapped. She hoped thinking in such a way would help her sleep more soundly.

Rachel reached for the body wash, considering how the prosecution would handle such an unusual case. Layne's defense would undoubtedly try to paint him as a misguided savior, a former youth pastor whose religious fervor had led him astray rather than a calculating predator. But Rachel knew better—she'd seen the careful planning in his operation, the way he'd positioned himself near Patterson Bridge to intercept women at their most vulnerable moments. His "kindness" was a form of control perhaps more insidious than physical abuse.

Still, she couldn't help feeling proud of how quickly she and Novak had cracked the case. Less than twenty-four hours from the call about Carla’s body being found to rescuing three women and apprehending their captor—it was the kind of win that validated her difficult journey back to active duty after cancer. And Novak... she had to admit he'd impressed her. Where she'd once resented him for not being Jack, she now saw the makings of a solid partnership. His willingness to trust her instincts on the bridge, even when her plan seemed reckless, showed how far they'd come.

As she dried off and wrapped herself in her robe, Rachel thought about how much her perspective on partnership had changed. Working with Jack had been seamless, built on years of trust and shared experiences. With Novak, she'd had to learn to trust differently, to accept that a new partner meant a new dynamic. Today had proved they were finding their rhythm.

She made her way quietly upstairs. The bedroom was dark and peaceful, Jack's steady breathing a familiar comfort as she slipped beneath the covers beside him. He stirred slightly, unconsciously moving closer to her, and she felt the usual wave of gratitude wash over her. After losing Peter, she'd never expected to find this kind of safety and love again. Jack's presence beside her was an anchor, especially on nights like this when her mind refused to settle.

Rachel lay there, listening to Jack's deep, steady breathing and the hum of central heat through the house. But as she tried to relax into the warmth of their bed, something nagged at the edges of her consciousness. The case had been solved, the victims rescued—she should have felt nothing but satisfaction. Instead, her thoughts kept circling back to Scarlett, to the crime scene photos she'd studied so carefully. Standing on Patterson Bridge, facing down Benson Layne, she'd felt a flicker of recognition, but the intensity of the moment had pushed it aside.

Now, in the quiet darkness, that flicker burst into sudden, terrible clarity.

Rachel sat up slowly, careful not to wake Jack. The details aligned with devastating precision in her mind: the careful staging of Scarlett's body, the complete lack of theft or typical assault, the way everything in the house had been left in perfect order except for Scarlett. She'd seen it before, years ago—a series of murders that had been written off as burglaries gone wrong, until she'd spotted the pattern. But they'd never been able to prove the full extent of the killer's crimes. He'd gone away on lesser charges, and she'd consoled herself with the knowledge that he was safely behind bars even though she had never thought he’d been charged with everything he’d been guilty of—namely several murders.

The memories surfaced with horrifying clarity: seven murders, each one made to look like a random home invasion, each victim positioned with the same terrible precision. They'd only been able to prove two of them, and even then, the evidence had been circumstantial. He'd gone away for manslaughter and breaking and entering—a fraction of what he deserved, but it was supposed to have been enough to keep him contained, to keep everyone safe.

Her heart began to race as the implications sank in. Sleep was impossible now. She slipped out of bed, grabbed her phone, and made her way down to the kitchen table. The digital clock on the microwave read 3:47 AM as she pulled up her contacts and found a number and name she hadn’t thought of in a long time.

Lamont Vic. An old friend from back in Quantico. They’d kept in touch over the years, though she wouldn’t call him a “friend.” But there was an existing understanding between them, founded many years ago. No matter the hour, no matter the circumstance…if you need help, call.

Her hands shook slightly as she pressed the call button, and she forced herself to take a deep breath to maintain her professional composure.

He answered on the third ring, his voice alert despite the hour. "Rachel Gift, as I live and breathe. What's got you burning the midnight oil?"

"Lamont, I'm so sorry to call this late." She tried to keep her voice steady, professional, though her heart was hammering against her ribs.

"For you? Any time. What can I do for the legendary Agent Gift?"

"I need you to look up a status report for me. Just one name. And again…I’m so sorry for the late hour."

“Woman, please. Just hold on, give me a second.” She listened as he moved around, likely getting out of bed. Seconds later, he said, “Okay. What’s the name?”

Rachel gave him the name of the criminal that had come to her mind—the criminal that now seemed to loom large like a comet in her brain. Her throat tightened as she spoke it aloud for the first time in years.

The sound of typing filled the silence, followed by a rustle of papers. "I'm not sure what you're looking for,” he said after a few moments. “But from what I can see here, it says that he was released about three months ago."

The words hit her like a physical blow. Rachel's free hand gripped the edge of the table as the room seemed to tilt sideways. Three months. He'd been free for three months, and now Scarlett was dead—murdered in exactly his signature style. A man she knew had killed at least seven others, though they'd never been able to prove it.

A man who had spent years behind bars with nothing to do but nurse his hatred for the FBI agent who'd put him there.

"Rachel? You still there?"

She forced herself to respond, to thank him and end the call, but her mind was already elsewhere. If she was right—if he had targeted Scarlett as a way to send her a message—then this was just the beginning. He'd had years to plan his revenge, to perfect his methodology.

She now knew without a shadow of a doubt. Scarlett's death wasn't just a murder; it was a declaration of war.

Rachel sat alone in the dark kitchen, the nightlight casting strange shadows on the walls. For the first time since beating cancer, she felt truly afraid again. Not for herself—she'd faced death before in multiple forms and come out stronger. No, she feared for the people she loved, for Jack sleeping peacefully upstairs, for Paige who had already lost so much. Because if she was right about this killer, he wouldn't be satisfied with just one victim. He would keep coming, targeting the people closest to her, until he had destroyed everything she held dear.

It was starting to feel all too familiar…too much like Alex Lynch.

Lucky for her, she supposed, there was something else that felt familiar: the determination and rage she could feel slithering around in her heart, daring this bastard to come at her.