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Back at home, Rachel sat on the couch beside Paige, binging her daughter’s latest Netflix obsession—something with over-dramatic teens, a murder mystery, and a lot of cringy dialogue. The soft glow of the TV filled the living room with dancing shadows, and Rachel found herself paying more attention to Paige than to the show. These quiet moments meant everything to her now. Her battle with cancer had taught her that lesson the hard way – how precious each ordinary second could be, how quickly they could slip away. And now Scarlett was yet another reminder of that.

She studied Paige's profile in the flickering light, marveling at how the round-cheeked little girl she remembered had begun transforming into a young woman. The slope of her nose, the set of her jaw – these were features that had once belonged to a child who would spend hours twirling in tutus, practicing pirouettes in the hallway until she got dizzy and collapsed in fits of giggles. Now, those same features belonged to someone who worried about pre-algebra and spent hours texting her friends. And was also beginning to wear makeup in experimental little spurts.

Rachel remembered the day Paige had announced she wanted to try soccer. She couldn't have been more than six, standing in the kitchen with her hands on her hips, declaring that ballet wasn't enough anymore – she needed both. Rachel and Peter had exchanged amused glances over their daughter's head, knowing full well that their energetic little girl would probably excel at both.

And she had, for a while. Rachel could still picture those Saturday mornings, rushing from ballet class to soccer games, Paige somehow managing to keep her ballet bun perfectly intact beneath her soccer headband. She'd been fearless then, charging after the ball with the same determination she'd shown in mastering her plies and relevés. And always turning to her parents with a large smile, seeking their approval.

And, of course, Grandma Tate had come to live with them, and Paige had found a new love, a new hero. So many afternoons had been spent baking, the two of them inseparable. The way Grandma Tate would pull a chair up to the counter so Paige could reach, showing her exactly how to measure flour, teaching her the difference between folding and stirring. The kitchen would fill with warmth and laughter and the smell of vanilla, and Paige would end up with flour on her nose and cookie dough under her fingernails.

Now, watching her twelve-year-old daughter curled up on the couch, Rachel felt that familiar mix of pride and melancholy that seemed to define parenthood. Paige's long legs were tucked beneath her, those same fingers that once clumsily shaped cookie dough now expertly navigating her phone between episodes. The little girl who once needed help reaching the kitchen counter could now raid the refrigerator without standing on tiptoe.

When she'd been sick, fighting the tumor that had nearly taken everything from her, Rachel had made countless bargains with whatever higher power might be listening. Just let me see her grow up, she'd pleaded in those dark hours when the pain was worst. Let me be there for the important moments. Now, sitting here in what anyone else might consider a completely unremarkable evening, she knew these were the important moments – these quiet interludes between the milestones.

As the current episode drew to a close, Paige stretched and reached for the remote. "I should probably start my homework," she said with a resigned sigh that seemed far too adult for Rachel's liking. "Ms. Henderson assigned this massive history project, and it's due next week."

“What’s it on?” Rachel asked.

“The Louisiana Purchase,” Paige muttered with a groan.

Before Rachel could respond, the front door opened, and Jack's familiar footsteps sounded in the entryway. Paige used the momentary distraction to slip away upstairs, leaving Rachel to greet Jack with a hug that carried all the warmth of their years together.

“How are you?” he asked right away. They’d had a very brief text conversation following the funeral, but nothing more than that.

“I’m good.”

“For real?” he asked skeptically.

“Yes, for real. And you know what also helps?”

“What’s that?” he asked as they made their way into the kitchen.

"It's taco night."

Jack's face lit up. "Is that why I'm in such a good mood? Some kind of taco precognition?"

Rachel laughed as she pulled the ground beef from the refrigerator. "Must be. Though I thought it might have something to do with that budget approval you were hoping for."

"Still pending," Jack said, washing his hands at the sink before retrieving the cutting board. "But I choose to remain optimistic." He began slicing tomatoes with practiced efficiency, the steady rhythm of the knife against the cutting board creating a comfortable backdrop for conversation.

“Still wishing you were just another grunt out in the field?” she asked.

“Sometimes. I mean…yeah, there are days where I feel like the desk and the office may as well have chains installed. But I’m settling in. I finally feel…comfortable, I guess.”

Rachel browned the meat in silence for a few minutes, her mind drifting back to the funeral, to the gnawing feeling that had been plaguing her all day. Finally, she couldn't hold it in any longer.

"Jack," she began, keeping her voice low even though Paige was safely upstairs with her homework. "I can't shake this feeling about Scarlett's death. Something about it feels wrong."

Jack's knife paused mid-slice. "Wrong how?"

"Like it wasn't random." Rachel added seasoning to the meat, stirring it with perhaps more force than necessary. "Like it was meant to send a message. To me."

"Rachel..." Jack's voice was gentle but carried a note of concern. "You know from your job that sometimes there are coincidences like this. Terrible, horrible coincidences."

"But what are the odds?" Rachel turned to face him, leaving the meat to simmer. "What are the chances that Scarlett would be killed in her home less than a week after being released from hospice? After getting good news about her cancer? After becoming my friend?"

Jack set down his knife and wiped his hands on a dish towel. "I understand why you're thinking this way. After everything with Alex Lynch, with Alice – it makes sense that you'd be hypervigilant. But sometimes terrible things just happen. Not everything is a calculated attack."

"I know that," Rachel said, turning back to the stove. "Logically, I know that. But my instincts are screaming at me, Jack. And my instincts are usually right…as conceited as that might sound."

"Yeah, your instincts are usually right," he agreed, "but you're also usually more objective. This is personal for you. You lost a friend, and you're grieving. It's natural to look for meaning, for patterns, even where there aren't any."

Rachel stirred the meat again, watching the steam rise. "The police are calling it a home invasion gone wrong. But nothing was taken. There was no forced entry, and nothing was even disturbed except..." She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence, unable to describe again the scene she'd studied in those crime scene photos.

Jack moved closer, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Listen to me. You're one of the best agents I've ever worked with, and I trust your instincts. But I also know how grief can color our perception. Both from the job standpoint and from our personal lives. Maybe give yourself some time to process before you start seeing conspiracies?"

"It's not a conspiracy theory," Rachel protested, but her voice had lost some of its conviction. "It's just... I don't know. Maybe you're right. Maybe I'm letting my emotions cloud my judgment."

But even as she said the words, that nagging feeling remained. She'd learned to trust her gut over the years, and right now, her gut was telling her that Scarlett's death was more than just another tragic statistic.

Jack resumed his vegetable chopping, and Rachel focused on finishing the taco meat, letting the familiar routine of dinner preparation ground her. From upstairs came the muffled sound of Paige's music, hopefully helping her concentrate on that history project. The normal sounds of their household – knife against cutting board, meat sizzling in the pan, music floating down the stairs – should have been comforting. Instead, they felt somehow fragile, like a soap bubble that could burst at any moment.

Rachel thought again of how cancer had taught her to cherish these ordinary moments, but her experience as an FBI agent had taught her something else: that ordinary moments could be shattered in an instant, that peace was often just an illusion. She'd lost too many people, seen too many families torn apart, to ever fully relax into the comfort of routine.

Still, she forced herself to focus on the present – on preparing dinner with her husband, on the knowing her daughter was safe upstairs. Whatever her instincts were trying to tell her about Scarlett's death, it could wait until tomorrow. For now, she would try to simply be grateful for this moment, even as part of her mind continued to turn over the details of her friend's death.