i f   s h e   r e m e m b e r e d

(a kate wise mystery—book 11)

b l a k e   p i e r c e

Blake Pierce

USA Today and #1 bestselling author Blake Pierce is the author of numerous series in the mystery and thriller genres, spanning 10 years of work, including the Jessie Hunt, Ella Dark, Rylie Page, Faith Bold and Rachel Gift series. Blake's most recent latest releases are the Alison Payne, Isla Rivers Kari Blackhorse, and Kate Valentine series.

Please visit blakepierceauthor.com to learn more, join the email list, receive free books, and stay in touch.

Copyright © 2025 by Blake Pierce. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Jacket image Copyright andreiuc88, used under license from Shutterstock.com.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

PROLOGUE

Carol Bennett stood in the doorway of what had once been her craft room, surveying the space with mixed emotions. The sewing machine had been relegated to the basement, her fabric collection boxed and stored in the garage. Her cutting table was also gone, folded away to make room for Jake's old twin bed from college. Two weeks ago, when her twenty-eight-year-old son had called to say he'd lost his marketing job and needed to move back home, she'd immediately begun the conversation without hesitation. But she did miss having her own crafting space already.

Now, as afternoon sunlight filtered through the window that used to illuminate her quilting projects, Carol pulled the fitted sheet tight across the mattress corners. The blue cotton was fresh from the dryer, still warm and smelling of the lavender fabric softener she'd always used since Jake was small. He'd protested this morning before leaving for another round of job interviews, insisting he could change his own sheets, but Carol had waved him off with the same maternal efficiency she'd employed when he was ten years old.

"I can handle my own laundry, Mom," he'd said, adjusting his tie in the hallway mirror. "You don't need to treat me like a kid."

"I know you can," she'd replied, straightening his collar despite his gentle attempts to step away. "But you're focusing on finding work. Let me worry about the domestic stuff for now."

She smoothed the top sheet now, remembering how he'd given her that look, the one that said he appreciated her care but worried about becoming too dependent on it. At twenty-eight, Jake had been living independently for six years before the layoffs hit his company. She understood his concern about regression, about falling back into old patterns that might make it harder to stand on his own feet again.

Carol tucked the sheet under the foot of the bed and reached for the comforter, a navy blue one she'd purchased specifically for this room's new purpose. Her craft supplies had accumulated over years of empty nest hobbies, but she'd cleared them out in a single weekend when Jake needed her. The decision had felt natural, automatic. In her eyes, nothing took priority over a child in need… no matter their age.

But even as she fluffed his pillows, Carol questioned whether she was doing the right thing. Jake had always been independent and self-sufficient. During college, he'd worked part-time jobs to cover his own expenses, rarely calling home for anything beyond weekly check-ins. After graduation, he'd moved three states away, built his own life, dated seriously, and seemed to be heading toward the kind of adulthood she'd hoped to raise him for.

Now he was back in his childhood bedroom, albeit a reconfigured version of it, and she found herself falling into old maternal habits. This morning, she'd already started planning his favorite dinner for tonight - pot roast with carrots and potatoes, the way she used to make it on Sundays when he was in high school. She'd also noticed his work shirts needed pressing and had mentally added that to her afternoon tasks, despite knowing he was perfectly capable of handling his own ironing.

Carol walked to the window and adjusted the blinds, letting in more light. The room still felt strange to her, caught between its former identity as her creative space and its new role as temporary housing for her adult son. She wondered if other mothers struggled with this balance. When adult children returned home, how much help was supportive and how much became enabling? Jake needed encouragement and a stable base from which to rebuild his career, but he also needed to maintain his sense of independence and self-reliance. Carol had read articles about boomerang children, about parents who inadvertently made it too comfortable for their adult kids to stay home, but the theoretical advice seemed much more complicated when applied to her own son sleeping in the next room.

She finished making the bed and moved to his dresser, where she'd already placed a small vase with flowers from her garden. It was a touch she'd added without thinking, the kind of detail she used to include in guest rooms when they had visitors. But Jake wasn't a visitor; he was her son coming home during a difficult time, and she wanted him to feel welcomed rather than like a burden.

Carol glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Four-thirty in the afternoon. Jake would be home within the hour, hopefully with good news from one of his interviews. She'd already planned to ask him about his day, to offer encouragement and perspective, to remind him that setbacks were temporary and that his experience and education would eventually connect him with the right opportunity.

Moving toward the kitchen, she began mentally reviewing the contents of her medicine cabinet. Her evening routine included a small collection of prescriptions that had accumulated over the past few years - blood pressure medication, a mild antidepressant, and a low-dose anxiety medication that her doctor had prescribed when her husband passed away two years ago. She figured she might need an extra dose of the anxiety medication. Her mind kept circling around questions about Jake's future, about whether she was helping or hindering his progress, about how long this living arrangement might last.

The kitchen felt too quiet as she moved through it, checking on the pot roast that had been slow-cooking all afternoon. She opened the refrigerator and surveyed its contents, already planning tomorrow's meals. She'd stopped at the grocery store this morning and purchased all of Jake's favorites - the specific brand of orange juice he preferred, the coffee blend he'd always liked, ingredients for the breakfast sandwiches she used to make him before school. Part of her recognized that she was probably overdoing the maternal care, but another part felt genuine satisfaction in being needed again, in having someone to nurture and support.

As the afternoon wore on toward evening, Carol found herself moving through the house with purpose, tidying spaces Jake might occupy, checking that towels were fresh in the bathroom, ensuring that the living room looked welcoming for when he returned from his job search. These small acts of preparation felt meaningful, like ways of expressing love and support that didn't require words or discussions about feelings.

She walked back to her bedroom and opened the medicine cabinet, removing her evening pills. The anxiety medication seemed particularly necessary tonight, given how her thoughts kept circling around concerns she couldn't resolve through action. As she swallowed the pills with a glass of water, Carol reminded herself that Jake was capable, intelligent, and motivated. This living arrangement was temporary, a practical solution to an unexpected problem, not a permanent regression.

Settling onto the edge of her bed for a moment of rest, Carol felt the familiar weight of parental responsibility that she'd thought was behind her. But within minutes of sitting down, an unexpected dizziness washed over her. The sensation was stronger than anything she'd experienced from her usual medications, a disorienting lightness that made the room seem to tilt slightly.

She blinked, trying to clear her vision, but the dizziness intensified rather than faded. How strange, she thought, that such a sudden drowsiness would overcome her. Her head felt heavy, her thoughts beginning to blur at the edges, and without fully deciding to do so, Carol found herself lying back against her pillows.

Sleep came quickly, deeper than her usual afternoon rest, pulling her down into unconsciousness with surprising speed. Somewhere in the distance of her fading awareness, she had the fleeting thought that someone, somehow, might be watching her navigate these difficult decisions about Jake's return home.

But that concern dissolved as the medication-induced sleep claimed her completely, leaving the house silent except for the slow bubbling of the pot roast in the kitchen and the quiet tick of the hallway clock marking time until Jake returned home.

CHAPTER ONE

Kate sat cross-legged on the living room carpet, her coffee growing cold on the side table as she watched her twenty-two-month-old son, Michael, toddle between his play kitchen and the fort Allen had constructed from throw pillows. The morning sunlight streamed through their Richmond home's bay window, illuminating the cheerful chaos of toys scattered across the hardwood floor.

"Mama, cookie!" Michael announced. He tottered over and presented Kate with a bright yellow plastic disc from his pretend oven. His dark hair stuck up at odd angles despite her attempts to smooth it down after breakfast, and his pajamas were already decorated with remnants of his morning banana.

"Oh my," Kate said, accepting the offering with theatrical enthusiasm. "This looks absolutely delicious. Did you bake this yourself?"

Michael nodded solemnly and waddled over to Allen, who was sprawled on his stomach nearby, pretending to read a newspaper while keeping one eye on their son's culinary adventures.

"Daddy, pizza!" Michael declared, shoving a red plastic triangle toward Allen's face.

Allen set down his paper and examined the toy food with the seriousness of a restaurant critic. "Hmm, excellent cheese distribution. I can tell you used the finest plastic ingredients." He made exaggerated chewing motions and patted his stomach. "Compliments to the chef."

Kate laughed, marveling at how naturally Allen had settled into fatherhood. When she'd discovered her unexpected pregnancy at fifty-six, she'd worried about everything from her energy levels to whether Allen would embrace such a dramatic change to their planned future. Instead, he'd thrown himself into parenting with the same thoughtful dedication he brought to everything else in his life. And for both of them to be playing with their son on the floor simply seemed like a dream.

"More!" Michael squealed, clapping his hands together. He spun around and returned to his kitchen, opening and closing the tiny refrigerator door with intense concentration. "Soup!" he announced, returning with a plastic bowl filled with various toy foods. "Hot soup!"

"Oh, we better be careful then," Kate said, blowing gently across the top of the bowl before pretending to take a sip. "Mmm, perfect temperature now. What kind of soup is this?"

"Um... monkey soup," Michael said, matter-of-factly.

Allen raised an eyebrow. "Monkey soup? That's quite exotic."

"And carrots," Michael added, as if this detail clarified everything.

Kate found herself thinking about their upcoming wedding, now just five weeks away. They'd planned a small ceremony downtown, with Melissa and Terry bringing Michelle. The guest list was intimate but meaningful, including a few close friends and Allen's brother visiting from Oregon.

The timing felt perfect. Michael would be just over two years old, old enough to participate in the ceremony but young enough to not overthink his place in it all. Kate had already purchased a tiny navy suit for him, complete with a clip-on bow tie that matched Allen's planned attire.

"I was thinking," Allen said, settling back against the couch, "maybe we should add a signature cocktail to the reception menu. Something simple but memorable."

"What did you have in mind?"

"Well, considering our unique circumstances, maybe something called 'Second Chances' or 'Late Bloomers.'"

Kate smiled. At nearly sixty, she'd never imagined she'd be planning a wedding and raising a toddler simultaneously, but the combination felt surprisingly natural. Her previous marriage had been built on shared ambition and mutual respect, but this relationship with Allen was rooted in genuine partnership and unexpected joy.

"Bread!" Michael interrupted their conversation, presenting Allen with a plastic loaf. "Daddy, eat bread!"

"I don't know if I have room," Allen said, patting his stomach dramatically. "I'm still full from that excellent pizza."

Michael giggled and pushed the bread closer to Allen's mouth. "Eat bread!"

"Okay, okay, I'll try a little bite." Allen made elaborate chewing sounds and rolled his eyes back in exaggerated pleasure. "Incredible. The texture is perfect."

Kate's phone buzzed on the coffee table, displaying Director Duran's name. She glanced at Allen, who nodded toward the phone. “It’s Duran,” she said almost apologetically.

"Take it," he said. "Michael and I are busy running a restaurant anyway."

Kate answered on the third ring, smiling. "Good morning, Director."

"Kate, sorry to interrupt your morning, but I have something that might interest you. Are you available to review a case file?"

"Depends on the case," Kate said, watching Michael attempt to feed Allen a plastic apple. "What are we looking at?"

"We've got a suspicious death in suburban Richmond. Looks to be a fifty-four-year-old woman named Carol Bennett. Local police initially ruled it natural causes, but something's not sitting right with them. They reached out to us through unofficial channels and want to keep things quiet for now."

Kate's attention sharpened. "What makes it suspicious?"

"Honestly, I don't have many details yet. The requesting officer mentioned some inconsistencies in the scene, but nothing concrete enough to justify a full investigation without federal involvement. They're concerned about political implications if they pursue it locally."

"Political implications?"

"Again, I don’t have all of the details. Agent Demarco is currently speaking with local PD on the scene for those sorts of details."

Kate considered this. Cases involving potential political complications often required delicate handling. Often, local investigators felt constrained in their approach because higher-ups—namely the bureau or even bodies even higher up the food chain—preferred to oversee things. From time to time, it tended to create a rather ugly back-and-forth between local PD representatives and the bureau.

"What do you need from me?"

"Just a review of the scene, maybe see if you can find some pieces others have missed. I don't expect this to require significant time investment. And honestly, I’d be thrilled if you could prove that it doesn’t need the bureau’s presence at all.”

Kate considered it for a moment. It was a local case, and it focused on a suspicious death involving a woman around her own age. Also, she'd been a homebody for over a week, only leaving to visit the grocery store. This felt like something she should at least examine.

"Sure. Send me the address and I’ll meet DeMarco over there.”

“I’ll send it right now. Thanks, Agent Wise.”

Kate ended the call and found Allen watching her with the resigned expression she'd come to recognize over the past few months.

"Case?" he asked, just as she received the text from Duran with the address.

"Maybe. It’s a suspicious death here in Richmond. Duran wants me to review the scene, see if I can put any pieces together."

"How suspicious are we talking?" He wasn’t asking with skepticism but out of pure curiosity. At least, that’s how it sounded. She was listening carefully for any signs of irritation but heard none.

"Not sure yet,” Kate said. “Local police think there's something off about what appeared to be natural causes, but they're hesitant to investigate thoroughly because of political connections."

Michael had abandoned his restaurant duties and was now attempting to climb onto the couch between Kate and Allen, clutching his plastic bread.

"Up, up!" he demanded, and Allen lifted him into his lap.

"How long do you think this will take?" Allen asked, helping Michael settle comfortably.

Kate recognized the careful tone in his voice. Three weeks ago, what was supposed to be a simple consultation on a missing person case had turned into a three-day investigation that kept her away from home much longer than anyone had anticipated. Allen had been as understanding as possible, but clearly frustrated by the unpredictability.

"Duran said he doesn't expect it to require much time. Probably just a visit to the crime scene and maybe a few hours back at the field office with DeMarco after that. There’s just no way to know for sure until I get started.”

"And if it looks like more than that?"

"Then we'll reassess," Kate said. "But honestly, local cases are usually more straightforward. No travel, no extended time away. If there's something to investigate, I can probably handle most of it from here."

Allen nodded slowly, bouncing Michael gently on his knee. "Okay. But remember, we have the final cake tasting Tuesday evening, and the florist appointment Thursday afternoon."

"I'll be there for both," Kate promised. "This is probably nothing more than crossing some T's and dotting some I's for nervous local cops."

"Cake!" Michael announced, apparently having followed enough of their conversation to identify the relevant word.

"Not yet, buddy," Allen said. "But soon."

Kate leaned over and kissed Michael's forehead, then Allen's cheek. "I'll make it as quick as possible."

"What if you find something?"

"Then I'll find something," Kate said. "But I won't let it take over our lives. We've got a wedding to plan and a restaurant to support." She gestured toward Michael's play kitchen.

Allen smiled, though she could see the slight tension around his eyes. "Alright. Go solve mysteries and fight crime. Michael and I will hold down the fort."

"More soup!" Michael declared.

"See?" Allen said. "We'll be fine. And Kate?"

"Yeah?"

"Have fun. But not too much fun."

Kate laughed and stood up, already mentally preparing herself for the crime scene. A suspicious death in her own backyard was certainly unusual, and the political complications added an interesting wrinkle. But she felt confident in her ability to handle whatever the case might involve without disrupting the careful balance she'd finally achieved between her professional instincts and her personal priorities.

"I love you," she told Allen, then scooped Michael up for a quick hug. "And I love you too, little chef."

"Love you, Mama," Michael said, then squirmed to be put down so he could return to his important work.

As Kate headed upstairs to change, she felt the familiar stirring of professional curiosity. A suspicious death, political complications, and local police looking for federal backup. It had all the elements of an interesting case, and she was looking forward to seeing how quickly she could wrap it up.

CHAPTER TWO

Kate pulled her car into the narrow driveway behind a white Ford sedan and studied the Bennett residence. The two-story colonial sat on a modest lot in what appeared to be a neighborhood caught in the slow transition between middle-class stability and economic decline. The house itself was unremarkable, with beige vinyl siding, black shutters that had seen better days, and a small, attached garage with a door that hung slightly crooked on its tracks.

The front yard was dominated by mature oak and maple trees that had clearly been planted decades ago when the neighborhood was new. Their sprawling branches created a canopy that kept most of the grass in perpetual shade, resulting in patchy brown spots and areas where moss had taken over. Fallen leaves from the previous autumn still clung to corners where the wind had deposited them, and a few scattered toys suggested that neighborhood children sometimes used the space for play.

As Kate got out of the car, she watched as DeMarco appeared on the small front porch. Through her smile of greeting, her expression carried the focused intensity Kate had come to recognize when her former partner was processing a complex scene.

"Thanks for coming out," DeMarco said, shaking Kate's hand. "I know Duran said this might be straightforward, but there are some elements that don't quite add up. Which is why I suppose he thought it was a good idea to call you."

"What do we know about the victim?" Kate asked.

"Carol Bennett, fifty-four years old. Found dead in her bedroom last night around eight-thirty by her son, Jake." DeMarco gestured toward the front door. "Jake had been out job hunting all day and came home to find her unresponsive on her bed."

Kate nodded, following DeMarco up the three concrete steps to the porch. The front door was painted a faded red that might have been cheerful when fresh but now looked tired and weathered.

"The coroner initially ruled it as natural causes," DeMarco continued. "A heart attack seemed consistent with her age and medical history. But then something prompted him to run additional tests."

"What kind of something?"

"Position of the body, apparently. She was lying on top of the covers, fully dressed, in a way that suggested she'd sat down and then fallen backward. Not typical for someone experiencing cardiac distress."

They entered the house, and Kate immediately noticed the lived-in quality of the space. The entryway opened directly into a living room furnished with pieces that had clearly been purchased over many years rather than as a coordinated set. A blue sectional sofa dominated one wall, while a mismatched recliner sat angled toward a moderately-sized television. Family photos covered most available surfaces, showing what appeared to be Carol Bennett at various stages of life with a man Kate assumed was her deceased husband and a boy who grew up to become Jake.

"The coroner found evidence she'd been dosed with something?" Kate asked, walking slowly through the living room and taking note of the overall organization. Despite the eclectic furniture, everything was clean and positioned with care.

"Preliminary results suggest a significant amount of a sedative in her system. Something that would have caused the cardiac episode." DeMarco paused by the staircase leading to the second floor. "But here's where it gets interesting. Her husband died two years ago, and Jake had been living independently in Baltimore until recently."

Kate examined a bookshelf filled with romance novels and gardening guides, noting the way the books were arranged by height rather than subject. "What changed with the son?"

"He lost his marketing job and moved back home just over a week ago. Jake's an only child, stands to inherit everything." DeMarco started up the stairs, and Kate followed. "And according to the preliminary estate evaluation, everything includes the house plus investments worth just over a million dollars total."

“Duran mentioned potential political connections. Is that where the million dollars comes in?”

“Sort of,” DeMarco said. “From what I understand, the father was linked to a few local politicians and made big donations before he passed away. But I don’t know that he’s going to factor into this at all.”

The upstairs hallway was narrow, with three doorways visible. Family photos lined the walls here as well, chronicling what appeared to be a close relationship between mother and son. Kate paused at one showing Jake in a graduation cap and gown, Carol and her late husband beaming beside him with pride.

"So we have motive and opportunity," Kate said. "What makes this a federal case rather than a straightforward local homicide?"

"Jurisdiction," DeMarco replied, stopping outside what Kate assumed was the master bedroom. "Jake's official residence was in Baltimore. His job, his apartment, his voter registration, all in Maryland. If he killed his mother, technically, we're looking at a crime that crosses state lines. Lucky for us, right?"

"Yeah, lucky." Kate peered into the bedroom where Carol Bennett had died. The space was modest but comfortable, with a queen-sized bed positioned against one wall and a dresser opposite. The comforter was slightly rumpled but not in a way that suggested struggle or distress.

"This is where she was found?"

“Yep.” DeMarco entered the room and gestured toward the foot of the bed. "Lying across the bed like this, feet still on the floor, upper body back against the mattress. Fully clothed, purse on the dresser, no signs of forced entry anywhere in the house."

Kate walked around the bed, noting the prescription bottles on the nightstand. "Her regular medications?"

"Blood pressure, mild antidepressant, and an anxiety medication prescribed after her divorce. All accounted for, proper dosage amounts." DeMarco picked up one of the bottles.

"Any idea what specific drug we're looking at if there was foul play?"

"We’re not sure yet. I’m still waiting on the full toxicology report, but the preliminary screen suggests something in the benzodiazepine family. Enough to cause respiratory depression and cardiac arrest in someone her age."

Kate moved to the window and looked out at the backyard, which showed the same combination of mature trees and patchy grass as the front. A small patio held a round table with two chairs, and she could see the remains of a garden that had probably been more ambitious in previous years.

"What's Jake's story about that evening?" she asked, turning back to examine the dresser. The surface held the usual collection of personal items: a jewelry box, reading glasses, a small stack of mail, and what appeared to be a shopping list in careful handwriting.

"He claims he was out between eleven in the morning and five in the afternoon on interviews. He met a friend for dinner after that and arrived home at around 8:30. He says when he called out to his mother, he didn't get a response. There was a pot roast going in the slow cooker, but she was nowhere to be found. He eventually came up here and found her dead. He immediately called 911." DeMarco leaned against the doorframe. "Has receipts from a coffee shop and a restaurant where he had lunch, but nothing solid for the entire afternoon."

Kate opened the jewelry box and found it organized with the same care evident elsewhere in the house. Earrings paired and arranged by type, a few modest necklaces, and a wedding ring that Carol had apparently continued wearing despite her divorce.

"Any history of conflict between mother and son?"

"According to neighbors, quite the opposite. They describe Jake as devoted, Carol as supportive. When he lost his job, she immediately offered to let him move back home while he got back on his feet."

They moved into what was clearly Jake's room, the former craft room Carol had converted for his return. Kate noticed immediately how different this space felt from the rest of the house. Where Carol's rooms showed years of accumulated comfort and personal touches, this room had the temporary quality of recent occupation.

"She converted her hobby room for him," DeMarco said. Kate could see evidence of this right away, noting the faint rectangular marks on the walls where different decorations had hung.

"Sewing and quilting, according to the neighbors. And she swapped it all out so Jake could have his old room back.” DeMarco gestured toward the neatly made bed.

Kate examined the small desk positioned under the window, which held Jake's laptop and a stack of resumes. Everything appeared organized and purposeful, suggesting someone actively engaged in job hunting rather than taking advantage of the situation.

"This doesn't feel like a man planning to murder his mother," Kate said, returning to the hallway.

"That's what's bothering me about the whole thing," DeMarco replied. "If Jake wanted to kill her so he could get his inheritance, why move back home first? Why put yourself at the very scene of the crime?”

They walked back downstairs, and Kate took another look at the living room from this new perspective. The family photos suddenly seemed more poignant, showing a relationship that had clearly been important to both mother and son.

"Unless something changed recently," Kate said. "Something that made waiting no longer an option."

"Financial pressure from losing his job?" DeMarco guessed.

"Possibly. Or maybe something about living here again, seeing his mother's daily life, triggered something we don't understand yet." Kate paused by the front window and looked out at the quiet street. "Where is Jake now?"

"The local PD arrested him this morning after the coroner called with the preliminary toxicology results. He's being held pending formal charges."

“On what grounds?” Kate asked.

“Purely circumstantial.”

Kate didn’t agree with this approach, but she did understand it on a technical level. She considered the timeline. Jake had been living in the house for just over a week, found his mother dead last night, and was arrested this morning. If he was guilty, it represented a remarkably compressed timeline for planning and executing a murder. And he had a story for the day she died that would be easy to check out.

"I noticed the camera doorbell when we came in," Kate said. "What about the security system?"

"That's another interesting detail," DeMarco replied. "The house has a basic security system, but it was disarmed when Jake found his mother's body. According to the security company, it hadn't been armed for several days."

Kate turned from the window. "Several days? Was that typical behavior for Carol?"

"Jake told police that his mother had started leaving it disarmed since he moved back home. Said she didn't want him to have to remember to disarm it when he came and went for job interviews."

This detail struck Kate as significant. If the security system had been consistently disarmed, it meant anyone with knowledge of the house's routines could have gained entry without triggering alarms. But it also suggested Carol had been making accommodations for Jake's presence, adjusting her own habits to make his temporary living situation more comfortable.

"So if Jake isn't the killer," Kate said, "the real perpetrator could have gotten in and out fairly easily while no one was home."

"Exactly. No forced entry required, no alarm system to worry about. Just knowledge of when the house would be empty."

Kate considered this scenario, but it felt unnecessarily complicated compared to the simpler explanation. Jake had motive, opportunity, and access to his mother's daily routine. He knew when she took her medications, when she would be alone in the house, and how to make her death appear natural. The jurisdictional complication that brought the FBI into the case didn't change the fundamental facts pointing toward Jake as the perpetrator.

"Have you run background checks on Jake's employment situation in Baltimore?" Kate asked, returning to the bedroom to take another look at his job search materials.

"He has a clean record, good employment history until the layoffs. His former employer confirmed he was well-regarded and that the termination was purely economic, not performance-related."

"I want to talk to him," Kate said. "And I want to see the full coroner's report when it's available. This case may be crossing state lines, but that doesn't make it federal if the motive and means are purely local."

"Agreed. But something about this whole situation feels off to me, Kate.”

“Like local PD making assumptions and lazily arresting the son?”

“Well, that, too. Yeah. But what I mean is that either Jake Bennett is an exceptionally cold-blooded killer who planned this entire scenario, or we're missing something important about what happened here."

Kate took one final look around the living room, noting again the care with which Carol Bennett had arranged her life and her home. Everything suggested a woman who had found contentment in her domestic routine, who had been genuinely pleased to support her son during a difficult period.

But she knew better than most that it was easy to hide secrets right in the middle of normalcy. And Kate was starting to wonder what secrets might be waiting if they just dug a bit deeper.

"Let's go talk to Jake," she said. "If he killed his mother, there has to be more to this story than simple inheritance. And if he didn't, then someone else had access to this house and a reason to want Carol Bennett dead."

CHAPTER THREE

The Richmond Police Department's interview room was smaller than remembered. Maybe, she thought idly, the larger spaces at the FBI field office had spoiled her. They were also a little tough-looking, with pale green walls and a metal table that had seen better days. Jake Bennett sat hunched forward in his chair, his hands clasped tightly together on the table's surface. At twenty-eight, he looked younger than Kate had anticipated, with dark hair that needed cutting and eyes that were red-rimmed from what appeared to be hours of crying.

When Kate and DeMarco entered the room, Jake looked up with an expression that combined hope and desperation. He wore the same clothes he'd apparently been arrested in that morning: khakis and a button-down shirt that suggested he'd been dressed for job interviews rather than murder.

"Mr. Bennett," Kate said, settling into the chair across from him. "I'm Agent Wise with the FBI, and this is Agent DeMarco. We'd like to ask you some questions about your mother's death."

Jake's face crumpled at the mention of his mother, and he pressed his palms against his eyes. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.”

“How are you holding up?” DeMarco asked.

He shrugged, and it seemed that the simple act took far too much effort for him. "I keep thinking this is some kind of nightmare and I'm going to wake up," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "She was fine when I left yesterday morning. We had coffee together at the kitchen table, and she was asking about my interviews."

Kate studied his body language carefully. In her experience, genuine grief was difficult to fake convincingly, and Jake's distress appeared authentic. His shoulders shook slightly as he tried to compose himself, and when he looked up at her, his eyes held the raw pain she'd seen in countless family members who'd lost someone unexpectedly. It was one part of the job she absolutely did not miss at all.

"Jake," she said gently, "I know this is incredibly difficult, but we need to understand what happened yesterday. Can you walk us through your day?"

"You're the first person who's been kind to me since they arrested me," Jake said, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "Everyone else acts like I'm already convicted. Like it’s an open and closed case."

Kate felt a familiar tug of sympathy. She'd encountered many suspects over the years, and she'd learned to distinguish between those who were genuinely confused and grief-stricken and those who were performing innocence. Jake's reaction felt real in a way that was difficult to manufacture.

"Tell us about your mother," Kate said. "How was she doing since you moved back home?"

Jake's expression brightened slightly despite his tears. "She was so excited to have me back. I mean, I know the circumstances weren't great because I lost my job, but she kept saying how happy she was that I was home again." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "She hadn't been doing very well on her own since Dad died two years ago. She tried to act like she was fine, but I could tell she was lonely. But she’d never admit it."

"How could you tell?" DeMarco asked.

"Little things. She'd call me three times a week just to chat, which wasn't like her before. And when I told her I needed to move back home temporarily, she was almost relieved. Like she'd been waiting for an excuse to have someone in the house again."

"What did she do to prepare for your return?"

"She renovated her whole craft room for me," Jake said, his voice breaking again. "Moved out all her sewing stuff, bought new furniture, even picked out curtains she thought I'd like. I kept telling her not to go to so much trouble, but she insisted… said it had been my room originally, anyway. It was the room I had when I lived there… had it since I was like five." He shook his head. "She was hovering constantly. Making my bed, doing my laundry, cooking all my favorite meals. I have to admit, I was getting a little irritated by it."

"Irritated how?" Kate asked.

"Not angry or anything. Just... I'm twenty-eight years old, you know? I can take care of myself. But every time I tried to do something for myself, she'd already done it. Yesterday morning she was insisting on packing me some snacks to eat between job interviews like I was going to school." Jake's voice caught. "Now I’d do anything to have her back, hovering and fussing over me."

The emotion in his voice seemed genuine, and Kate found herself believing his account. A man planning to murder his mother for inheritance money would be unlikely to express irritation at her care, even in hindsight. She'd thought it was a mistake to arrest him from the start, and this was only furthering her doubts.

"Let's talk about yesterday specifically," DeMarco said. "What time did you leave the house?"

"Around eleven or so. I had an 11:30 interview downtown, then lunch with a contact from my old company. After that, I had two more interviews. One way out in Brandermill. After that, I grabbed dinner with an old high school friend. Then I got home around 8:30… maybe a little after.” Jake straightened up slightly. "You can check all of that. I have my phone, well, I guess the cops have my phone now. But you can call each of the places I interviewed for. I never returned to the house at any point during the day.”

“Did you call your mom to tell her about your dinner plans?”

“No. I didn’t need to. She already knew.”

"We'll definitely verify your timeline," Kate said. "Can you tell us about each appointment?"

Jake provided detailed information about his interviews, including the names of people he'd met with and the locations of each meeting. His recall was precise and consistent, suggesting he was telling the truth about his activities. He was able to even give them the names of each person he met with during the interviews and what their positions were within the companies.

"And then, when I did finally get home,” he continued, “I called out to Mom when I came in, but she didn't answer. I figured maybe she was taking a bath or had gone to bed early." His voice dropped to almost a whisper. "I found her lying on her bed, and I knew immediately something was wrong."

"What made you know something was wrong?" Kate asked.

"She was lying on top of the covers, fully dressed, like she'd just sat down and fallen backward. And she looked..." Jake struggled to find the words. "She looked peaceful, but wrong somehow. Does that make sense? I called 911 immediately."

Kate made notes while Jake described finding his mother's body. His account matched what she'd observed at the crime scene, and his distress seemed proportional to the trauma of discovering a deceased parent.

"Jake, we need to ask about the security system," DeMarco said. "It was disarmed when you found your mother. Do you know why?"

Jake looked confused for a moment, but the expression quickly turned to one of sadness. "Yeah, actually. A few weeks ago, when I called to tell her about losing my job, she mentioned something about the security system not working right. She said he’d tried figuring it out on her own but had no luck. She said she wasn’t tech-savvy enough. I told her to call a technician, but she said she wasn’t too worried about it. Said she didn't see the big deal because her neighborhood was safe."

Kate exchanged a glance with DeMarco. This was the first mention of security system problems predating Jake's return home. But it also seemed very convenient for Jake… if he was the killer.

"Did she say what wasn't working about it?" Kate asked.

"Not really. Just that it had been acting up… sort of freezing.”

This information potentially changed the timeline of when the security system had been compromised. If Carol had been having problems with it weeks before Jake's return, it suggested the killer might have had longer to plan and observe the house's routines.

"Had your mother been acting differently lately?" DeMarco asked. "Anything unusual in her behavior or routine?"

Jake considered this question carefully. "Well, I guess she seemed happier since I moved back home, but also more anxious in some ways. Like she was worried about me finding work, worried about being a burden to me financially." His eyes teared up at this, and he added, "I think she was just so happy to have someone back in the house. I really don't think she quite recovered fully from Dad passing away."

"Was she seeing anyone professionally about her anxiety?" Kate asked.

"Her therapist, Dr. Chen. Mom's been seeing her since Dad died. Actually, she was supposed to have an appointment tomorrow, I think. She mentioned it earlier this week. Some sort of doctor specializing in empty nest-types."

Kate made a note of the therapist's name. "How often did she see Dr. Chen?"

"Every couple of weeks, usually. Mom said it helped her process the grief and adjust to living alone." Jake's expression grew thoughtful. "She seemed to really trust Dr. Chen, said she was one of the few people who understood what it was like to lose a spouse."

"Did your mother ever mention being concerned about anything? Anyone bothering her or making her feel unsafe?"

Jake shook his head. "No, nothing like that. If anything, she seemed to feel safer with me back home. She kept saying how nice it was to have someone else in the house again."

Kate studied Jake's demeanor throughout their conversation. His answers were consistent, his emotion appeared genuine, and his cooperation was complete. He'd readily offered his phone records for verification and provided specific details that could be easily checked.

"Jake, is there anything else you think we should know? Anything unusual about yesterday or the past week or so that might be relevant?"

When he shook his head, the tears started to fall again, leaking from the corners of his eyes. "Just that she was really happy," Jake said, his voice breaking again. "She kept talking about how this was just temporary, that I'd find something good soon, and that she was grateful for the chance to take care of me again." He wiped his eyes. "She said it reminded her of when I was little and she could fix everything with a home-cooked meal and a fresh load of laundry."

The image Jake painted of his mother was consistent with what Kate had observed at the house—a woman who found purpose and joy in nurturing her adult son during a difficult period. It seemed incompatible with someone planning murder for financial gain.

"We may have more questions later," Kate said. "But for now, thank you for being so cooperative. I know this is an incredibly difficult time."

"You believe me, don't you?" Jake asked, looking directly at Kate. "I know how it looks. I really do. I mean, just over a week back home and then this happening. The timing and all…it really sucks. But I would never hurt my mother. You…you have to know that,” he pleaded. “She was the most important person in my life."

Kate met his gaze and saw desperation mixed with hope. "We're going to investigate thoroughly, Jake. That's all I can promise you right now."

“How much longer will I have to stay here?”

"It depends on how quickly we can prove you're innocent," DeMarco said. "We'll have someone look into those interviews from yesterday, and that should be enough."

As they prepared to leave the interview room, Jake called out one more time. "Please find out what really happened to her. She deserves justice…and peace.” Through a cracked and trembling voice, he added: “I need to know who did this."

Once they were outside the interview room, Kate and DeMarco walked in silence for several moments before Kate spoke.

"What's your read on him?" she asked.

"Either he's an exceptional actor, or he's telling the truth," DeMarco replied. "His grief seems genuine, and his story is internally consistent. The interviews…the names he was able to give. I mean, what guilty party can just deliver that sort of stuff so easily?”

Kate nodded. "I'm inclined to believe him, too. And if I were in charge of the local PD, I’d be having some serious meetings with whichever cops were in charge of his arrest.”

“Some of the cops were indicating is finances, I think,” DeMarco said. “But even then, that would have been circumstantial at best.”

“Well, regardless of that, it still means we need to look at this case from a completely different angle."

"Starting with Dr. Chen?"

"Starting with Dr. Chen," Kate agreed. "Maybe she’ll have some insights into what could have happened. And we need to dig deeper into the security system issues. If Carol was having problems with it weeks before Jake came home, someone else might have been planning this for much longer than we initially thought."

As they left the police station, Kate found herself reconsidering everything she'd assumed about Carol Bennett's death. Jake's account painted a picture of a loving reunion between mother and son, not a domestic situation that would lead to murder. If Jake was indeed innocent, then whoever had killed her had been clever enough to make her son the obvious suspect.

The case was becoming more complex than Kate had anticipated, and she realized she might need to call Allen and warn him that this investigation could take longer than the quick consultation Director Duran had originally described. It wasn't a conversation she wanted to have, but she could already feel this case growing larger and more convoluted by the second.

CHAPTER FOUR

Diana Vance settled into her usual corner table at Bean Tree, a cozy coffee shop in Richmond's Museum District. It had become her second home over the past several weeks. She opened her laptop and positioned it at an angle that allowed her to appear focused on work while maintaining a clear view of the entrance and the seating area where Melissa Goldman typically chose to sit.

The discovery of this location had taken considerable effort and patience. Diana had spent weeks driving through Richmond's neighborhoods, learning the rhythms of Kate Wise's family life through careful observation and strategic positioning. She'd started by identifying the areas where Kate lived and worked, then gradually expanded her surveillance to include the places where Kate's family members might spend their time.

The breakthrough had come when Diana followed Melissa's car from her home one Tuesday afternoon, maintaining a careful distance as Melissa drove to this coffee shop. Diana had watched from across the street as Melissa headed inside, noting how comfortable and familiar Melissa seemed with the staff and layout. That observation had prompted Diana to return the next day, where she'd positioned herself as a new customer exploring the neighborhood.

Over the following weeks, Diana had become a regular fixture at Bean Tree, carefully documenting Melissa's patterns and preferences. She'd learned that Melissa typically visited on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, usually around 2:30, and that she had a standing order for a large caramel macchiato with an extra shot of espresso.

Diana glanced at her watch: 2:25 PM on a Thursday. If Melissa maintained her usual schedule, she would arrive within the next ten minutes. Diana had positioned herself perfectly today, with a clear sightline to Melissa's preferred table near the large windows.

The laptop screen displayed a legitimate freelance writing project Diana had picked up to maintain her cover story, but her attention was entirely focused on watching for Melissa's arrival. Diana had crafted an entire identity as a work-from-home copywriter, complete with business cards and a small portfolio of actual completed projects. The cover was solid enough to withstand casual scrutiny, which was all she needed for her current purposes.

The door chimed, and Diana felt her pulse quicken as Melissa entered, carrying the same old laptop bag over her shoulder.  Melissa looked tired, Diana noticed. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, and there were dark circles under her eyes. She wore jeans and a lightweight sweater that had seen better days, the kind of casual outfit that suggested someone prioritizing comfort and practicality over appearance.

Diana had overheard enough conversations over the past weeks to understand that Melissa was struggling with the balance between her work responsibilities and motherhood. During a phone call Melissa had taken at this very table two weeks ago, Diana had heard her explaining to someone, presumably her husband Terry, that she was feeling overwhelmed by client deadlines while trying to manage Michelle's increasingly erratic sleep schedule.

"The usual, Melissa?" called out Liam, the barista who worked most afternoon shifts. Diana had learned his name through careful observation of his interactions with regular customers.

"Please," Melissa replied.

Diana watched as Melissa went through the familiar routine—settling at her table, opening up her laptop, taking out her planner. And by the time she was done, so was Liam.

"Here you go," Jake said, delivering Melissa's caramel macchiato.

"Thank you," Melissa replied.

Through weeks of careful eavesdropping, Diana had learned about Kate's upcoming wedding, which was apparently causing Melissa some anxiety about logistics and family coordination. She'd overheard Melissa discussing flower arrangements with someone, expressing concern about whether Michelle, her daughter, would cooperate during the ceremony and whether the outdoor venue would be appropriate for a toddler.

Diana had also picked up fragments of conversations about Kate's FBI consulting work, including Melissa's mixed feelings about her mother's continued involvement in dangerous cases. During one particularly revealing phone call, Melissa had told someone that she was proud of Kate's professional accomplishments but worried about the impact on family time, especially with a new baby in the house.

These insights had helped Diana understand the family dynamics she would need to navigate when she finally made her approach. Melissa clearly loved and respected her mother, but also felt the strain of competing priorities and responsibilities. Diana planned to position herself as someone who understood those pressures, perhaps as another working mother dealing with similar challenges.

Diana opened a notebook beside her laptop and jotted down the time and details of today's observation, maintaining the appearance of taking work-related notes while actually documenting Melissa's behavior patterns. Her notes from previous visits filled several pages, creating a comprehensive picture of Melissa's routines, preferences, and personality traits.

Diana had learned that Melissa typically stayed for about forty-five minutes, long enough to catch up on emails or phone calls. Today's visit seemed likely to follow the same pattern, giving Diana time to observe and plan while maintaining her cover.

As Melissa continued her routine, checking her phone and occasionally writing something in the planner, Diana continued her surveillance with the patience and attention to detail that had served her well throughout this extended preparation phase.

Her time to strike was indeed nearly here, but Diana understood the importance of choosing exactly the right moment and approach.

The careful groundwork she'd laid over these weeks would soon pay off, allowing her to insert herself into Kate Wise's family orbit in a way that would appear completely natural and coincidental. All she needed now was the perfect opportunity to transform from anonymous observer to friendly acquaintance, beginning the next phase of her carefully orchestrated plan.

And she already knew how she was going to get it done.

CHAPTER FIVE

Dr. Cassandra Chen worked in an office building on Grove Avenue. It was a converted Victorian house that had been tastefully renovated to accommodate several small professional practices. Kate and DeMarco climbed the front steps and entered through a door marked with a discrete brass plaque listing the various therapists and counselors who worked inside.

The waiting area was small but comfortable, with soft lighting and neutral colors that suggested professional calm. A young woman sat behind a reception desk, speaking quietly into a headset while typing notes into her computer.

"We're here to see Dr. Chen," Kate said, approaching the desk right away and showing her badge. "FBI. We called ahead about Carol Bennett.”

The receptionist nodded and glanced at the clock on her computer screen. "Dr. Chen is just finishing up with a client. She should be available in about five minutes. You can have a seat if you'd like."

Kate and DeMarco settled into chairs near a small table covered with magazines focused on mental health and wellness. The atmosphere was deliberately soothing, with soft instrumental music playing at barely audible levels and several potted plants positioned around the room.

"What's your take on therapists who specialize in empty nesters?" DeMarco asked quietly.

"It’s definitely a niche specialty," Kate replied. "But then again, transitioning from active parenting to an empty house is a major life change. Some people struggle with it more than others."

“Did you, with Michelle?”

“For about half a year or so, yeah. But it just started to become the new normal for me. It wasn’t that I stopped missing her; it just became my mew way of life. If that makes sense.”

A door opened down the hallway, and they heard quiet voices as someone concluded a session. A middle-aged man emerged, nodded politely to the receptionist, and left through the front door. Moments later, a woman appeared in the hallway and started walking in their direction.

Dr. Cassandra Chen was probably in her early forties, with shoulder-length black hair styled in gentle waves and wire-rimmed glasses that gave her a scholarly appearance. She wore a black blazer over a white blouse, coming off as professional but approachable. Her posture was straight, and she moved with the confident bearing of someone comfortable in her professional environment.

"Agents Wise and DeMarco?" she asked, approaching them with an extended hand. "I'm Dr. Chen. I understand you wanted to speak with me about Carol Bennett."

"That's correct," Kate said, shaking her hand. "We appreciate you making time for us."

"Of course. I was saddened to learn about Carol's passing." Dr. Chen's expression was appropriately somber, though Kate noticed a certain clinical detachment in her tone. "I should mention that I have another client scheduled in half an hour, so I'll need to wrap up by then."

"We understand. Thank you for fitting us in."

“Follow me, please.”

Dr. Chen led them down a short hallway lined with framed certificates and diplomas. Her office was located at the end, a corner room with two large windows that filled the space with natural light. The room was decorated in warm earth tones, with a comfortable-looking couch positioned across from two matching chairs. A small fountain sat on a side table, providing gentle background sound, and several pieces of abstract art hung on the walls.  It looked more like a small lounge than a psychiatrist’s office.

"Please, have a seat," Dr. Chen said, gesturing toward the chairs while she settled onto the couch. "How can I help you understand what happened to Carol?"

"We're investigating the circumstances of her death," Kate began. "We understand she was a regular patient of yours."

"Yes, Carol had been seeing me for about twenty months. She began seeing me about two months after her husband died. She was referred to me by her primary care physician for help managing anxiety related to her grief and the adjustment to living alone."

"Can you tell us about her general state of mind recently?"

Dr. Chen paused, clearly considering her words carefully. "I need to be mindful of patient confidentiality, even after death. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course. But anything you can share with us could be very helpful.”

“Well, I can tell you that Carol's emotional state had been... complicated recently."

"Complicated how?" DeMarco asked.

"As you probably know, her adult son Jake moved back home recently after losing his job. This created some conflicting feelings for Carol that we'd been working through in our sessions."

"What kind of conflicting feelings?"

Dr. Chen adjusted her glasses and chose her words carefully. "Carol was genuinely happy to have Jake home again. She'd been struggling with loneliness since her husband's death, and having her son back in the house provided comfort and purpose. However, I had some concerns about the arrangement."

"What concerns are those?" Kate asked.

"In my professional opinion, Carol was making a mistake by allowing Jake to return home so willingly. A few days would have been fine, perhaps even beneficial for both of them. But long-term cohabitation between adult children and their parents often creates unhealthy dynamics. And it often occurs without either party knowing it’s happening."

Kate found Dr. Chen's clinical tone interesting. While her words expressed concern for Carol's wellbeing, her delivery was detached and analytical rather than emotionally invested.

"Can you be more specific about these unhealthy dynamics?"

"Certainly,” Chen said. She studied Kate for a moment, as if trying to see if she was being purposefully challenged. “When adult children return to the family home, it often prevents proper adult development and creates codependency issues. The child may become too comfortable relying on parental support, while the parent may derive unhealthy satisfaction from being needed again."

"Did Carol share your concerns about these potential issues?" Kate asked.

"That's where things became complicated. Carol understood the theoretical risks, but emotionally, she was resistant to setting appropriate boundaries. She wanted to help Jake, but she was also fulfilling her own need to feel useful and needed again."

Kate studied Dr. Chen's expression, noting the way she discussed Carol's emotional state with professional distance rather than personal warmth. "How long had you been working with Carol on these issues?"

"Since Jake moved back home, so approximately two weeks. Only two sessions. But Carol's anxiety wasn't limited to this situation."

“We understand that you specialize in working with empty nesters,” Kate said. "So I assume you work with other patients dealing with adult children returning home. Would that be accurate?"

"Yes…and it’s becoming increasingly common, actually. Economic factors often force adult children to return to their parents' homes, which can reactivate old family dynamics in ways that aren't always healthy for anyone involved."

Dr. Chen glanced at the clock on her desk, clearly mindful of her upcoming appointment. Kate decided to focus on more specific information about Carol's treatment before they were politely asked to leave.

"Dr. Chen, I'd like to ask about Carol's treatment beyond individual therapy. Was she involved in any group programs or additional support?"

Dr. Chen hesitated for a moment, apparently weighing confidentiality concerns against the needs of the investigation. "Again, I should stress that there is only so much I can tell you because of doctor-patient confidentiality. But… I suppose I’m not betraying that trust to tell you that Carol had been participating in a support group I run for empty nesters. It meets weekly, and she'd been attending regularly for several months."

"How was she responding to group therapy?"

"I didn't see a huge change, but I think it may have been helpful for Carol in some ways. I think it was just comforting for her to know that other people struggled with similar feelings. However, the situation with Jake complicated her progress. Some group members were supportive of her decision to help him, while others agreed with my assessment that she was enabling unhealthy dependence."

Kate found this dynamic interesting… if not a little messed up. She understood the therapeutic necessity of it, but it also seemed like nothing more than a lot of people judging someone else.

DeMarco shifted in her chair as if she was growing uncomfortable with the conversation. "Did Carol ever express concerns about her safety or mention anyone who might wish her harm?"

"Nothing like that, no,” Dr. Chen said as if it were a completely ridiculous notion. “Carol's anxiety was focused on internal emotional issues rather than external threats. She was concerned about making the right decisions for Jake's future and managing her own adjustment to this new living arrangement."

Kate reached into her bag and pulled out her phone, scrolling to the photos she'd taken of Carol's prescription bottles when they’d been looking through the house. "I'd like to show you something. These are medications we found in Carol's bedroom. Can you tell us which ones you prescribed for her?"

Dr. Chen examined the photos carefully, adjusting her glasses to see the labels clearly. "I prescribed the anxiety medication," she said, pointing to one of the images. "The lorazepam. But none of the others. Her primary care physician would have handled the blood pressure medication and antidepressant, I assume."

"And do the dosage and frequency look correct for what you prescribed?"

Dr. Chen studied the image and nodded. “Yes, that appears consistent with my prescription. Carol was generally compliant with her medication regimen and reported good results from the anxiety medication."

Kate studied Dr. Chen's reaction to the photos, noting that she showed no particular surprise or concern about the other medications. "Did Carol ever mention having trouble sleeping or needing additional sedation?"

"I believe she occasionally had problems sleeping, but that was much further back, closer to her husband’s death. But we addressed those concerns through therapy techniques and the prescribed anxiety medication. She never requested anything stronger."

Dr. Chen glanced at the clock again, and Kate realized their time was nearly up. "In your professional opinion, was Carol's mental state consistent with someone who might harm herself?" Kate asked.

"Not from anything I had seen. If she was having such thoughts, she was hiding them very well. Despite her anxiety about the situation with Jake, Carol was not suicidal or self-destructive. She was actively engaged in therapy and committed to working through her challenges." Dr. Chen's response was immediate and confident.

"And her relationship with Jake? Any signs of serious conflict or resentment?"

"From Carol's perspective, no. She genuinely loved Jake and wanted to support him. My concerns were about the long-term implications of their arrangement, not about any immediate interpersonal problems." She then got to her feet and frowned at them. "I'm sorry, but I really need to prepare for my next session."

"Of course," Kate said, rising from her chair. "Thank you for your time. If we have additional questions, may we contact you again?"

"That would be fine. I hope you're able to determine what happened to Carol. Despite my professional concerns about some of her choices, she was a good person who deserved better than this."

As they prepared to leave Dr. Chen's office, Kate found herself with mixed impressions of the therapist. Her information about Carol's emotional state and the family dynamics was valuable, but her clinical detachment and strong opinions about adult children living with parents seemed to color her perspective in ways that might not fully capture Carol's experience.

As they walked back to their car, Kate reflected on what they'd learned. Dr. Chen's perspective on Carol's situation was certainly relevant, but it also revealed potential biases that might have influenced her treatment approach. The information about the support group was particularly intriguing and might warrant further investigation. Then again, she knew they’d find the same hurdles with such a group—confidentiality and going on nothing more than the vague opinions of others.

"What did you think of her?" DeMarco asked as they reached the car.

"Professional, knowledgeable, but maybe a little too attached to her theoretical framework," Kate replied. "A little cold, really.”

“Yeah. I thought so, too. Sort of frigid.”

“It gave us a decent peek into Carol’s life, though,” Kate added. “And it also gives us something of a clue to look into.”

“The support groups?” DeMarco asked.

“Maybe.”

But even then, both women knew it was a flimsy lead at best. "Well, Kate… I'm not trying to tell you what to do, but you may as well go home. It's already 3:30, and let's face it… this case isn't going to be exciting enough to warrant pulling you away from your family."

Honestly, Kate felt the same way. But it was agony to think about walking away from a case with so many unanswered questions. But DeMarco was right. This wasn’t going to be a brain-buster at all. She should get back to her family and prove to Allen that she could balance these two parts of her life.

“Yeah, I agree with that,” she said as they got into the car. “You mind taking me my car? And just be sure to keep me posted. I’d still like to know how it all turns out.”

“Yeah, of course.”

DeMarco started the car and pulled out into the afternoon traffic, light and not yet affected by the rush hour lag. Kate could already feel the sting of disappointment—of walking away from a case without officially solving it. But she knew it might very well also be the best way to force herself to walk away from a career that had somehow called her back after so long.

CHAPTER SIX

Kate pulled into her driveway just before 5:00, and when she stepped out of the car, she could smell something grilling from the backyard. Allen had apparently already gotten a start on dinner. The smell of it dismissed any lingering doubts she'd had about going home to a family meal instead of sticking it out at the field office with DeMarco.

As she entered through the front door, the savory smell of grilling chicken greeted her, along with the sound of Michael's cheerful babbling from the living room. Allen appeared in the hallway, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel and wearing the casual jeans and polo shirt he'd changed into after work.

"Perfect timing," he said, kissing her cheek. "I just put the chicken on the grill. How was your day?"

"Interesting," Kate replied, setting down her purse and taking a moment to appreciate the domestic normalcy around her. "How was yours? And how's our little guy been?"

"Good day at the office, no major crises. Michael's been an angel, though he insisted on helping me make his lunch earlier. Half the peanut butter ended up on the counter instead of the sandwich."

Kate smiled, feeling some of the day's tension begin to ease. She walked into the living room where Michael sat cross-legged on the carpet, completely absorbed in a coloring book. His tongue stuck out slightly in concentration as he carefully applied a blue crayon to what appeared to be a drawing of a dog in a field of flowers.

"Hi, sweetheart," Kate said, kneeling down beside him. "What are you coloring?"

"Doggy!" Michael announced proudly, holding up the book to show her his work. The blue scribbles went well outside the lines, but his enthusiasm was infectious.

"That's a beautiful blue doggy," Kate said, ruffling his hair. "Are you being good for Daddy?"

Michael nodded vigorously and returned to his coloring with renewed focus. Kate watched him for a moment, marveling at his ability to find complete contentment in such simple activities. She wondered how much longer before the obsession with screen would begin—something she’d read a ton about the moment he was born.

"Come help me with the salad," Allen called from the kitchen. "I've got everything chopped, but I could use an extra pair of hands while I deal with the chicken."

Kate joined Allen in the kitchen, where he'd laid out an impressive array of salad ingredients on the counter. Cherry tomatoes, cucumber slices, red onion, mixed greens, and chunks of fresh mozzarella were arranged in separate bowls, ready to be assembled.

"This looks wonderful," Kate said, reaching for the salad bowl. "You've been busy."

"I figured after a day of investigating, you might appreciate something fresh and light." Allen moved to the sliding door that led to their small backyard patio, where their grill was sending up aromatic smoke. "Chicken should be ready in about ten minutes."

Kate began assembling the salad, enjoying the meditative process of combining the colorful ingredients. The normalcy of the task was a welcome contrast to the day's more serious concerns about Carol Bennett's death and Jake's situation… though they still lurked at the back of her mind.

"So tell me about this case," Allen said, returning from checking the grill. "You said it was local, which seemed promising for keeping you close to home."

"It is local, which is nice," Kate replied, tossing the salad ingredients together. "But it's turning out to be a bit of a dud."

"Then why call you at all?"

Kate considered how much detail to share, knowing Allen was genuinely interested but also aware that discussing active cases required some discretion. "There's a woman who died under suspicious circumstances, and her adult son is the primary suspect. But after interviewing him today, I have serious doubts about his guilt. But it seems to be the only real solution."

"What kind of doubts?"

"His grief seems genuine, his story is consistent, and he was cooperative to the point of offering evidence that might clear him. Either he's an exceptional actor, or someone else wanted his mother dead."

Allen opened the refrigerator and retrieved a bottle of salad dressing. "What does your partner think?"

"DeMarco agrees that something doesn't feel right about the obvious answer. We spent the afternoon interviewing the victim's therapist, which raised some interesting questions but didn't provide clear answers."

"Therapist?"

"The victim had been seeing someone who specializes in empty nest syndrome. Apparently, it's more common than I realized, parents struggling with identity and purpose after their children leave home."

Allen nodded thoughtfully. "That makes sense. I can imagine it would be a difficult transition, especially for people whose identities were closely tied to active parenting."

Kate appreciated Allen's perspective on family dynamics, particularly given their own recent experience with unexpected parenthood. "The therapist had some strong opinions about adult children returning home, which adds another layer to the family situation."

Kate finished assembling the salad and moved to the cabinet to retrieve plates for dinner. The routine of preparing their evening meal felt comforting after a day spent examining the darker aspects of family relationships.

"Daddy, hungry!" Michael called from the living room, apparently having finished his coloring session.

"Perfect timing, buddy," Allen replied. "Dinner's almost ready."

Kate went to collect Michael, lifting him easily and carrying him to the kitchen, where his highchair waited. Allen had already prepared his portion of the meal, with cut-up tomatoes, small pieces of chicken, and cubes of cheese arranged on his special divided plate.

"Look what we have for you," Kate said, settling Michael into his highchair and fastening the safety straps. "Tomatoes and cheese and chicken."

"Cheese!" Michael said excitedly, immediately reaching for one of the yellow cubes. Cheese had recently become his favorite food. Last week, it was vanilla yogurt. And Kate was certain it would be something new next week.

Allen brought the grilled chicken inside, the meat perfectly cooked with appealing grill marks. He began slicing it into strips for the salad while Kate poured drinks for all of them, including a small cup of milk for Michael.

"These smells amazing," Kate said, appreciating both the food and the comfortable family atmosphere. "Thank you for handling dinner tonight."

"My pleasure.” Allen plated the chicken and brought everything to their small dining table. "I'm just glad you’re home… and that this wasn't another one of those cases that kept you away from us for days."

Kate smiled and nodded in agreement, settling into her chair beside Michael's highchair. "Me too. There's definitely something to be said for investigating cases close to home."

As they began eating, Kate found herself genuinely enjoying the simple pleasure of sharing a meal with Allen and Michael. The grilled chicken was tender and flavorful, the salad fresh and satisfying. Michael attacked his food with typical toddler enthusiasm, managing to get as much on his face and hands as in his mouth.

"Good chicken, Daddy," Michael announced between bites, holding up a piece for Allen to see.

"Thank you, buddy. I'm glad you like it."

Kate watched the interaction between Allen and Michael, feeling grateful for the stability and warmth of their family life. After years of balancing demanding FBI cases with family obligations, she'd found a rhythm that allowed her to contribute professionally while being present for the daily moments that mattered most.

But even as she participated in the dinner conversation and helped Michael with his food, part of her attention remained focused on the Bennett case. Jake's genuine distress during their interview, the questions raised by Dr. Chen's strong opinions, and the revelation about Carol's participation in an empty nest support group all continued to puzzle her.

Michael dropped a piece of cheese on the floor and looked concerned about the accident. "Uh oh," he said, pointing at the fallen food.

"It's okay, sweetheart," Kate said, picking up the cheese and disposing of it. "Accidents happen."

As they continued their meal, Kate made an effort to focus on her family rather than the case. Allen told her about a new project at work, and they discussed weekend plans that might include a trip to the zoo if the weather was nice. Michael contributed his own commentary, much of which was incomprehensible but delivered with great enthusiasm.

Despite her best efforts to be present, however, Kate found her thoughts returning to the questions raised by the day's interviews. Dr. Chen's clinical detachment and strong theoretical opinions, Jake's obvious grief and cooperation, and the missing pieces of the puzzle that didn't fit the obvious narrative of family murder for inheritance.

The medications found in Carol's bedroom particularly bothered her. The coroner’s input had suggested that someone had administered a sedative that wasn't among her prescribed medications, which suggested premeditation and knowledge of drug interactions. Jake would have had access to his mother's daily routine, but would he have known what combination of drugs would cause a fatal cardiac episode?

And then there was the empty nest support group that Carol had been attending weekly. Kate wondered about the other members of that group and whether any of them shared Dr. Chen's strong opinions about Carol's decision to welcome Jake back home.

"More cheese, please," Michael requested, having finished his original portion.

Kate gave him a few more cubes, which he started eating right away. She smiled at him, and he smiled right back, cheese and all.

As dinner concluded and they began cleaning up, Kate realized that despite her physical presence at home, the case was still calling to her. The questions and inconsistencies demanded answers, and she knew she wouldn't be able to fully relax until she understood what had really happened to Carol Bennett and whether Jake was truly innocent of his mother's murder.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Maria Rodriguez pulled the bedroom door closed with a soft click, finally allowing herself to exhale after the lengthy bedtime routine with her two boys. At thirty, she'd become an expert at managing the chaos of single motherhood, but getting both Diego and Luis settled for the night in their new surroundings still required patience and creativity.

The room had been her father's home office just three weeks ago, filled with his desk, computer, and the filing cabinets where he'd organized decades of paperwork from his job at the water treatment plant. Now it held two twin beds positioned against opposite walls, a shared dresser, and a bookshelf filled with picture books and toys that her father had quietly accumulated since learning about her decision to leave her marriage.

Maria smiled as she remembered the excitement in her father’s voice when she'd called to tell him she was ready to come home with the boys. He'd been encouraging her to leave her abusive husband for months, offering his house as a safe haven whenever she was ready to take that step. When she'd finally found the courage to pack her things and drive the four hours from her old life to her father's door, he'd welcomed them with open arms and immediate action to make them comfortable. (And, depending on his mood, also with the offer to pay a visit to her husband and beat the shit out of him).

The transformation of his office had happened overnight. Thomas, her father, had moved his desk to a corner of the living room and had spent an entire weekend converting the space into a proper bedroom for his grandsons. He'd enlisted Maria's help in choosing paint colors and bedding, but the project had clearly brought him genuine joy. Watching him assemble the twin beds with Diego helping by handing him screws, Maria had realized how much her father had missed having family in the house.

Two-year-old Luis had fallen asleep quickly tonight, exhausted from a day of exploring the backyard and playing with the toy trucks Thomas had surprised him with. Five-year-old Diego had required more negotiation, worried about monsters in the new room and missing his familiar surroundings. Maria had sat with him for nearly an hour, reading stories and reassuring him that they were safe here with Grandpa.

"Mama, is Daddy going to find us here?" Diego had asked, his small voice carrying the anxiety that had become too familiar over the past few months.

"Grandpa won't let anything bad happen to us," Maria had replied, stroking his hair until his breathing deepened into sleep. “We’re safe here.”

The reassurance had been true, but it also carried weight that concerned her. Thomas had been worried about her ex-husband Carlos since the day they'd arrived. Carlos had already shown up twice, unannounced and angry, demanding to see the boys and making threats about custody that had no legal basis. Both times, Thomas had positioned himself between Carlos and the front door, his voice calm but firm as he'd told Carlos to leave the property… with an aluminum baseball bat in his hands.

"Next time he shows up, I'm calling the cops," Thomas had said after the second incident. "He can't just come here making demands and scaring the boys."

Maria had agreed, though she knew Carlos's unpredictable behavior would continue to be a source of stress for all of them. The divorce proceedings were complicated by Carlos's refusal to accept that the marriage was over, and his recent job loss had made him even more volatile than usual.

But tonight felt peaceful. The boys were asleep, the house was quiet, and Maria was grateful for the safety and stability her father had provided. Thomas had insisted that she and the boys stay as long as they needed, that his house was their house, and that he was happier with a full home than he'd been living alone since Maria's mother had died five years earlier.

Maria walked down the hallway toward the staircase, intending to check on her father before heading to bed herself. The house was a modest two-story that Thomas had bought when Maria was in high school, and she knew its sounds and rhythms from years of living here. Usually by this time of night, she could hear the television from the living room, where Thomas liked to watch the late news before going to bed.

Tonight, however, the house was unusually quiet. Maria paused at the top of the stairs, listening for the familiar sounds of her father's evening routine. When she didn't hear anything, she made her way downstairs to check on him.

The living room was empty, with the television turned off and Thomas's reading chair unoccupied. His reading glasses sat on the side table next to a coffee mug that was still half full, suggesting he'd been there recently but had gotten up for some reason.

"Dad?" Maria called softly, not wanting to wake the boys if Thomas had simply gone to bed early.

When she didn't receive a response, Maria walked to the kitchen, thinking he might be getting a late-night snack or taking his evening medications. The kitchen was dark and empty, with the dinner dishes they'd washed together still drying in the rack beside the sink.

A slight concern began to creep into Maria's thoughts. Thomas was a creature of habit who rarely deviated from his established routines. He always watched the news until ten-thirty, always checked the locks on the doors before going upstairs, and always called out goodnight to Maria and the boys, even if they were already asleep.

"Dad, are you okay?" she called again, a little louder this time.

The silence that greeted her question felt different now, heavier and more ominous. Maria checked the back door to see if he might have gone outside for some reason, but it was locked, and the porch light was off. His car was still in the driveway, visible through the kitchen window.

Maria returned to the living room and noticed that the lamp beside Thomas's chair was still on, along with the reading glasses and half-finished coffee that suggested an interrupted evening rather than a planned bedtime. Her concern deepened as she realized something wasn't right about the scene.

She climbed the stairs, thinking Thomas might have gone to bed without his usual routine, perhaps feeling unwell or simply more tired than usual. His bedroom door was open, but when she peered inside, the bed was still made and empty.

"Dad, where are you?" Maria called, her voice carrying more urgency now.

The bathroom door was closed, and Maria realized she hadn't checked there yet. Perhaps Thomas had been feeling sick and hadn't wanted to worry her by mentioning it. She knocked gently on the door.

"Dad? Are you in there?"

The silence that answered her knock sent a chill through Maria's chest. She tried the door handle and found it unlocked, pushing it open slowly while calling out again.

"Dad, I'm coming in, okay?”

The sight that greeted her when the door swung open stopped her breath completely. Her father was lying on the bathroom floor, his body positioned as if he'd fallen backward from a standing position. His eyes were wide open, staring at the ceiling, but his chest wasn't moving.

"Oh God," Maria whispered, dropping to her knees beside him. "Dad? Dad, can you hear me?"

She pressed her hand against his chest, feeling for a heartbeat or any sign of breathing, but his body was already cooling and still. His face had a peaceful expression despite the wide-open eyes, as if whatever had happened had occurred quickly and without struggle.

Maria's hands shook as she reached for his wrist, checking for a pulse she knew she wouldn't find. He was clearly dead, though she couldn't understand what had happened. He'd been fine at dinner, laughing with the boys and helping Diego with a puzzle. There had been no signs of illness or distress.

The reality of the situation began to crash over her in waves. He was gone…

Maria sat back on her heels, struggling to process what she was seeing. Thomas was only sixty-two years old and had always been in good health. He took medication for high blood pressure, but had no history of heart problems or other serious health issues. The sudden nature of his death seemed impossible and wrong. And underneath all of these immediate concerns was a darker worry that Maria tried to push away. Carlos knew where they were living now. He'd shown up twice already, angry and making threats. With Thomas gone, Maria and the boys would be vulnerable in ways that terrified her to consider.

Maria forced herself to stand up, her legs unsteady as she backed away from her father's body. She needed to call for help, needed to start dealing with the reality of this tragedy. But as she reached for her phone, she couldn't shake the feeling that, giving the timing of it all, this was no mere coincidence.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The shrill ring of her phone cut through the darkness, jerking Kate from a deep sleep.

She fumbled for her phone on her nightstand, her eyes squinting against the bright display. She could have sworn she'd put it on silent before bed, but old habits die hard, she supposed. It was one of those small things from her constant bureau days that she kept forgetting to change.

The caller ID showed DeMarco's name, along with the time: 12:15 AM. Kate slid her finger across the screen to accept the call.

"DeMarco? What's going on?"

"Kate, I'm sorry to wake you, but I'm en route to a potential crime scene that looks like it could be connected to Carol Bennett." DeMarco's voice carried that familiar urgency that Kate had come to recognize over their years of partnership. "I know you're not officially on this case, but I thought you might want to know… and maybe even come along."

Kate sat up in bed, the fog of sleep clearing from her mind as she considered the offer. Part of her wanted to say no, to roll over and go back to sleep, to maintain the boundaries she'd been trying to establish. But the investigator in her, the part that had never fully retired, stirred with interest. She thought long and hard about it, weighing her desire to be involved against her promise to herself about stepping back.

She thought so long that DeMarco said: “Kate? Did you fall back asleep?”

“No. I’m here. Where is it?”

"About fifteen minutes from your place. I can pick you up in ten if you're interested."

Kate glanced over at Allen, who was beginning to stir from the conversation. The decision felt heavier than it should have, loaded with implications about what kind of life she was choosing to lead. But her curiosity won out… as it usually did.

"Alright. I'll be ready."

"Great. See you in ten."

As Kate ended the call, Allen rolled over, his hair tousled with sleep and his eyes barely open. "Let me guess," he said with a drowsy smile, "one of your friends wants to grab coffee at midnight?"

"Something like that." Kate swung her legs out of bed and reached for the clothes she'd laid out on the chair the night before. "DeMarco has a scene that might be connected to the case I was consulting on yesterday."

Allen propped himself up on one elbow, more awake now. "The empty nest thing?"

"Yeah." Kate pulled on her jeans and reached for a sweater. "I'm sorry about this. I know it's late."

"It's fine," Allen said, though she could hear the resignation in his voice. It wasn't irritation, exactly, but something close to it. "Just tell your friends to stop calling so late. Some of us need our beauty sleep."

Kate leaned over and kissed his forehead. "I'll try to keep it quiet when I get back."

"Be careful," he murmured, already settling back into his pillow. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Kate finished getting dressed quickly, quietly grabbed her badge and gun from the safe in the bedroom, and made her way downstairs. The house had always felt different in the middle of the night, more spacious somehow, the familiar creaks and settles of the old structure more pronounced in the silence. She checked on Michael, who was sleeping peacefully in what he was currently lovingly calling his Big Boy Bed, then grabbed her jacket from the hall closet.

She was waiting on the front porch when DeMarco's sedan pulled into the driveway, its headlights cutting through the darkness of the suburban street. Kate felt a familiar flutter of excitement in her chest as she walked toward the car, the same anticipation that had driven her through decades of cases. She slid into the passenger seat and the familiar scent of DeMarco's car – a mixture of coffee, leather, and the faint trace of the vanilla air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror.

"Thanks for coming," DeMarco said as she backed out of the driveway. "I know this isn't exactly your problem anymore, but I didn’t want to leave you out of it."

"No worries at all,” Kate said, settling into her seat and buckling her seatbelt. “I’m glad you called. Now…fill me in.”

***

By the time they arrived at the Rodriguez home, DeMarco had given Kate all the details she'd gathered from the initial responding officers. Another victim who had opened his home to a child in need to a safe space, and killed by what appeared, at first glance, to look like a heart attack.

 The house was a modest two-story colonial in a neighborhood that had seen better days, with small front yards and driveways barely wide enough for one car. Police vehicles lined the street, their red and blue lights creating an intermittent light show against the neighboring houses. It all looked quite foreboding in the gloom created by streetlights and a pitch-black night.

The home's front door stood open, spilling warm light onto the small concrete porch. Kate could see uniformed officers moving around inside, their radios crackling with periodic updates. A woman in her forties sat on the front steps, wrapped in a thick bathrobe and talking quietly to a female officer who was taking notes.

"I’m assuming that's Maria Rodriguez," DeMarco said as they approached the house. "She's the one who found him... the daughter."

Maria looked up as they approached, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy from crying. She had dark hair pulled back in a loose ponytail and the kind of exhausted expression that came only from grief and loss. The officer standing with her, a young woman with short blonde hair, stood up as Kate and DeMarco showed their credentials.

"Agent DeMarco," the officer said. "Thanks for getting here so quickly. And you must be Agent Wise." They all shook hands as the officer said: "I'm Officer Jenkins. Ms. Rodriguez has been very cooperative, though understandably shaken. She's already given us her statement twice, but she's willing to go through it again if you need her to."

Maria nodded as she looked to the agents. Kate crouched down next to Maria, bringing herself to eye level. "I know this is difficult, and I know you've already told your story. But would you mind walking us through what happened tonight? Sometimes fresh ears pick up details that others might miss."

Maria wiped at her eyes with a tissue that had clearly seen heavy use. "It's okay. I understand. I…God, it still doesn’t even seem real. Maybe the more I tell it, the more real it… it…"

She stopped here to catch her breath and stifle a sob.

"Take your time," Kate said gently.

Maria took a shaky breath and bit nervously at her bottom lip. "I've been staying here with Dad for the past few weeks with my kids. We had to leave our house because of... problems with my husband." She wiped at her eyes again. "Dad said we could stay as long as we needed to. He was so good to us. Even with his health issues, he didn’t even hesitate to take us in."

"So you’ve been living here?" Kate asked gently.

"Yes. I had put the kids to bed around nine, and Dad was watching TV in his chair like he always does. But when I went back out to talk to him… he was… was…”

"Where were your children when you found him?" DeMarco asked.

"Upstairs sleeping. I had just put them down. And when I realized what… what had happened, I called my friend right away, and she came to get them. She's a good friend…. very close. My kids call her Aunt Trista. I didn't want them to see their grandfather like that." Maria shook her head. "They've been through enough already with everything that's been happening at home."

Kate studied Maria's face, noting the exhaustion that seemed to go deeper than just tonight's tragedy. "You mentioned your father had been having health issues. What kind of problems was he dealing with?"

"His heart, mainly. He had a heart attack two years ago, and since then, he's been on all kinds of medications. Blood thinners, cholesterol medicine, beta blockers." Maria paused. "And lately he'd been really stressed about us being here. Not that he didn't want us – he was happy to help – but he was worried about having enough space, about being able to take care of us properly."

"Had he seemed particularly stressed recently?" Kate asked. "More than usual, I mean?"

Maria considered this. "I guess it stressed him out the two times my husband came by. He'd get pretty worked up about that, but in the end, it all sort of relieved itself. Also… he kept talking about maybe needing to find us a bigger place, somewhere more permanent, just in case we all needed to stay together for a long time. He felt bad that the kids had to share the small upstairs bedroom, and he was worried about me sleeping on the couch." She looked down at her hands. "I kept telling him it was fine, that we were grateful just to have somewhere safe to stay, but he was the kind of man who wanted to fix everything for everyone."

Kate and DeMarco exchanged a look. The stress of suddenly having his daughter and grandchildren living with him, especially under difficult circumstances, could certainly have contributed to Victor Rodriguez's anxiety levels.

"Would it be alright if we took a look around?" Kate asked. "Just to get a better sense of what happened?"

"Of course. The police already said it was okay." Maria stood up, pulling her robe tighter around herself. "Do you want me to show you around, or would you prefer to look on your own?"

"We can manage," Kate said. "Why don't you stay here with Officer Jenkins? We won't be long."

The interior of the Rodriguez house was clean but dated, with furniture that looked like it had been purchased in the 1990s and carpet that had seen a stain or two. The living room was small and cluttered with the accumulated possessions of a long life: family photos covering every surface, stacks of books and magazines, a collection of ceramic figurines on the mantelpiece.

Victor Rodriguez lay on the floor of the bathroom, his body positioned as if he'd done his best to catch himself on the sink when he fell. He was a thin man in his seventies, wearing a cardigan sweater over a white undershirt and brown slacks. His face was surprisingly peaceful.

The coroner's assistant stood inside the bathroom, taking notes with his phone. He was a younger man, dressed in scrubs and sneakers. He looked up as they entered and said, with little to no emotion, "Looks like a straightforward cardiac event. No obvious signs of trauma or struggle. We'll know more after the autopsy, but I'd guess his heart just gave out."

Kate studied the scene, her trained eye taking in details that might not be obvious to others. She knew that the biggest link here wasn’t anything tangible; it was the fact that Mr. Rodriguez had recently opened his home to a child in need. And there was also the fact that he had recently been having health issues.

"Would you mind if I took a look at his medications?” she asked the coroner’s assistant. “I'm curious about what he was taking."

"Be my guest. Just don't disturb anything, please."

Kate stepped inside, finding the space even smaller and more cramped than it had seemed from the outside. The medicine cabinet was to the right of the sink, in a drawer…so not really a medicine cabinet. It was filled with prescription bottles, their labels facing outward in neat rows.

Most of the medications were what she'd expect for an elderly man with heart problems: Metoprolol for blood pressure, Lipitor for cholesterol, and Warfarin for blood clots. But one bottle caught her attention immediately. The label read "Lorazepam 1mg."

It was an anti-anxiety medication – and the prescribing physician was listed as Dr. Cassandra Chen. It was the same anti-anxiety medication she’d prescribed for Carol Bennett.

Kate felt her pulse quicken. She looked over to DeMarco and showed her the bottle.

"Same doctor as Carol Bennett," DeMarco said quietly.

"Same doctor," Kate confirmed. "And same prescription, too. And look at the date on this prescription. It was filled just two weeks ago."

DeMarco studied the label. "You think there's a connection?"

Kate looked around the small bathroom, taking in the other details she'd missed on her first pass. The other medication bottles were organized with the kind of precision that suggested someone who took their health seriously, someone who wouldn't make careless mistakes with their pills. But the Lorazepam bottle was slightly out of place, sitting at an angle that didn't match the careful arrangement of the others.

"I think it’s very suspicious, actually," Kate said. "

They made their way back to the living room, where Maria was had come inside. She was sitting with Officer Jenkinson the couch. The coroner's assistant was preparing to remove the body with the help of the ME, who had just arrived. It all now had the feel of a scene that was beginning to wind down.

"Mrs. Rodriguez," Kate said, approaching her gently. "I have one more question. Do you know if your father was seeing a psychiatrist or therapist recently? Someone who might have prescribed him anxiety medication?"

Maria looked surprised. "Dad seeing a shrink? No, I don't think so. At least, if he was, he certainly didn’t tell me.”

“Did you know he was one anti-anxiety medication?”

She shook her head slowly, as if ashamed of not knowing this bit of information.

“Well, that’s all out of us for now,” DeMarco said. “We’ll reach out if we have any further questions. And I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” Maria said in little more than a whisper.

As they prepared to leave the scene, Kate found herself feeling that the solid lead they’d established was a string one. Jake Bennett had been a suspect due to mere circumstance. But right now, every single finger in the case seemed to be pointing to Dr. Cassandra Chen, and the line of evidence was simple enough to follow.

Both victims were empty-nesters. And they had both been prescribed the same medicine by Dr. Cassandra Chen.

And both were now dead.

The next step was quite obvious, and it was communicated in nothing more than a glance between Kate and DeMarco as they got back into the car under a moonless sky that seemed indifferent to the entire ordeal.

CHAPTER NINE

"What the bloody hell is going on?"

The question came from the mouth of Mr. Alex Chen, and it was very loud.

Kate stood in the tastefully decorated living room of Dr. Cassandra Chen's home at 3:40 in the morning, watching as two backup officers placed handcuffs on the psychiatrist while DeMarco read her rights. The scene felt surreal in the soft glow of the table lamps that had been switched on to illuminate the arrest. Dr. Chen, roused from sleep and still wearing silk pajamas, looked bewildered and frightened as the metal restraints clicked into place around her wrists.

Mr. Chen, a tall man with graying hair, stood in the doorway between the living room and kitchen, his face flushed with anger and disbelief. He wore a rumpled t-shirt and boxer shorts, having clearly been awakened by the commotion of police entering his home with a warrant.

"You have the right to remain silent," DeMarco continued, her voice steady and professional despite the early hour. "Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."

"This is insane," Mr. Chen said, his voice rising. "Cassandra, don't say anything. I'm calling our lawyer right now." He pointed an accusatory finger at Kate. "You people have made a terrible mistake."

Kate stepped forward, her hands raised in a calming gesture. She understood his anger and honestly didn't blame him for it. If someone had burst into her home in the middle of the night to arrest Allen, she'd be just as furious and protective. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if it was easier to understand the other side of these situations now that she wasn’t full-time.

"Mr. Chen, I know this is incredibly upsetting and confusing," she said, keeping her voice calm and measured. "Your wife is being arrested under suspicion of—”

“Arrested! This is insanity.”

"It may be. But we have certain evidence that we are following, and as such, we are taking her in on suspicion of murder, or at least conspiracy to commit murder. I understand how shocking this must be."

"Murder?" Mr. Chen's voice cracked. "Cassandra saves lives. She helps people. This is absolutely ridiculous, and you and your entire department are sure as hell going to be hearing from our lawyer!"

Kate glanced at Dr. Chen, who remained silent as DeMarco finished reading her rights. The woman’s face was pale, but her expression was more confused than guilty. She looked like someone who genuinely didn't understand what was happening to her… that maybe she was having a very realistic dream.

"The circumstantial evidence has pointed to your wife as a prime suspect in our case," Kate continued, choosing her words carefully. "We have two victims who were both patients of hers, both prescribed medication by her, and both found dead under circumstances that suggest possible foul play."

"Circumstantial evidence?" Mr. Chen scoffed. "That's what you're basing this on? The fact that she treated these people? She's a psychiatrist, for God's sake. She treats hundreds of patients."

One of the backup officers, a stocky man with a mustache, cleared his throat. "Ma'am, we're ready to transport the suspect."

Kate nodded but held up a hand for them to wait a moment longer. Something was bothering her about this whole situation, the same nagging feeling she'd had when Jake Bennett was their prime suspect. The evidence pointed to Dr. Chen, certainly. She had been treating both Carol Bennett and Thomas Rodriguez for anxiety, and she had shown clear disdain during their interview for empty-nesters who allowed their adult children to move back home. The pieces fit together logically.

But they had fit together logically with Jake, too, at one point.

"Mr. Chen," Kate said, "I want you to know that we're still investigating. This arrest doesn't mean the case is closed or that we've stopped looking for answers."

"Looking for answers?" His voice was bitter now. "You've already decided she's guilty. You've dragged her out of her bed like she's some kind of criminal."

Dr. Chen spoke for the first time since the arrest began. Her voice was very calm and she sounded simply bothered than angry or worried. "Richard, please. Let them do their job." Her voice was quiet but steady. "If I'm innocent, which I am, then the truth will come out."

"The truth?" Mr. Chen turned to his wife, his expression a mixture of love and desperation. "The truth is that you've dedicated your life to helping people with mental health issues. The truth is that you would never hurt anyone, let alone your own patients."

Kate studied Dr. Chen's face, looking for any sign of deception or guilt. What she saw was a woman who appeared genuinely confused and frightened, not someone who looked like they'd been caught in a lie. It was the same feeling she'd had about Jake Bennett during his interview, the sense that while the evidence pointed in one direction, something fundamental was missing.

"We need to go," DeMarco said quietly to Kate. "I’d like to get her processed and into an interview room before that lawyer shows up."

Kate nodded, but her instincts continued to bother her. Yes, Dr. Chen had access to both victims. Yes, she had prescribed medication to both of them. Yes, she had expressed negative opinions about empty-nesters who enabled their adult children. But something about the case felt incomplete, like they were looking at a puzzle with several pieces still missing.

As the officers began to escort Dr. Chen toward the front door, Mr. Chen followed, his voice growing more desperate. "Cassandra, don't say anything without the lawyer present. Do you hear me? Not a word."

"I understand," Dr. Chen replied, turning back to look at her husband. "I love you, Alex. This will all be sorted out."

"I love you too," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "This is… this is such bullshit!"

Kate watched the exchange, noting the genuine affection between the couple. In her experience, people who were guilty of serious crimes often struggled to maintain normal relationships, especially under the stress of investigation and arrest. The Chens seemed to have a solid, loving marriage, which didn't prove Dr. Chen's innocence but did add another layer of complexity to the case.

As they walked toward the front door, Kate found herself thinking about the timeline. Carol Bennett had been found dead just two days ago, and Thomas Rodriguez had died only a few hours ago. If Dr. Chen was responsible for both deaths, she had acted with remarkable speed and precision. It was possible, certainly, but it seemed unusually bold for someone with no apparent criminal history.

Maybe these are things we should have discussed before waking her up at 3:00 in the morning and slapping cuffs on her, Kate thought.

The night air was crisp and cold as they stepped outside. Several police vehicles lined the quiet residential street, their red and blue lights creating an eerie atmosphere in the predawn darkness. A few neighbors had emerged from their homes, drawn by the commotion, and stood on their porches in bathrobes and slippers, watching the scene unfold.

Dr. Chen was placed in the back of one of the patrol cars, her head down and her hands cuffed behind her back. Kate could see Mr. Chen watching from the front window of their home, his face a mask of anguish and disbelief.

"What do you think?" DeMarco asked as they walked toward their own vehicle.

Kate paused before answering, still trying to identify what was bothering her about the arrest. "I think we have enough circumstantial evidence to justify bringing her in for questioning. But I also think we're missing something important."

"Like what?"

"I'm not sure yet." Kate opened the passenger door and slid into the seat. "It's the same feeling I had about Jake Bennett. Everything points to Dr. Chen, but it feels too neat… too convenient."

DeMarco started the engine and pulled away from the curb, following the patrol car that carried Dr. Chen. "Maybe something will come out in interrogation."

"Maybe. Or maybe we're just not seeing the whole picture yet." Kate stared out the window at the passing houses, most of them dark and quiet in the early morning hours. "We still don't have definitive toxicology results that prove Dr. Chen's medications killed either victim. We're operating on suspicion and circumstantial evidence."

"The preliminary results from Carol Bennett's autopsy suggested elevated levels of benzodiazepines," DeMarco pointed out. "And Dr. Chen prescribed Lorazepam to both victims."

"I know," Kate said. "And that's certainly suspicious. But elevated levels could come from a variety of sources, not necessarily from Dr. Chen deliberately increasing dosages or prescribing additional medications."

They drove in silence for a few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts. Kate found herself thinking about the victims again. Carol Bennett, a recently divorced woman struggling with the transition to an empty nest. Victor Rodriguez, an elderly widower, worried about his finances and his independence. Both had been dealing with anxiety about major life changes, both had sought help from the same psychiatrist, and both were now dead.

But was Dr. Chen really the connection between them, or was there something else they hadn't discovered yet?

CHAPTER TEN

The laptop screen cast a pale glow across the small apartment as she scrolled through the local news website, searching for any mention of what had happened the night before. The morning light filtered through her thin curtains, illuminating dust motes that danced in the air above her cluttered coffee table.

There it was. A brief article, hastily written for the breaking news section: "Local Man Dies of Apparent Heart Attack." The headline was stark and simple, providing no hint of the profound mercy that had been delivered.

She clicked on the link and read the short paragraphs that followed. Thomas Rodriguez, 74, found dead in his home by his daughter. Preliminary examination suggested cardiac arrest. The article mentioned that he had been caring for his daughter and grandchildren, who had been staying with him recently due to "family circumstances."

A familiar mixture of satisfaction and grief washed over her as she studied the accompanying photograph. Rodriguez smiled at the camera, his arms wrapped around a young woman and two children at what appeared to be a family gathering. His face radiated the kind of contentment that came from being needed, from feeling useful and protective. He had no idea, in that captured moment, of the pain that was coming for him.

But now he would never have to experience it.

She enlarged the photo, studying the faces of the grandchildren. They looked happy, secure in their grandfather's embrace. The daughter appeared tired but grateful, leaning into her father's shoulder with the relieved expression of someone who had found safe harbor.

They didn't understand yet. None of them did. They saw his death as a tragedy, a loss, a cruel twist of fate that had robbed them of their protector. But in time, they would come to see the truth. They would realize that he had been spared the slow erosion of hope that came with watching an adult child struggle and fail, again and again.

She had seen it so many times before. The pattern was always the same. The adult child would return home, full of promises and good intentions. The parent would welcome them with open arms, believing that this time would be different, that their love and support would be enough to turn things around. But it never was. The child would sink deeper into whatever crisis had driven them home in the first place, and the parent would watch helplessly as their attempts to help only seemed to make things worse.

The guilt was the cruelest part. The endless questioning, the second-guessing, the crushing weight of wondering if their intervention had actually enabled the very behavior they were trying to change. She had watched parents destroy themselves with that kind of guilt, had seen them waste away from the inside out as they poured their resources and energy into a bottomless pit of need.

Thomas Rodriguez had been heading down that same path. His daughter had fled an abusive marriage, bringing her children with her to live in his small house. The stress was already affecting his health, already wearing him down with worry and responsibility that should have belonged to someone else. Soon enough, the daughter would have started making demands, asking for money, expecting him to provide childcare while she figured out her life. Because in the end, they all resorted to a child’s self-centered ways.

The children would have grown resentful of their cramped living situation, acting out and adding to the chaos. And Thomas would have blamed himself for all of it.

She closed the laptop with a soft click. The apartment around her was quiet and still, the kind of silence that came from years of living alone. But it wasn't empty silence. It was full of presence, full of memory, full of purpose.

She walked across the small living room to the hallway, passing the kitchen where a single coffee cup sat in the sink and the bathroom where only one toothbrush occupied the holder. At the end of the hall stood a door that she opened with the reverence of someone entering a sacred space.

The bedroom was exactly as it had been left. Clothes still hung in the closet, organized by color and season. The bed was made with hospital corners, the way she had been taught in college. On the nightstand, a stack of textbooks sat next to a small jewelry box and a framed photo of friends laughing at some long-forgotten gathering.

She moved to the dresser, running her fingers along its polished surface. Makeup brushes stood in a ceramic holder, their bristles still shaped from their last use. A tube of mascara lay open next to a compact mirror that reflected nothing now but emptiness. College textbooks were stacked neatly on one corner, their spines bearing the names of subjects that would never be completed.

Everything remained exactly as it had been, frozen in time like a museum exhibit dedicated to possibility and promise and dreams that would never be fulfilled.

She opened the top dresser drawer and touched the folded clothing inside, soft cotton and silk that still held the faintest trace of perfume.

She was doing this for all the parents who don't understand yet. She was, in some ways, offering them a form of mercy they didn’t even know they needed.

Her fingers traced the edge of a sweater that had been a Christmas gift, remembering the joy on both their faces when it was unwrapped. Such a simple moment, such an ordinary expression of love between parent and child. But those moments were rare and precious, made all the more valuable by their scarcity.

Most of the time, there had been disappointment. Broken promises, missed opportunities, the gradual erosion of trust and hope. The slow realization that love alone wasn't enough to fix what was broken, that all the support and encouragement in the world couldn't force someone to become the person they were meant to be.

She had learned that lesson the hard way, had paid the price that came with believing too long, hoping too much, refusing to accept the inevitable. But that experience had given her insight, had shown her the truth that other parents couldn't see until it was too late.

Some stories didn't have happy endings. Some children couldn't be saved, no matter how much their parents loved them or how hard they tried to help.

And the kindest thing, the most merciful thing, was to spare those parents the long journey toward that devastating realization.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Kate checked her phone as she walked through the police station hallway, noting that it was 8:10 in the morning. She'd sent Allen a quick text earlier to let him know she'd be tied up with the case for most of the day, and his response had been understanding, if a bit resigned. "Take care of yourself," he'd written back. "Michael and I will hold down the fort."

She wasn’t sure if he really meant it or not, but she did know that if it was bothering him, he would have no problem telling her. So for now, she allowed herself to focus on the case.

She was on her way to speak with Dr. Chen… alone. She and DeMarco had decided a one-on-one approach might be best. In the meantime, DeMarco was two floors above, making calls to other patients who had worked with Chen, comparing notes and learning all she could about her methods and mannerisms.

The interview room was small and sterile, with a metal table bolted to the floor and three uncomfortable chairs arranged around it. When Kate entered, she wasted no time getting to the point; she sat across from Dr. Chen. The woman looked exhausted and defeated despite having had a few hours to process her situation. Her hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail, and it looked like she’d been able to apply lip balm of some kind at some point. Next to her sat her lawyer, a sharp-eyed woman in her fifties named Patricia Morrison, who had arrived within an hour of Chen's arrest, just as her husband had promised.

"Dr. Chen," Kate began, setting a small digital recorder on the table between them, "thank you for agreeing to speak with me this morning. I want to make it clear that you're under no obligation to answer my questions, and your attorney has advised you of your rights."

Morrison leaned forward slightly. "My client is here voluntarily because she wants to clear up what is obviously a terrible misunderstanding. She has nothing to hide."

Kate nodded and turned her attention to Dr. Chen. "I'd like to start by asking about your relationship with Thomas Rodriguez and Carol Bennett. Can you tell me about your treatment of both patients?"

Dr. Chen looked to her lawyer, who gave a small nod of encouragement. "Both Mr. Rodriguez and Mrs. Bennett came to me for help with anxiety related to major life changes. Mr. Rodriguez was dealing with the stress of his daughter and grandchildren moving in with him after she left an abusive marriage. Mrs. Bennett was struggling with her recent divorce and the adjustment to living alone after her son moved back home temporarily."

"And what was your professional assessment of their situations?" Kate asked.

"They were both experiencing significant anxiety symptoms related to what psychologists call 'empty nest syndrome in reverse,'" Dr. Chen explained. "Instead of adjusting to children leaving home, they were dealing with adult children returning under difficult circumstances. It's actually more common than people realize, and it can be quite stressful for the parents involved."

Morrison interjected, "Dr. Chen wants to be completely transparent about her treatment notes and session records. She's prepared to provide detailed information about both patients."

Dr. Chen reached for a manila folder that her lawyer had brought. "I've reviewed my notes from all sessions with both patients. Mr. Rodriguez was particularly anxious about providing adequate space and financial support for his daughter and her children. He felt responsible for their wellbeing, but was worried about his own health and his ability to handle the additional stress."

Kate studied the notes as Dr. Chen handed them across the table. The handwriting was neat and professional, with detailed observations about each patient's emotional state and progress.

"What about Carol Bennett?" Kate asked.

"Mrs. Bennett was dealing with guilt about her son's situation. He'd moved back home after losing his job, and she was torn between wanting to help him and feeling like she might be enabling his dependency." Dr. Chen's voice remained steady and professional. "Both patients were prescribed Lorazepam to help manage their acute anxiety symptoms. It’s a very common prescription."

"During our previous interview at your office," Kate said carefully, "you expressed some strong opinions about parents who allow their adult children to move back home. You seemed quite critical of that choice."

Morrison placed a protective hand on her client's arm. "Dr. Chen's professional opinions are based on years of training and experience. Having clinical perspectives on family dynamics doesn't make someone a murderer."

"I understand that," Kate said. "But I need to understand the depth of those feelings. Dr. Chen, did your personal beliefs about these family situations ever affect your treatment of these patients?"

Dr. Chen was quiet for a moment, considering her answer. "I'll be honest with you, Agent Wise. I do believe that parents who enable adult children's dependency often do more harm than good, even when their intentions are loving. But my job as a therapist is not to impose my personal beliefs on my patients. My job is to help them work through their own feelings and find healthy ways to cope with their situations."

"So your criticism of their choices was purely professional?" Kate pressed.

"Absolutely. It wasn't personal enough to warrant..." Dr. Chen's voice trailed off, and she looked genuinely disturbed by the implication. "Agent Wise, I became a psychiatrist because I want to help people. The idea that I would harm my own patients is absolutely horrifying to me."

Kate observed Dr. Chen's body language and facial expressions as she spoke. The woman appeared genuinely confused and distressed about being arrested for murder. There was no hint of deception in her voice, no tells that Kate had learned to recognize over years of interviewing suspects.

"Can you walk me through the specific medications you prescribed to each patient?" Kate asked.

Dr. Chen consulted her notes. "Both patients received prescriptions for Lorazepam, one milligram tablets. Mr. Rodriguez was prescribed thirty tablets with instructions to take one as needed for anxiety, not to exceed two per day. Mrs. Bennett received the same prescription about two weeks earlier."

"Did you ever increase their dosages or prescribe additional medications?" Kate asked.

"No," Dr. Chen said firmly. "Both patients were responding well to the initial prescription. There was no medical reason to increase their dosages. In my experience, it is usually not all that necessary to increase anyone’s dosage… unless they are in severe need."

Morrison leaned forward. "Agent Wise, my client has provided you with complete documentation of her treatment of both patients. Her prescribing practices were entirely within normal medical guidelines. You have no evidence that she did anything improper. And you’re damned lucky that she is not pressing charges."

“That’s true, I have made that decision,” Chen said. “I’m hoping you and the rest of the bureau can simply learn a lesson from this. I’m not interested in pulling legal drama back to my practice.”

Kate nodded slowly, but something was still bothering her about the case. The evidence against Dr. Chen was circumstantial at best, and her demeanor during the interview was not consistent with someone who had committed murder. She seemed genuinely bewildered by the accusations and was already acting as if she had been dismissed.

"Dr. Chen," Kate said, "is there anything else you can tell me about either patient that might help us understand what happened to them? Any family members they mentioned, any other stressors in their lives, anything that seemed unusual during your sessions?"

Dr. Chen thought for a moment. "Mr. Rodriguez only ever mentioned being concerned about his daughter because of the abuse she was suffering at the hands of her husband. But that’s all.”

"Did either patient mention feeling threatened or worried about their safety?" Kate asked.

"Not directly," Dr. Chen said. "Their anxieties were focused on family dynamics and financial concerns, not personal safety issues."

Kate felt the line of questioning coming to an end already, and she also felt that Dr. Cassandra Chen would likely be released quite soon.

Kate spent another twenty minutes reviewing Dr. Chen's treatment notes and asking follow-up questions about her patients' mental states and medication compliance. The more she talked with the psychiatrist, the more convinced she became that they were missing something important about these deaths. As the interview wound down, Kate found herself thinking about the physical evidence from both crime scenes. The medication bottles found at each victim's home contained Lorazepam prescribed by Dr. Chen, but they hadn't tested the individual pills to confirm that they actually contained what the labels claimed.

"Dr. Chen," Kate said suddenly, "when you prescribed the Lorazepam to both patients, did you give them any specific instructions about storage or handling of the medication?"

"No. It’s… well, it’s pretty standard. They’re basic medicines and require no special handling or storge. Why do you ask?"

“Just curious.” This was true, but it was also leading to another potential avenue of investigation. “I wonder… did either patient mention having trouble with their medication? Any side effects that seemed unusual or more severe than expected?"

Dr. Chen shook her head. "No, nothing like that. Both patients reported that the medication was helping with their anxiety symptoms, in fact. Mr. Rodriguez had commented on it just two days ago, actually."

Morrison looked at her watch. "Agent Wise, my client has been more than cooperative. Unless you have additional evidence that directly implicates her in these deaths, I think this interview should conclude."

Kate nodded, but her mind was already moving in a new direction. "Just one more question. Dr. Chen, do you handle your own prescription fulfillment, or do you send prescriptions to specific pharmacies?"

"I send electronic prescriptions directly to whatever pharmacy the patient prefers," Dr. Chen said. "It's all done through a secure online system."

“Thank you,” Kate said, getting to her feet. And even as she prepared to leave, she realized what her next step needed to be. The investigation had focused on Dr. Chen as the source of the potentially lethal medication, but they hadn't verified that the pills found at each crime scene actually contained what they were supposed to contain.

"Thank you for your time, Dr. Chen," Kate said, standing up from the table. "I may have additional questions as our investigation continues."

"Agent Wise," Dr. Chen said urgently, "I hope you'll keep an open mind about this case. I truly believe you're looking in the wrong direction."

Kate thought so, too. In fact, seconds after leaving the room, Kate immediately called the forensics lab. If her suspicions were correct, testing the individual pills found in the medication bottles at both crime scenes might reveal something that could change the entire direction of their investigation. It wouldn't necessarily clear Dr. Chen of suspicion, but it could be a step in the right direction of what Kate believed should be an ongoing investigation. And based on her instincts about this case, she had a feeling it was going to prove much stranger than she or DeMarco had initially expected.

And for the time being, while she waited, she figured she should have another look at the most recent crime scene. With a grieving daughter, the ME, and the coroner's assistant, it had been a little crowded. She figured she may as well head over to have another look to see if she missed anything. This was turning out to be one of those cases where even the smallest of things could get overlooked, resulting in more unanswered questions… and more deaths.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Kate stood outside the Rodriguez home for the second time in less twelve hours, this time alone and with a different purpose. The crime scene tape still fluttered in the afternoon breeze, and the house had that abandoned quality that came with being temporarily sealed off from normal life. She signed in with the officer stationed outside and slipped on latex gloves before entering through the front door.

The interior felt different now, quieter somehow, without the bustle of investigators and the emotional weight of Maria's grief. Kate moved slowly through the house where Thomas Rodriguez had died, taking her time to notice details that might have been overlooked in the initial rush to process the scene.

She started with the kitchen, which adjoined the living room. The space was small, but well-organized, with clean countertops and dishes neatly arranged in open cabinets. A coffee maker sat on the counter next to a toaster that looked like it had been purchased in the 1990s. The refrigerator hummed quietly in the corner, its surface covered with a collection of magnets, grocery lists, and family photos.

Kate examined each item methodically. There were pictures of Maria's children at various ages, school photos with gap-toothed smiles, and formal portraits in their Sunday best. A shopping list written in careful handwriting included items like "milk, bread, cereal," and "vitamins for Dad." A magnetic calendar showed doctors' appointments and school events written in different colored pens.

She moved closer to the refrigerator, studying each magnet and piece of paper with the careful attention she'd learned to apply to crime scenes over her decades with the FBI. Most of the items were exactly what she'd expect to find in any family kitchen: takeout menus, emergency phone numbers, a child's drawing of a house with stick figures standing in front of it.

Then her eye caught something that made her pause. Tucked behind a grocery coupon and partially obscured by a magnet shaped like a sunflower was a business card. Kate carefully moved the other items aside to get a better look.

The card was white with simple black lettering: "Michael Torres - Handyman Services." Below the name was a phone number and a brief list of services: "Plumbing, Electrical, Home Repairs, Senior Discounts Available."

Kate pulled out her phone and took a photo of the card, making sure to capture both the front and back. The back was blank except for some handwritten notes in pencil: "Fixed bathroom sink - $75" and what looked like a date from three weeks ago. It could very well be nothing, but in a case like this, where there was suspicion of medication tampering, it was good to have a record of anyone and everyone who had come in and out of the house in the recent past.

Kate continued her methodical search of the kitchen, opening drawers and cabinets to get a sense of how the household functioned. The drawers were organized but not obsessively so, with the kind of practical arrangement that suggested someone who knew where everything was and didn't waste time on unnecessary tidiness. She moved on to examine the rest of the kitchen more carefully, checking the windowsills, the areas behind appliances, and the corners where dust and debris might accumulate, along with overlooked evidence.

The spice rack next to the stove held the usual collection of salt, pepper, garlic powder, and other common seasonings. But Kate noticed that several of the containers looked like they hadn't been used in a while, with dust around their bases and faded labels. Thomas Rodriguez had been a widower living with limited cooking needs, so the extensive spice collection probably dated back to when his wife was alive.

Moving into the dining room, Kate examined the hutch that displayed dishes and family mementos. The top shelf held what appeared to be wedding china, carefully arranged and probably used only for special occasions. Lower shelves contained everyday dishes and a collection of coffee mugs that suggested Thomas had been a regular coffee drinker.

On the dining room table, Kate found a stack of mail that had been left unopened. She photographed the return addresses without disturbing the envelopes: electric bill, credit card statement, and what looked like medical insurance correspondence. There was also a flyer for home security services and an advertisement for a local pharmacy.

She was examining a small bookshelf near the window when she heard a car door slam outside. Kate walked to the living room window and pulled the curtain aside. She was a bit surprised to see DeMarco walking up the front path. She, too, looked surprised as she regarded Kate’s car in the driveway.

"Kate?" DeMarco called as she entered the house. "What are you doing here?"

"Taking another look," Kate replied, pulling off her gloves. "Sometimes a second pass reveals things we missed the first time around. It was also a little crowded the first time we were here. What brings you by?"

DeMarco chuckled and said, “The exact same thing, actually. Great minds really do think alike, it seems!" DeMarco paused for a moment and said, "Actually, I'm glad you're here. I spoke with Dr. Chen again after you left.”

“That lawyer still watching like a hawk?”

“Oh yeah. But… listen, I think it’s becoming pretty obvious we may have gone after the wrong person. It’s one of the reasons I’m back here… trying to find anything.”

Kate nodded. "I had the same feeling after my interview with her this morning. She seemed genuinely confused and distressed about being arrested for murder. Even with legal counsel present, Chen was completely cooperative and forthcoming about her treatment of both victims."

"What did you find in your conversation with her?" DeMarco asked.

"She provided detailed records of her sessions with both Thomas Rodriguez and Carol Bennett. Her criticism of their family situations was purely professional, based on her clinical experience with similar cases. She didn't have any personal animosity toward either patient. But, there's something else. I called forensics and asked them to test the individual pills found in the medication bottles at both crime scenes. We've been assuming that the Lorazepam was tampered with, but we need to verify what those pills actually contain."

"You think someone substituted different pills?" DeMarco asked.

"It's possible. Or added something to the existing medication. The point is, we need to confirm that the pills found at each scene actually match what Dr. Chen prescribed."

“Maybe whoever is behind these deaths was able to frame Dr. Chen by finding prescription bottles with the same doctor's name in two different victims' homes," DeMarco hypothesized. "Think about it: both victims were elderly, both were dealing with anxiety related to family situations, both would likely be seeing psychiatrists or taking anti-anxiety medication."

"So the killer could have looked for victims who were already patients of the same doctor," Kate said, already warming to the idea. "That would make the connection look deliberate and planned."

"Exactly. But that means the killer needed access to these victims' homes to identify them as potential targets and to tamper with their medication."

DeMarco nodded slowly. "Service people have access. Handymen, housekeepers, delivery drivers, home health aides."

"We need to figure out who had access to both victims' homes," Kate said. "It might not be the same person or service, but there could be a pattern we're missing. Speaking of which, I did find a handyman business card on the fridge. I took a picture of it… I’ll send it to you."

"Sounds good. And I’ll start pulling together a list of service calls, deliveries, and appointments for both households," DeMarco said. "If someone had legitimate access to both homes, there should be a record of it somewhere."

Kate looked around the Rodriguez kitchen one more time, her investigative instincts telling her they were finally moving in the right direction. "We also need to check with Carol Bennett's family about any service people who might have been in her home recently. The killer would need time and privacy to identify targets and plan the attacks."

"You really think Dr. Chen is innocent, too?" DeMarco asked.

"I think she's a convenient scapegoat," Kate replied. "Someone who had legitimate medical contact with both victims and who expressed professional opinions that could be twisted to look like a motive. But the more I think about this case, the more I believe we're dealing with something much stranger than a psychiatrist killing her own patients."

As they prepared to leave the Rodriguez house, Kate felt the familiar mixture of frustration and anticipation that came with realizing a case was more complex than it initially appeared. They had arrested the wrong person, which meant the real killer was still out there, potentially planning their next attack.

It felt like wasted time, sure, but it was also hopefully pushing them in the right direction.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Diana stood at the self-checkout station, scanning items with deliberate slowness while keeping one eye on the entrance doors. The digital clock above the customer service counter showed 9:07 AM, and she felt the familiar flutter of anticipation in her chest. Melissa's shopping routine was as predictable as clockwork: every Tuesday morning between 9:00 and 9:15, she arrived at this particular grocery store to do her weekly shopping.

She had been tracking this pattern for three weeks now, making careful notes about timing, parking preferences, and shopping habits. Melissa always used the self-checkout lanes when possible, always parked in the third row from the store entrance, and always took exactly forty-five minutes to complete her shopping. The precision of the routine had made planning this encounter surprisingly straightforward.

The items in Diana's cart had been chosen specifically for this moment. Heavy cans of soup and tomato sauce that would create maximum scatter when dropped. Glass jars of pickles and olives that would roll dramatically across the pavement (if they didn’t shatter first). Boxes of cereal and crackers that would split open and spill their contents. Everything designed to create chaos and confusion while appearing completely accidental.

Diana scanned a can of green beans, then pretended to have trouble with the barcode, requiring her to try several times. The delay was intentional, allowing her to maintain her position at the checkout while watching for Melissa's arrival. She'd already paid for most of her items but was drawing out the process to ensure perfect timing.

At 9:09, she spotted Melissa walking toward the self-checkout stations. Diana could see the familiar blonde ponytail and the oversized handbag that Melissa always carried. She wore jeans and a light blue sweater, the same casual style Diana had observed during weeks of surveillance.

Diana quickly finished scanning her remaining items, declined the receipt, and began gathering up the groceries into flimsy plastic bags. She maneuvered her cart toward the exit, timing her movement to intersect with Melissa's path through the store. The positioning had to be perfect. Too early, and Melissa might still be inside when Diana reached the parking lot. Too late, and the opportunity would pass entirely.

Diana pushed through the automatic doors and into the morning sunlight. The parking lot was moderately busy with other shoppers, providing enough activity to make their collision appear natural while offering witnesses who might remember seeing them together. Perfect cover for what she was about to do.

She positioned herself near the shopping cart return area, knowing that Melissa would have to pass this spot to reach her usual parking section. Diana began the final stage of her preparation, deliberately overfilling the bags so they hung precariously from her arms. The weight distribution was designed to fail at exactly the right moment.

Melissa emerged from the store two minutes later, pushing a cart filled with groceries and talking on her phone. Even better than Diana had hoped. The phone conversation would provide additional distraction, making Melissa less likely to notice any suspicious behavior during their staged encounter.

Diana stepped away from the cart return area and began walking directly toward Melissa's path, carrying four overstuffed bags in her arms instead of using a cart. The bags were heavy and awkward, requiring genuine effort to maintain her grip. She could feel the plastic handles stretching under the weight, threatening to give way at any moment.

"I know, Terry," Melissa was saying into her phone as she approached. "I picked up the cilantro, and I remembered to get those crackers Michelle likes."

Perfect. Melissa was completely absorbed in her conversation and pushing her cart without paying attention to other pedestrians. Diana adjusted her angle slightly, ensuring they would collide just as Melissa passed between two parked cars.

At the crucial moment, Diana pretended to stumble slightly, shifting her weight forward and allowing the overloaded bags to slip from her grasp. The collision was gentle but effective. Melissa's cart bumped into Diana's hip just as the bags were falling, creating the perfect illusion of an accidental encounter.

Cans of soup rolled across the asphalt in multiple directions. Glass jars hit the pavement with sharp cracks, sending pickle juice spreading in small puddles. Boxes of cereal slid and tumbled. The chaos was even more dramatic than Diana had anticipated. It was almost funny…

"Oh no!" Diana exclaimed, dropping to her knees immediately. "I'm so sorry!

Melissa ended her phone call quickly. "Are you okay? Oh my goodness, look at this mess."

“Am I okay?” Melissa said, clearly petrified. “This is completely my fault!"

“No… not completely,” Diana said. “I think we might both be at blame here.”

“And you’re okay?”

“Better than the pickles, anyway.” Diana said, already beginning to gather the scattered items. "I was trying to carry too much at once instead of using a cart like a sensible person."

Melissa set her phone down on the edge of her cart and knelt down to help. "Don't worry about it. These things happen. I've done the exact same thing before."

Diana felt a surge of satisfaction as she watched Melissa place her phone within easy reach, just beside the carton of lemonade in the plastic jug. The positioning was perfect, exactly what Diana had hoped for. While Melissa focused on gathering the rolling cans of soup, Diana would have clear access to the phone without appearing suspicious.

"I can't believe I made such a mess," Diana continued, maintaining her embarrassed tone while scanning the area for the phone's exact location. "I was running late for work and trying to rush through everything."

"I'm just glad you didn't get hurt when we bumped into each other."

The moment Diana had been waiting for arrived when Melissa turned away to chase down a can of tomato sauce that had rolled several feet away. Diana smoothly reached for Melissa's phone, palming it with the fluid motion she'd practiced countless times. In one continuous movement, she slipped the device into her own purse while appearing to gather more scattered groceries.

"Here, let me help you with some of these heavier items," Diana offered, standing up with an armload of rescued cans. "It's the least I can do after creating this disaster."

Melissa smiled gratefully. "Thank you. You really don't have to do that."

"I insist. I feel terrible about this whole thing." Diana carried several items toward Melissa's cart, using the movement to create additional distance from the phone's original location and to establish herself as helpful rather than suspicious.

They worked together for several more minutes, gathering the scattered groceries and sorting out which items belonged to whom. Diana made a point of being especially apologetic and helpful, creating a positive impression that would make Melissa less likely to suspect any ulterior motives.

"I think that's most of everything," Melissa said, standing up and brushing dust off her knees. "Some of the glass jars are broken, though. I'm really sorry about that."

"Please don't apologize," Diana said. "Like I said… I was trying to be Super Woman, trying to carry so much. I'll need to learn to use a shopping cart like everyone else."

Melissa laughed. "I've been there. Sometimes you think you can manage more than you actually can."

Diana felt the weight of the stolen phone in her purse, a small but significant victory in her larger plan. The theft had been executed perfectly, with Melissa showing no signs of noticing that anything was missing. The chaotic scene had provided ideal cover for the deception.

"Well, I should probably get going," Diana said, gathering the remaining intact items from her shopping trip. "I'm already running late, and I still need to stop by the pharmacy before work."

"Of course. Thanks for helping clean up, even though it was an accident." Melissa began pushing her cart toward her usual parking area. "Have a good day."

"You too," Diana called back, heading in the opposite direction toward her own car.

As she walked away, Diana could barely contain her excitement. The phone acquisition had been even easier than she'd anticipated. Melissa had been so focused on being helpful and kind that she hadn't noticed the theft at all. The collision had created exactly the right amount of confusion and goodwill to mask Diana's true intentions.

She loaded her groceries into the trunk of her car, taking care to appear unhurried and normal despite the adrenaline coursing through her system. Other shoppers moved through the parking lot around her, none of them paying any attention to the minor collision they'd witnessed. To everyone else, it had been nothing more than an ordinary accident between two strangers.

Diana slid into the driver's seat and started the engine, allowing herself a moment of satisfaction as she pulled out of the parking space. She looked over and saw Melissa getting into her car with no real caution; she’d apparently not even realized her had gone missing yet.

As she drove away from the grocery store, Diana began mentally reviewing the next phase of her plan. The phone would provide valuable intelligence, but it also created a timeline. Melissa would notice the missing device within just a few minutes. Diana needed to extract as much useful information as possible before the phone was reported stolen and remotely disabled.

But for now, she was satisfied with how smoothly everything had gone. Weeks of careful observation and planning had paid off with a perfectly executed encounter. Melissa had no reason to suspect that their collision had been anything other than an unfortunate accident between two strangers.

Diana smiled as she drove through the suburban streets, already anticipating the wealth of information waiting for her in Melissa's phone. Kate Wise had no idea that her family's privacy had just been compromised, or that someone was methodically gathering intelligence about their most personal routines and relationships.

The game was progressing exactly as Diana had envisioned, and she was already looking forward to the next move.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Kate and DeMarco arrived at the Bennett house for the second time in two days; with the return trip to the Rodriguez house before it, Kate felt like she was moving in some strange time loop. As DeMarco pulled the sedan into the driveway, Kate noted that the crime scene tape had been removed and a car was parked out front—presumably Jake's. He had finally been dismissed as a subject (an event Kate thought had taken a bit too long), and she presumed he would have come back here…to grieve, to pick up the pieces, or to handle the arduous task of trying to plan his mother's funeral.

The house looked different now, less like a crime scene and more like a home where someone was trying to resume a normal life after tragedy.

"You sure he'll talk to us?" DeMarco asked as they walked up the front path. "From what I understand, he wasn't exactly thrilled about being arrested and held overnight without any strong evidence. And rightfully so."

"I don't blame him for being angry," Kate replied, checking her watch. It was just after 2:00 PM, and she hoped Jake would be home rather than out on job interviews. "But he wants answers about his mother's death as much as we do. Probably more. Hopefully, he’ll understand we are completely separate from the people who arrested him."

They reached the front door, and Kate knocked, waiting for a response from inside. After a moment, she could hear movement through the house, followed by the sound of someone approaching the door. The deadbolt turned, and Jake Bennett appeared in the doorway. He looked terrible. His hair was disheveled, his clothes wrinkled as if he'd slept in them, and his eyes were red-rimmed with exhaustion and grief. When he recognized Kate and DeMarco, his expression immediately shifted from neutral curiosity to barely contained anger.

"You've got to be kidding me," Jake said, his voice tight with frustration. "Haven't you people done enough damage?”

"We just—," Kate started, but he wasn't quite done yet.

“I just got released from jail this morning after spending a night locked up for something I didn't do."

"Jake, I understand you're upset," Kate began, keeping her voice calm and non-confrontational. "We're not here to arrest you or cause you any more problems. And we do deeply regret the way things went down earlier."

"Then why are you here?" Jake demanded, gripping the door frame as if he might slam it shut at any moment. "Because from where I'm standing, if what you just said was meant to be an apology, it was awful and half-hearted.”

DeMarco stepped forward slightly. "Mr. Bennett, we have reason to believe that your mother's death might be connected to another recent death—and that they may potentially be murders. We're following up on some new information."

"Another death?" Jake's anger wavered slightly, replaced by confusion and concern. "What do you mean, another death? Murder?"

Kate seized on his momentary uncertainty. "Jake, we think someone else might have been killed the same way your mother was. Someone who was also an empty-nester dealing with an adult child moving back home. We need your help to figure out who might be responsible. Really… we just have a few questions, and your help might be invaluable."

Jake stood silent for a long moment, processing this information. Kate could see the conflict playing out across his face as he weighed his anger against his desire to find his mother's killer.

"You're saying my mom wasn't the only one?" he asked finally.

"We think there might be a pattern," Kate said. "And we believe whoever did this is still out there.”

Jake's shoulders sagged slightly, and some of the tension went out of his posture. "I just... I can't believe this is happening. First Mom dies, then I get arrested for killing her, and now you're telling me there's some kind of serial killer?"

"We don't know for certain yet," DeMarco said. "But we're exploring the possibility. That's why we need to ask you some follow-up questions about your mother's routine and the people who had access to her house."

Jake looked back and forth between the two agents, clearly struggling with his decision. Kate could see him weighing his distrust of law enforcement against his desperate need for answers about his mother's death.

"Fine," he said finally, stepping back from the doorway. "But I want to make it clear that I'm only talking to you because I want to find out who killed my mother. Not because I trust you people."

"Fair enough," Kate said, following him into the living room. "We appreciate your cooperation."

The interior of the house looked much the same as it had during their previous visit, but there were subtle signs of Jake's continued presence. A coffee mug sat on the side table next to his mother's reading chair, and a laptop was open on the dining room table, surrounded by printed resumes and job application materials.

Jake gestured for them to sit on the couch while he remained standing, his arms crossed defensively. "So what do you want to know?"

"We're trying to identify anyone who might have had access to both your mother's house and the home of this other victim. Service people, contractors, delivery drivers, anyone who wouldn't seem out of place coming and going."

"You think someone who worked here killed my mom?" Jake asked, his voice rising slightly.

"It's one possibility we're exploring," DeMarco said. "Can you think of anyone who did work here recently? In the past month or so?"

Jake thought for a moment, running his hand through his already disheveled hair. He looked so exhausted that just looking at him made Kate feel tired. "Well, there was the guy who came to fix some stuff around the house. Mom mentioned it when I called to tell her I was moving back home."

Kate felt her attention sharpen. "What kind of work did he do?"

"I'm not sure exactly. Some kind of handyman stuff, I think. Mom said she'd been putting off some repairs and decided to get them taken care of before I moved in." Jake paused, his expression growing slightly irritated. "Actually, it kind of annoyed me at the time."

"Why did it annoy you?" Kate asked.

"Because she'd been complaining for weeks about the damn security system acting up, but when she had this handyman here, she didn't bother to ask him to look at it. I kept telling her to get it fixed, but she said it wasn't that important." Jake shook his head. "If she'd had the guy check the alarm system, maybe it would have been working properly and whoever killed her wouldn't have been able to get in so easily."

"Do you remember the handyman's name?" DeMarco asked.

Jake frowned, concentrating. "No, I don't think Mom ever mentioned it. She just said she'd found someone to take care of the repairs."

"Would there be a record of the payment somewhere?" Kate asked. "A check register or bank statement?"

"Maybe," Jake said, pulling his phone from his pocket. "Mom gave me access to her checking account after Dad died, just in case something happened and I needed to handle her finances. I can check the recent transactions." He had come around a lot since answering the door, perhaps simply resigning himself to the fact that this needed to be done.

Jake swiped through his phone, accessing what appeared to be a banking app. Kate watched as he scrolled through recent transactions, his finger moving down the screen as he searched for payments to service providers.

"Here," Jake said suddenly, holding up the phone so they could see the screen. "There's a payment from about two weeks ago. Seventy-five dollars to someone named Michael Torres."

A chill flushed through Kate. It was the same name on the business card she'd found on Thomas Rodriguez's refrigerator.

"Michael Torres," DeMarco repeated, writing the name in her notebook. "Did your mother mention anything specific about what he fixed?"

"Not really," Jake said, still looking at the phone screen. "She just said he took care of some things that had been bothering her. I was more focused on my job situation at the time, so I didn't ask for details." He frowned at this and, without saying anything, Kate could tell that he felt guilty. Maybe he should have asked more questions about his mother's life.

Kate leaned forward slightly. "Jake, do you remember if your mother seemed different after this handyman visited? Any changes in her behavior or routine?"

Jake considered the question carefully. "Not really different, but maybe a little more anxious? She'd been worried about me moving back home anyway, so I figured it was just stress about that."

"Did she mention feeling unsafe or worried about anything specific?" DeMarco asked.

"No, nothing like that. If anything, she seemed relieved to have gotten the repairs done. She mentioned that it was one less thing to worry about before I moved in."

Kate studied Jake's expression, noting that his anger had been largely replaced by concern and curiosity. The revelation about Michael Torres had clearly shifted his perspective on their visit, it seemed.

“Can you think of anything else your mother might have said about him?” DeMarco asked. “How she found him, whether he seemed professional, anything that might help us locate him?"

Jake sat down heavily in his mother's reading chair, the weight of this new information clearly affecting him. "I wish I'd paid more attention,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “I was so wrapped up in my own problems that I didn't really listen when she talked about household stuff."

"That's understandable," Kate said gently. "You were dealing with losing your job and having to move back home. Nobody would expect you to remember every detail about home repairs."

"But if I had listened, maybe I could have prevented this," Jake said, his voice breaking slightly. "Maybe… I mean, are you suggesting it might be worth looking into this handyman?”

"We aren’t sure, but it’s an avenue we will be exploring,” Kate said. “And even if that turns out to be the case, there was nothing you could have done to prevent it."

“Can you… can you keep me posted?”

“Yes, of course we will.”

Jake nodded slowly as a few tears streamed down his face. "Is there anything else I can do to help? Any other information that might be useful?"

Kate considered this question. "If you think of anything else your mother mentioned about the handyman, no matter how small, please call us immediately. And if you find any paperwork or receipts related to the work he did, that could be helpful too."

"I'll look through her papers tonight," Jake promised. "Maybe she kept a receipt or something with more details about what he fixed."

"That would be great," DeMarco said, standing up from the couch. "We should let you get back to your day. I know this has been a difficult time."

Jake walked them to the front door, his demeanor now completely different from when they'd arrived. "Agents, I owe you an apology for how I acted when you got here. I was angry and hurt, but I can see that you're really trying to find out what happened to my mom."

"No apology necessary," Kate said. "You had every right to be upset after what you've been through."

"Just please find whoever did this," Jake said, his voice thick with emotion. "My mom was a good person who didn't deserve to die like that."

"We will," Kate promised, though she knew such promises were dangerous to make. "We'll be in touch as soon as we know more."

As they walked back to their car, Kate felt the familiar mixture of excitement and apprehension that came with a major breakthrough in a case. The connection between Michael Torres and both crime scenes was too significant to be coincidental, but it also meant they were dealing with someone who had been planning these attacks carefully. He could already be several steps ahead of them.

"Looks like we need to find Michael Torres," Kate said, pulling out her phone to call the field office. "And we need to do it quickly, before he has a chance to claim another victim."

DeMarco nodded and pulled away from the Bennett House, not quite sure where to go yet but confident that they were at least headed in the right direction.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Kate sat in the passenger seat, looking at the picture she had taken of the business card in the Rodriguez house. "Michael Torres - Handyman Services," she read aloud, then dialed the phone number printed below the name.

The phone rang four times before going to voicemail. A man's voice, slightly accented and professional-sounding, delivered a brief message: "You've reached Michael Torres. I can't take your call right now, but please leave a message with your name, number, and a brief description of the work you need done. I'll get back to you within six to eight hours."

Kate waited for the beep, then kept her voice casual and businesslike. "Hi, this is Kate. I got your number from a friend who said you did some excellent work for her recently. I have a few repairs that need attention at my house, and I was hoping we could set up a time to discuss them. Please give me a call back when you get a chance." She left her cell phone number and ended the call.

"Smooth,” DeMarco said with a sly smile. “Think he'll call back?"

"If he's innocent, probably," Kate replied. "If he's our killer, he might be suspicious of unfamiliar numbers calling for work.”

DeMarco nodded and then hitched a thumb toward the back seat. “Grabe the smart pad and see what you can find on Michael Torres in the system."

Kate did as she was asked, grabbing the small case DeMarco had for the iPad and the small personal WiFi device she carried everywhere. She hadn’t used the smart pad all that often, and it took her a bit longer than it would have taken DeMarco to access the database. But once she was in, it all came back easily enough. She typed in the name and waited for results to populate. After a few moments, the information she was looking for began appearing on the screen.

"Here we go," Kate said, scanning the results. "Michael Torres, age forty-three, last known address on Maple Street in Richmond… and it looks like he’s been in the city for at least eight years. No criminal record, but there are a few minor traffic violations. Looks like he's been running his handyman business the whole time he’s been in Richmond."

"Any family information?" Kate asked.

"Married to Carmen Torres, with two children. And here's a home phone number." She considered it for a moment and said, “Maybe I should try calling the house?"

"Might as well."

Kate nodded and started punching in the numbers. "I don't want to identify myself as FBI just yet, though. If his wife tips him off that law enforcement is looking for him, he might disappear."

Kate dialed the home number and waited. On the third ring, a woman answered with a slightly harried voice. "Hello?"

"Hi, is this Mrs. Torres?" Kate asked, injecting a note of urgency into her voice.

"Yes, this is Carmen. Who's calling?"

"My name is Kate, and I'm trying to reach Michael about an urgent repair situation. I called his work number, but only got voicemail."

"Oh," Carmen said, and Kate could hear the sound of a child in the background. It was a young girl, laughing about something. "He's out on a job right now, but I'm not sure exactly where. He had several appointments today. That’s likely why he didn’t answer the phone."

Kate felt a flutter of concern. If Torres was currently at another client's house, he might be in the process of selecting his next victim or tampering with more medication. Or, there was, of course, the possibility that he was simply a very busy and sought-after handyman.

"It really is quite urgent," Kate pressed. "Is there any way you could try to reach him? Maybe call or text to have him contact me as soon as possible?"

Carmen hesitated. "Well, I could try calling him, but he doesn't always answer when he's working. He gets pretty focused on whatever project he's doing." She hesitated and, doing her best to sound pleasant (Kate could hear the effort in the woman’s voice), she said: “If it’s this urgent, is there no one else you could call?”

“Oh, I’m sure there is, but a good friend of mine simply raved about your husband’s work on her back porch. I thought I’d give him a try.”

"Okay. I'm sure he'd appreciate that. Let me see if I can get a hold of him. What's your number?"

Kate gave Carmen her cell phone number, then added, "Please ask him to call me back as soon as he possibly can. I'll be available all afternoon."

"I'll try to reach him right now," Carmen promised. "If I get through, I'll have him call you. But depending on what he’s up to at the moment, I can’t guarantee when he’d get back."

"I understand. Thank you so much," Kate said, ending the call.

DeMarco glanced over at her. "Did it seem like she'd be able to reach him?"

"I hope so. But now all we can do is wait." Kate settled back in her seat, feeling the familiar frustration that came with being unable to take immediate action. "In the meantime, we should head back to the field office and see if we can find more information about Torres's business practices."

DeMarco nodded, though a frown tugged at her lips at the idea of needing to wait. Upon leaving the Bennett house, she'd pointed them in the direction of the field office anyway, so it wasn't like it was going to be out of the way. However, as it turned out, they'd made it less than another two miles toward the field office when Kate's phone rang. DeMarco was stopped at a red light when it started buzzing.

Kate looked to the ID, assuming it would be Torres. She was quite surprised to find that it was, instead, the number of one of the forensics labs. Hoping for a break in the case, she answered it immediately.

"This is Agent Wise."

"Agent Wise, this is Dr. Martinez from forensics. I have the results from those pill tests you requested."

Kate felt her pulse quicken as she sat straight up in her seat. "Excellent. What did you find?"

"Well, it looks like your theory was correct. We tested all the pills in both medication bottles, and in each case, it seemed, at first, that it was legitimate Lorazepam, exactly what Dr. Chen prescribed. But there were other pills mixed in with it… just three or four, enough to be mixed in without anyone really noticing."

"So someone added poisoned pills to each bottle," Kate said, feeling a mixture of vindication and horror.

"That's what it looks like. The pills in question contain a concentrated dose of potassium chloride mixed with a fast-acting sedative. It would be enough to cause rapid cardiac arrest in someone of the victims' ages and health conditions."

Kate absorbed this information while DeMarco listened intently from the driver's seat. "Dr. Martinez, can you tell me anything about how these pills were manufactured? Were they professionally made or homemade?"

"They appear to be professionally manufactured capsules that were opened and refilled with the lethal substances. My guess is that whoever did this had access to pharmaceutical-grade materials and knew what they were doing."

"Thank you, Dr. Martinez. This is extremely helpful."

“Glad to help,” Martinez said. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

Kate ended the call and turned to DeMarco. "A few pills in each bottle were poisoned. Maybe just two or three to blend in with the others. The rest were legitimate."

"But that means they have no control over when the victim takes the fatal dose."

"Exactly. It could be days or weeks before the victim happens to take the poisoned pill. The killer has no way of knowing when their target will actually die... just that they will eventually, if they continue taking the pills that were prescribed to them."

The light turned green, and DeMarco pulled through, closing in on the field office. "That's a pretty risky method. What if the victim noticed something different about one of the pills?"

"These are people over fifty taking medication for anxiety," Kate pointed out. "They're probably not examining each pill closely, especially if they're in a hurry or stressed. And the killer chose a medication that people typically take as needed, not on a strict schedule. And you know… this method tells us something important about our suspect.”

“What’s that?”

"They're patient, methodical, and willing to wait for results. They're not looking for immediate gratification."

"And they don't seem to care about the specific timing of the deaths," DeMarco added. "They're content to set the trap and wait for it to spring." She shook her head and said, “God, there’s no way to know how many pill bottles are out there right now with a little poison surprise.”

Just a few minutes later, DeMarco parked in the field office parking garage. They walked through the building toward the elevator together, Kate's thoughts churning with the new information. Would a killer with this sort of patience and dedication be more dangerous? Maybe even more difficult to catch? If they'd planted poisoned pills in an unknown number of bottles, knowing those they wanted dead would die within a matter of days or weeks, then they could be long gone by now.

Kate's phone buzzed with a text message as she and DeMarco neared the elevators. She looked at the screen and saw an unfamiliar number. But she understood what it was right away.

“A text from Michael Torres,” she said quietly to DeMarco. DeMarco came over to stand closer to Kate, and they read the message together: This is Michael Torres. I got a message that you called about some repair work. Urgent stuff, apparently… since you called my house? LOL. What kind of job are you looking at?

“The use of LOL makes me think he’s a creep from the get-go,” DeMarco said with a smile. “Definite serial killer vibes.”

Kate chuckled, but was too locked in to really appreciate the comment. "Let me see if I can set up a meeting without making him suspicious."

She thought about her response for a moment and then typed back: Thanks for getting back to me so fast. I really appreciate it. I have some issues with my bathroom plumbing and possibly some electrical work. Would it be possible to meet this afternoon to discuss the project? Need it done quickly so I can pay extra if necessary.

“You’re an exceptional liar, Agent Wise,” DeMarco said as she pressed the Call button on the elevator.

“Well, if he is our killer, I really want to lay it on thick.”

They took the elevator to the third floor and as soon as they stepped off, Torres send a response. It read: I could probably swing by around 4:00 if that works for you. What's your address?

Kate felt a moment of hesitation. Meeting with a potential murderer required careful planning and backup, but she also didn't want to spook him by suggesting they meet somewhere other than a residential address.

"We need to be smart about how we handle this meeting," she said out loud.

"We could set it up at a safe house," DeMarco suggested. "Somewhere we can control the environment and have backup nearby."

Kate's phone buzzed again. Another message from Torres: "Also, do you have any idea what your timeline is for getting the work done? I'm booking pretty far out right now."

"He's definitely behaving like a legitimate handyman," Kate observed. "Asking about timeline, availability, the normal business questions. There’s no eagerness to make sure he nabs the job right away."

"Which either means he's innocent, or he's very good at maintaining his cover," DeMarco replied.

Kate made a decision. "Let's set up the meeting, but we'll take your recommendation…we’ll use a bureau safe house and have a tactical team standing by. If Torres is our killer, we need to be prepared for anything."

She typed back: 4:00 would be perfect. I’ll send you a map pin with the address. Before she could even place a call to secure a safe house for the meeting, DeMarco was already doing it. Kate smiled, amazed at just how in sync they appeared to be, even though she was no longer full-time.

As they walked down the hallway toward Demarco’s office, Kate listened to her partner quickly push the matter through. They had an address within thirty seconds, which Kate then sent to Torres. It was all very fast and exciting, and the little spike of progress had her feeling that they were finally closing in on their suspect. The forensics results had confirmed the method, Jake Bennett had provided the connection, and now they had direct contact with Michael Torres.

But something still bothered her about the structure of the case. The patience required for this killing method, the careful selection of victims, and the professional way the poisoned pills had been manufactured. It all suggested someone with medical knowledge and access to pharmaceutical supplies—whether legitimate or not.

When they stepped into DeMarco's office, the clock on the wall showed 2:45 PM. In just over an hour, they would come face to face with the man who might have murdered Carol Bennett and Thomas Rodriguez. And in the meantime, she figured they could use the database to get as much information as they could on the man. And even if they came up with nothing—as Kate's preliminary search in the car suggested—she still felt that they were on the right track and this case might be closed before dinner.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Diana sat in her car in the parking lot of a small shopping center about ten miles from the grocery store. Her hands trembled slightly as she held Melissa's phone in her hand. The device felt warm in her palms, as if it contained some kind of vital energy that she was about to steal. The screen had locked itself, but Diana had watched Melissa enter her passcode during one of her surveillance sessions at the coffee shop.

She pressed the home button and carefully entered the six-digit code: 032118. It worked immediately, and Diana felt a rush of satisfaction as the phone unlocked to reveal Melissa's home screen. The wallpaper was a photo of a smiling toddler with blonde curls, presumably Michelle, Melissa’s daughter… and Kate’s granddaughter.

Diana opened the settings menu first, navigating through the options with the careful attention of someone who wasn't entirely comfortable with technology but had done enough research to know what she was looking for. YouTube, above all else, had been a godsend. She needed to disable the location tracking and "Find My iPhone" features before Melissa could use them to locate her stolen device.

But she was able to get it done without much trouble. Her limited technical skills made every step uncertain, and she found herself second-guessing whether she was disabling the correct features. But it was over quicker than she’d anticipated. She turned off location services and signed out of Melissa's iCloud account, effectively cutting off the phone's connection to any tracking services. Diana felt a wave of relief as she completed these steps, knowing that Melissa would no longer be able to ping the device remotely.

Next, she opened the contacts app and began scrolling through the list of names and numbers. There were the usual entries she'd expect to find: family members, friends, work contacts, service providers. Diana took screenshots of the entire contact list, wanting to preserve the information even if something happened to the physical phone.

She found Kate Wise listed simply as "Mom" with both a cell phone and home phone number. Allen Goldman was listed as "Allen" with a cell number and what appeared to be a work extension. Terry Goldman, whom Diana knew to be Melissa's husband, was listed as "Terry" and marked as an emergency contact.

Diana opened the calendar app and found it filled with appointments, reminders, and family events. She could see doctor's appointments for Michelle, work deadlines for Melissa's freelance projects, and social gatherings that painted a detailed picture of the family's routine. There were also several entries related to Kate's upcoming wedding: dress fittings, cake tastings, and venue meetings.

The photo gallery was a treasure trove of intelligence. Diana scrolled through dozens of pictures of family gatherings, candid shots of daily life, and what appeared to be recent photos of Kate playing with her young son, Michael. She could see Kate's home in the background of many photos, getting a clear sense of the layout and surroundings.

As Diana worked her way through the phone's contents, she noticed the screen kept lighting up with incoming calls and text notifications. All from Melissa herself, desperately trying to reach her missing device. Diana had silenced the ringer, but she could see the persistent attempts to make contact.

The phone buzzed again with an incoming call from "Me" - Melissa calling from another phone. Diana let it go to voicemail, then checked to see that this was the tenth attempted call in the past hour. Melissa was clearly frantic about the missing device.

Diana opened the notes app and found shopping lists, work reminders, and what appeared to be planning notes for Kate's wedding. One note contained a detailed timeline for the wedding day, including addresses for the ceremony venue, reception location, and the hotel where out-of-town guests would be staying.

The messaging app revealed text conversations with family members, friends, and work contacts. Diana scrolled through recent exchanges, getting insights into the family's concerns, plans, and daily communication patterns. There were messages between Melissa and Kate discussing wedding preparations, conversations with Terry about household logistics (and one very flirty exchange that Diana thought was going to get very graphic in nature before petering out), and exchanges with friends about childcare arrangements.

Diana felt like she was reading someone's private diary, gaining access to intimate details about Kate Wise's family that would have taken months of surveillance to uncover. The phone contained a complete map of their personal lives, relationships, and routines.

She opened the email app and quickly scrolled through recent messages, taking screenshots of anything that seemed relevant to her surveillance objectives. There were work emails about freelance projects, personal correspondence with friends and family members, and official communications about wedding vendors and arrangements.

The phone buzzed again with another attempted call from Melissa. Diana realized she couldn't keep the device much longer without arousing suspicion. She needed to return it in a way that would seem natural and coincidental, maintaining her cover while having extracted as much useful information as possible.

Diana scrolled back through the contacts list until she found Terry's number. This would be the perfect opportunity to insert herself into the family's circle in a helpful, non-threatening way. She would position herself as a Good Samaritan who had accidentally picked up the phone during the confusion at the grocery store.

She took a deep breath and dialed Terry's number, watching as the call connected.

"Hello?" A man's voice answered, sounding slightly distracted.

"Hi, is this Terry Goldman?" Diana asked, injecting a note of friendly concern into her voice.

"Yes, this is Terry. Who's calling?"

"My name is Diana, and I think I accidentally picked up your wife's phone at the grocery store this morning. There was a bit of a collision in the parking lot, and in all the confusion of cleaning up spilled groceries, I must have grabbed her phone by mistake."

"Oh wow, really?" Terry's voice brightened with relief. "Melissa has been going crazy trying to find that thing for the last half an hour or so. She's been calling it and searching everywhere."

Diana laughed, hoping she sounded appropriately embarrassed. "I feel terrible about it. I didn't realize I had it until I got home and found an iPhone tucked in with my crackers. I’m so terribly sorry.”

"Oh, no worries. She’ll be thrilled to know it’s been found." Terry paused. "Where did you say this happened?"

"At the Kroger on Broad Street, in the parking lot. I was carrying too many bags and ran right into her. We both ended up on our hands and knees picking up canned goods and produce." Diana laughed again. "It was quite a scene… and she was so lovely to help."

"That sounds like something that would happen to Melissa," Terry said with obvious affection. "She's always trying to help people, even when she's the one who needs help."

"She was so sweet about the whole thing. Really gracious, even though I made such a mess." Diana felt pleased with how naturally the conversation was flowing. "I'd love to get her phone back to her as soon as possible. I know how stressful it must be to be without it."

"Absolutely. Where are you located? I could come pick it up, or you could drop it by our house if that's easier."

"I don't mind bringing it by," Diana said quickly. "I feel responsible for the mix-up, so it's the least I can do. I’m heading out again in about fifteen minutes, anyway."

Terry gave her their address, which Diana already knew from her surveillance but pretended to write down. "Well, I suppose I’ll be seeing you in about forty minutes or so. Again… my apologies.”

"No need to apologize. Melissa just ran out to pick up our daughter from daycare, but she should be back within the hour. I'll be here waiting."

"Perfect." Diana ended the call and allowed herself a moment of satisfaction. The operation had gone even better than she'd hoped. Not only had she successfully extracted valuable intelligence from Melissa's phone, but she was now being invited directly into their home.

Diana started her car and pulled out of the shopping center parking lot, already anticipating the next phase of her plan. Meeting Terry in person would give her additional insights into the family dynamics, and returning the phone would establish her as a trustworthy, helpful person rather than a threat.

The game was progressing exactly as she had envisioned, with each step bringing her closer to Kate Wise and her family. Soon, Diana would be positioned right in the middle of the family that had ruined her life and brought her so much grief for so long.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The safe house sat on a quiet residential street just beyond the Medical College of Virginia campus, nestled between two similar modest homes that had probably been built in the 1960s. Kate stood at the kitchen window, peering through the thin curtains at the street outside while DeMarco checked her weapon for the third time in the past ten minutes.

The house was exactly what Kate had expected from FBI safe house accommodations: functional but utterly devoid of personality. The living room contained a beige couch that had seen better days, a coffee table that wobbled slightly on uneven legs, and a television that was probably older than some of the agents who used this place from time to time. The kitchen contained the bare minimum of appliances and furniture, with laminate countertops that had been cleaned so many times they'd lost their original pattern.

Kate had been in dozens of safe houses over her career, and they all had the same sterile, temporary quality. Nothing on the walls except the most basic fixtures, no personal touches, no sense that real people lived here. Just empty spaces maintained for law enforcement operations like the one they were conducting today. They were essentially just larger motel rooms, but with a little less class.

The tactical team was positioned two houses down, close enough to respond within about a minute, but far enough away to remain invisible to anyone approaching the safe house. Kate had worked with similar setups many times before, but she always felt the tension that came with not knowing whether they were about to confront a dangerous criminal or an innocent civilian.

DeMarco checked her watch. "It's almost four o'clock. Think he'll show up on time?"

"If he's legitimate, probably. Most small business owners are pretty punctual about client meetings." Kate moved away from the window and settled onto the uncomfortable couch. "If he's guilty and planning something—or is he even suspects this might be some sort of set-up—he might be late while he scouts the area or sets up an escape route."

The living room fell silent except for the occasional car passing on the street outside. Kate found herself thinking about Allen and Michael, who were probably finishing up their afternoon routine at home. She'd texted Allen earlier to give him an update, but she’d left out a few key details, namely that she might be confronting a suspected murderer.

At exactly 4:02, DeMarco signaled from her position at the front window. "We’ve got a white pickup truck pulling up… some sort of business decal on the side that I can’t read just yet.”

Kate moved to the kitchen window and watched as a man in his early forties climbed out of a slightly beat-up pickup truck with "Torres Handyman Services" painted on the side in fading blue letters. He wore work boots, jeans with paint stains, and a flannel shirt over a gray t-shirt. He was carrying what appeared to be a clipboard or estimate pad.

Michael Torres looked exactly how Kate would expect a working handyman to look. Medium height and build, with weathered hands and the kind of tan that came from spending most days outdoors. His dark hair was cut short and practical, and his movements as he approached the house were confident but not aggressive. He was quite handsome, complete with a worn and rugged look. His arms weren't all that muscular, but the T-shirt made them appear that way.

"He doesn't look like a killer," DeMarco observed quietly.

"Neither did Ted Bundy," Kate replied, though she had to admit that Torres appeared completely ordinary. No obvious signs of nervousness or unusual behavior as he walked up the front path.

“Um, actually, he sort of did,” DeMarco said with a small smile.

Torres knocked on the door with a firm, professional rap. Kate took a deep breath and opened it, immediately studying his face for any signs of deception or recognition. She put on her best smile as she greeted him.

“Hi,” he said simply.

"Ms. Kate?" Torres asked with a slight smile. "I'm Michael Torres. You called about some repair work?"

Kate stepped back from the doorway. "Please come in, Mr. Torres.” And then, as soon as he was inside and the door was closed behind him, all pretenses were dropped. “Actually, I need to be honest with you about why you're here."

Kate could see his expression shift from professional friendliness to confusion as he took in the sparse, impersonal atmosphere of the safe house. His eyes lingered on DeMarco for a moment, sitting on the couch almost casually.

"I'm Agent Kate Wise with the FBI," Kate said, showing her badge. "This is my partner, Agent DeMarco. We'd like to ask you some questions about your handyman business."

Torres's face went pale, and he took an involuntary step backward toward the door. "FBI? What... what is this about? Am I in some kind of trouble?"

"Please have a seat, Mr. Torres," DeMarco said, gesturing toward the couch. "We just want to ask you about some work you may have done recently."

Torres looked back and forth between the two agents, his clipboard clutched tightly in his hands. "Shit,” he hissed, not in anger but something like disappointment. "Look, I know I should keep better records, but most of my clients pay cash and I don't always..."

"Mr. Torres, this isn't about taxes," Kate interrupted, settling into the chair across from the couch. "We're investigating some suspicious deaths, and your name came up in connection with the victims."

"Deaths?" Torres's voice cracked slightly, and his expression dropped to something resembling true terror. "What kind of deaths? I don't… I don't understand."

Kate studied his body language carefully. Torres appeared genuinely terrified and confused, not like someone who had been caught in a lie. His hands were shaking slightly, and his breathing had quickened in a way that suggested real anxiety rather than calculated performance.

Or he’s freaking out because he realizes he’s been caught, Kate thought to herself.

"We'd like to ask you about work you did for a woman named Carol Bennett," DeMarco said. "Do you remember her?"

Torres thought for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Yeah, Mrs. Bennett. Nice lady, lives over on… Oak Street, I think. I fixed some stuff around her house a couple weeks ago."

"What kind of work did you do for her?" Kate asked.

"Um, let me think." Torres consulted his clipboard, flipping through several pages of handwritten notes. "I replaced a kitchen faucet that was dripping, fixed a loose board on her front porch, and patched some holes in her drywall out in her garage."

"How did you get that job?" DeMarco asked.

"She called me after getting one of my business cards. I canvass neighborhoods sometimes, leave cards on doors or in mailboxes. It's how I get most of my work."

Kate felt a slight disappointment. This explanation was entirely plausible and had nothing to do with gaining unauthorized access to victims' homes. But it was also an entirely convenient excuse, too.

"What about Thomas Rodriguez?" she asked. "Did you do any work for him recently?"

Torres looked genuinely puzzled. "I don't think I know anyone by that name.” He looked through his note and documents again, shaking his head. “No, I don’t believe so. What's his address?"

Kate gave him the Rodriguez address, and Torres shook his head. "No, I've never done any work at that address. But..." He paused, thinking. "I did canvass that neighborhood a few weeks ago, too. Left business cards on a bunch of doors and mailboxes."

"You left a business card at the Rodriguez house?" DeMarco asked.

"Probably. I usually hit every house on a street when I'm canvassing. Most people throw the cards away, but sometimes someone calls." Torres looked increasingly nervous. "Is that... is that a problem? Am I not supposed to be doing that? I’m not going into their mailboxes or anything. Sometimes I just sort of slip it into their screen door, you know?”

Kate looked over to DeMarco, and she could see that she was already buying the story. Kate didn't blame her; there was something about Torres that seemed genuine. Besides, his explanation made perfect sense. He'd done legitimate work for Carol Bennett after she'd received his business card, and he'd left a card at the Rodriguez house during his neighborhood canvassing, but never actually worked there.

"Mr. Torres, you said most of your clients pay cash," Kate said. "Do you keep records of your jobs and payments?"

Torres shifted uncomfortably on the couch. "Not great records, to be honest. I know I should, but the paperwork side of the business isn't really my thing. I prefer the actual work."

"So you might not remember every job you've done recently?" DeMarco asked.

"I remember the big jobs, but if someone just had me fix a leaky faucet or replace a light switch, I might not write it down." Torres looked down at his hands. "I know that probably sounds suspicious, but I'm just not good at the business stuff."

Kate felt the case slipping away from them. Everything Torres was telling them sounded completely believable, and his nervousness seemed to stem from concerns about tax compliance rather than fear of being caught for murder. All of it would also be easy enough to check.

"Mr. Torres, have you ever had medical training or worked in the healthcare industry?" DeMarco asked. It was a good and relevant question, grasping for any connection to the sophisticated method used to poison the victims.

"Medical training?" Torres looked genuinely confused. "No, nothing like that. I'm just a handyman. I do basic repairs, painting, simple electrical work, that kind of stuff."

"Any experience with pharmaceuticals or access to medical supplies?"

"No ma'am. I wouldn't even know where to get that kind of stuff." Torres paused. While he still looked frightened, there was a softness to his expression now that made Kate think he was starting to feel he may not be in trouble here—that he was absolutely not the guy they were looking for. "Can I ask what this is all about? You said something about suspicious deaths?"

Kate realized they had reached the end of their productive questioning. Torres appeared to be exactly what he claimed to be: a small-time handyman who preferred cash payments and didn't keep detailed records. His connection to the victims was entirely coincidental. He’d simply been business cards in certain neighborhoods in the same way landscapers or politicians did.

"Mr. Torres, thank you for your cooperation," she said, standing up from her chair. "We may have additional questions later, but for now, you're free to go. And I am sorry for the trickery."

Torres stood up quickly, clearly eager to leave. "Am I in trouble for the cash payments? Because I can start keeping better records if that's what this is about."

"That's between you and the IRS," DeMarco said. "This was about something else entirely and quite frankly, not of our concern."

Torres nodded and headed for the door, then paused and turned back. Kate had a pretty good idea that after this scare, his spreadsheets and accounting would be stellar.

"Those people who died... they weren't hurt because of something I did, were they? Because I would never intentionally harm anyone."

Kate could see genuine concern in his eyes. "No, Mr. Torres. This had nothing to do with your work."

He gave a quick nod and then made his exit. Once he was gone, Kate and DeMarco stood in the empty safe house, both feeling the deflation that came with a promising lead turning into a dead end.

"Well, that… well, it sucked," DeMarco said.

Kate walked back to the kitchen window and watched Torres drive away in his pickup truck. "He seemed completely legitimate. Nervous about taxes and poor record-keeping, but not about murder."

"Which means we're back to square one."

"Not quite square one," Kate said. "We know the killer is adding poisoned pills to legitimate prescriptions. We know they're targeting empty-nesters dealing with adult children moving back home. And we know they're sophisticated enough to manufacture pharmaceutical-grade poison."

"But we don't know who they are or how they're gaining access to the victims."

Kate pulled out her phone to call the tactical team and let them know the operation was concluded. She knew they wouldn't be happy about being deployed for what had turned out to be an interview with an innocent handyman. She looked around the sparse safe house one more time, already mentally preparing for the next phase of their investigation.

"Then we need to figure out what Carol Bennett and Thomas Rodriguez had in common besides Dr. Chen and their family situations."

DeMarco gathered her things from the coffee table. "Back to the drawing board?"

"Back to the drawing board," Kate agreed. “But after I call off a tactical team who are probably going to be even more disappointed than we are.”

As she placed the call, she took a moment to acknowledge the rising dread in her heart. This wasn't a killer they could simply catch, and then the killing would stop. If he'd placed poison in prescription bottles, that was a different problem altogether, because they had no way of knowing when or where the next death might occur.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Samantha Harper pulled her car into the driveway of her sister's house, parking behind Linda's burgundy Toyota Camry. She sat for a moment, looking at the modest two-story colonial that Linda had called home for the past eight years. The neighborhood was solidly middle-class, with houses built in the 1980s that had aged gracefully. Mature oak trees lined the street, their branches creating a canopy that filtered the late afternoon sunlight into dappled patterns across the well-maintained lawns.

Linda's house was painted a soft yellow with white trim, and the front yard showed the careful attention of someone who took pride in their property. It was one of the few bright spots on a street that seemed to be barely holding on. The flower beds were weeded and mulched, with late-season chrysanthemums adding splashes of orange and burgundy near the front porch. A small American flag hung from a bracket beside the front door, and the mailbox at the curb bore Linda's address in neat black numbers.

Samantha grabbed the shopping bags from her passenger seat, careful not to drop the bottle of wine that Linda had specifically requested. They'd met for coffee yesterday morning at their usual spot, and Linda had been excited about Ben's homecoming, but also nervous about having everything perfect for him. She'd asked Samantha to pick up a few things: the wine for a small celebration dinner, some groceries for Ben's favorite meal, and a new comforter for the bed in the converted garage apartment.

The garage conversion had been Linda's project for the past month. She'd hired a contractor to add insulation, drywall, and a small bathroom, creating a private space where Ben could live independently while still being close to family. She’d also hired and interior decorator for the space, which Samantha had felt was a bit too much. But she wasn’t going to judge. Samantha had helped her shop for furniture and decorations, watching her sister carefully choose items that would make the space feel welcoming but not overwhelming. Linda wanted Ben to feel supported without feeling smothered.

Ben was twenty-two years old and had been in rehab for nearly three months. This time felt different from his previous attempts at getting clean. During their weekly family visits, Samantha had seen a change in her nephew that went beyond the physical improvements. He seemed genuinely engaged in his recovery, asking thoughtful questions about rebuilding his life and making amends for the damage he'd caused. He even had sponsors texting him to check in, and he was attending meetings outside of the standard rehab, making sure he didn’t stray.

Linda had allowed herself to hope that this time might be the turning point they'd all been praying for.

Samantha walked up the brick pathway to the front porch, juggling the bags while reaching for the doorbell. The porch was small but welcoming, with a wooden rocking chair and a small table holding a potted plant. She pressed the bell and waited, listening for movement inside the house.

No response.

She tried again, this time knocking on the door as well. "Linda? It's me. I've got the stuff you wanted."

Still nothing.

Samantha frowned and pulled out her phone, dialing Linda's number. She could hear the phone ringing inside the house, but no one answered. Linda's car was in the driveway, and she'd been expecting Samantha around this time. It wasn't like her sister to be unresponsive, especially not today, when she had so much to prepare for Ben's return.

After the fourth ring, the call went to voicemail. "Hey, it's Linda. Leave a message and I'll get back to you."

"Linda, it's Sam. I'm at your front door with the wine and groceries. Where are you?" Samantha ended the call and tried the doorbell one more time, holding it longer this time.

The silence from inside the house was starting to worry her. Linda had been anxious about Ben's homecoming, but she'd also been meticulous about her preparations. She'd made lists, checked them twice, and had been counting down the days until he could finally come home. It wasn't like her to disappear when she had so much to do.

Samantha shifted the bags to one arm and reached into her purse for the spare key Linda had given her years ago. She'd never actually used it, but Linda had insisted she keep it "just in case." She'd claimed that it was for emergencies or if Linda ever locked herself out, but now Samantha was grateful to have it.

The key turned easily in the lock, and the front door swung open into Linda's living room. The house felt still and quiet in a way that seemed wrong for late afternoon. Usually, Linda would have the television on or music playing while she worked around the house.

"Linda?" Samantha called out as she stepped inside, nearly dropping one of the shopping bags as she struggled to close the door behind her. "I'm here with your stuff."

The living room was neat and tidy, as always. Linda had never been able to tolerate clutter, a trait that had intensified after Ben's addiction had brought so much chaos into their lives. The couch was perfectly arranged with throw pillows positioned just so, and magazines were stacked neatly on the coffee table.

Samantha set the bags down on the coffee table and walked toward the kitchen, thinking Linda might be in the back of the house and hadn't heard the doorbell. Or, more likely, back in that converted space she’d spent so much time in lately, wanting to make sure everything was perfect.

The kitchen was empty but showed signs of recent activity. A coffee mug sat in the sink, and there were crumbs on the counter next to the toaster, suggesting Linda had eaten something earlier in the day.

"Linda, where are you?" Samantha called again, her voice echoing slightly in the quiet house.

She checked the dining room and the small den that Linda used as a home office. Both rooms were empty. She could feel her anxiety building as she made her way upstairs to check the bedrooms. Linda's bedroom was empty, the bed made with the same precision she applied to everything in her life. The guest bathroom was empty as well.

She walked back downstairs, pulling out her phone to try calling again. As she reached the bottom of the staircase, she noticed that the door leading from the kitchen to the garage was slightly ajar. Linda had probably been working on last-minute preparations for Ben's room and hadn't heard the doorbell from out there.

Samantha pushed open the door and called out, "Linda? It’s me.”

The garage had been transformed from a storage space into a comfortable studio apartment. The concrete floor was now covered with laminate flooring, and the walls were painted a warm beige color that made the space feel larger and more welcoming. A twin bed was positioned against one wall, made up with new bedding in blues and greens that Linda had chosen carefully. A small dresser sat opposite the bed, and a compact desk was positioned under the single window.

But Linda wasn't admiring her handiwork or making final adjustments to Ben's new living space.

She was lying motionless on the floor near the foot of the bed.

"Oh God, Linda!" Samantha dropped her phone and rushed to her sister's side, falling to her knees on the hard flooring.

Linda lay on her back, her eyes closed and her face pale. She was wearing the same jeans and sweater she'd had on yesterday morning at coffee, but now they looked rumpled and wrong. Her hair, usually styled perfectly, was disheveled as if she'd fallen suddenly.

Samantha pressed her hand to Linda's chest, feeling for a heartbeat or any sign of breathing. Her sister's body was cold and still, with no sign of life. Linda's skin had taken on a waxy appearance that Samantha had never seen before but somehow recognized as the look of death.

"No, no, no," Samantha whispered, pressing harder against Linda's chest as if she could somehow restart her sister's heart through sheer determination.

But even as she tried to find a pulse, Samantha knew it was too late. Linda's body had the stillness that came only with death. More than that, the cold and stiffness she felt indicated she'd been gone for hours. Her face was peaceful, almost serene, as if whatever had happened had occurred quickly and without struggle.

Samantha sat back on her heels, her hands shaking as the reality of the situation crashed over her. Linda was dead. Her sister, who had been so excited yesterday about Ben's homecoming, who had been planning and preparing and hoping for their family to finally heal, was gone.

The prepared apartment around them felt like a cruel mockery now. The carefully chosen bedding, the small touches Linda had added to make Ben feel welcome, the work she'd put into creating a space where her son could start over. All of it was ready for a reunion that would never happen.

Samantha realized she was crying, tears streaming down her face as she looked at her sister's still form. Linda had been only forty-six years old, with no serious health problems that Samantha knew of. She went to her doctor regularly, took care of herself, and had been looking forward to the future in a way she hadn't for years.

With trembling hands, Samantha reached for her phone where she'd dropped it on the floor. She needed to call 911 and report what she'd found. As she dialed the numbers, Samantha looked around the converted garage one more time, trying to understand what could have happened to her sister in this space that was supposed to represent hope and new beginnings.

The irony was devastating. Linda had died in the room she'd prepared for Ben's recovery, surrounded by all the symbols of the second chance she'd worked so hard to create for her son. Tomorrow was supposed to be the beginning of something better for their family, but instead it would be the day Samantha and Ben had to accept that Linda was gone.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Kate was three blocks from home when she remembered the Indian restaurant—the new one that had just opened up over on Grove a few weeks ago. She'd been thinking about dinner since leaving the safe house, chiefly because she knew all she and DeMarco could do for now was wait. And if that was the case, she’d be waiting at home with her family, over dinner. It was one of the ways she kept reminding herself of the balance she was looking for—between career and family.

Allen had mentioned wanting to try the new Indian place, and after the frustration of the dead-end interview with Michael Torres, the idea of bringing home something exotic and flavorful felt like a small way to salvage the evening. She reached for her phone to call Allen, already imagining his reaction when she suggested they order takeout from somewhere new. Michael would probably love the rice, and they could get something mild enough for his toddler palate while still giving themselves a chance to try the more adventurous dishes.

But before she could dial Allen's number, her phone rang in her hand. Director Duran's name appeared on the screen, and Kate felt her stomach drop. Calls from Duran rarely brought good news, especially not during an active case.

"Agent Wise," she answered, setting the call to hands-free mode as the car’s Bluetooth system picked it up.

"Kate, I need you to respond to another scene,” Duran said. “We've got what might be a third victim."

Kate heard the words clearly but struggled to believe it. "Where?"

"I'm sending you the address now. It's actually not far from your neighborhood, which is why I'm calling you first. DeMarco is tied up with forensics right now, trying to track down where those poison pills might have originated from, so she'll be arriving after you."

Kate's phone buzzed with the incoming address. She glanced at it and realized Duran was right; it was only about ten minutes from her house. "What makes you think it's connected to our case?"

"Local police responded to a 911 call about an hour ago. A woman found her sister dead in a converted garage. The responding officers noted a prescription bottle near the body, the cap off." Duran paused. "Could be completely unrelated, but given what we know about the pattern, I'd rather have you take a look."

"I'm on my way," Kate said, already looking to the address. The thought of dinner with Allen and Michael suddenly felt very far away, the idea of Indian food little more than an afterthought.

"Kate, if this is connected to your case, that's three victims in less than a week. We need to figure out how this killer is selecting targets and gaining access to their medication."

"Understood." Kate ended the call and immediately dialed Allen's number.

He answered on the second ring, with a bit of cheer in his voice. "Hey, perfect timing. Michael just asked where Mama is."

"Allen, I'm sorry, but I need to respond to another scene. There might be a third victim." She said it simply, very matter-of-factly. She hated the tone of it. She thought it sounded too bossy, as if saying there was nothing he could say to pull her away from it.

The pause on the other end of the line told her everything she needed to know about how he was processing this information. When he spoke again, his voice was carefully controlled.

"How long do you think you'll be?"

"I honestly don't know. It could just be an hour or two, or it could be longer if it's connected to our case." Kate hated the uncertainty in her own voice. "I was about to suggest we try that new Indian place for dinner, but…"

"We'll save that for another night," Allen said. "Be careful, Kate. And keep me updated."

"I will. Give Michael a kiss from me."

Kate ended the call and focused on the route to the address Duran had sent. As she drove through the familiar streets of her own neighborhood, she found herself thinking about the pattern they'd identified. Empty-nesters whose adult children had recently moved back home, all killed by poisoned pills added to their prescription medications. If this third victim fit the same profile, it was just another piece in a case that was starting to feel like a very morbid lottery.

The address led her to a middle-class residential street lined with mature trees and well-maintained homes. Kate could see the police vehicles before she reached the house number, their red and blue lights creating an intermittent glow against the gathering darkness of early evening.

She parked behind one of the patrol cars and grabbed her badge and notepad from the passenger seat. The house was a two-story colonial painted yellow with white trim, similar to dozens of other homes in the neighborhood. Nothing about it stood out as particularly remarkable or unusual, which seemed to fit the pattern of their previous crime scenes.

As Kate approached the front door, she could hear the sound of someone crying. A woman's voice, high and strained, was saying something about "supposed to come home tomorrow" over and over again. The sound carried a note of hysteria that Kate recognized from too many crime scenes over the years.

A uniformed officer met her at the front door. He was young, probably in his late twenties, with the serious expression that suggested he was still getting used to responding to death scenes. He looked nervous, maybe even on the verge of being sick.

"Agent Wise? I'm Officer Hall. Thank you for getting here so quickly."

Kate showed her badge and followed him into the house. "What do we have?"

"The victim is Linda Harper, forty-nine years old. She was found dead by her sister, Samantha, about an hour and a half ago." Hall gestured toward the kitchen, where Kate could see another officer trying to comfort a woman who was clearly in distress. "Samantha came by to drop off some things, found the front door unlocked, and the victim unresponsive in the converted garage space."

"Converted garage?" The term piqued her interest at once.

"Yeah, the victim had been fixing up the space above the garage as an apartment. Looks like it was almost finished." Hall consulted his notepad and read from the notes written there. "The sister says the victim's son was supposed to come home from rehab tomorrow. She'd been preparing the space for him."

Kate felt the pattern fall into place. Another empty-nester, another adult child returning home, another death. The timing was too consistent to be coincidental.

"Where's the body?" she asked.

"Still in the garage. We haven't moved anything yet, waiting for the coroner and your arrival." Hall led her through the kitchen toward a door that opened onto what had clearly been a garage conversion project. "The sister is pretty shaken up,” Hall said. “She keeps talking about how the victim was excited about her son coming home."

Kate nodded and followed Hall into the converted space. The garage had been transformed into a small but comfortable living area, with new flooring, painted walls, and furniture arranged to create a welcoming environment. It was clearly a labor of love, designed to help someone start fresh while remaining close to family support.

Linda Harper lay motionless on the floor near a twin bed. She looked to be in her mid-fifties, though Kate knew from Hall's information that she was actually younger. She wore jeans and a sweater that looked comfortable and well-worn, and her position suggested she had fallen suddenly and without warning.

But what caught Kate's attention immediately was the prescription bottle sitting on a small nightstand near the bed. Just as Duran’s preliminary details had suggested, the cap was off.

"Has anyone touched the medication bottle?" Kate asked, pulling on latex gloves.

"No ma'am. We secured the scene as soon as we realized what we were looking at." Hall watched as Kate approached the nightstand. "The sister mentioned that the victim had been taking medication for anxiety, but I don't know if that's what's in the bottle."

Kate carefully examined the prescription bottle without disturbing its position. The pills inside were capsules, similar in size and color to the Lorazepam that had been found at the previous crime scenes. But when she looked at the label, she saw immediately that these were not anti-anxiety medications at all.

The prescription was for something called Atenolol, which Kate recognized as a blood pressure medication. More importantly, the prescribing physician listed on the label was not Dr. Cassandra Chen. It was Dr. Patricia Walsh. While it did break the pattern (and cleared Chen's name in the process), the overall picture remained the same.

Kate felt a mixture of confirmation and confusion. The pills looked similar to those found at the Bennett and Rodriguez scenes, suggesting the same method of poisoning. But the different doctor and different medication type added new variables to consider.

"Officer Hall, when was the last time anyone spoke to the victim?"

"The sister says she had coffee with the victim yesterday morning. Based on the condition of the body, the coroner's preliminary estimate is that death occurred sometime yesterday afternoon or evening. So we're looking at roughly twenty-four hours."

Kate studied the scene more carefully, noting the careful attention Linda Harper had paid to preparing this space for her son. The contrast between the care put into this preparation and the tragedy of Linda's death was overwhelming. A place that had been meant for celebration and reunification had become something much darker.

"It's definitely connected to our case," Kate said, more to herself than to Hall. "Same method, same victim profile, same timing."

"Agent Wise?" The voice came from behind her, and Kate turned to see a woman in her early forties standing in the doorway between the garage and the kitchen. She had the same basic facial features as the victim but looked several years younger. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying, and she was holding a tissue that had clearly seen heavy use.

"Are you Samantha Harper?" Kate asked gently.

"Yes. Are you with the FBI? The officer said someone from the FBI was coming." Samantha's voice was shaky, but she was clearly trying to hold herself together. "Is Linda's death connected to something bigger? Because I don't understand what happened to her." Her voice grew thin near the end, as if she might cry again. But she managed to hold it together.

Kate approached Samantha carefully, noting the grief and confusion in her expression. "I'm Agent Wise, and I'm very sorry for your loss, Ms. Harper. And yes, we're investigating some deaths that might be related to your sister's."

"Related how?" Samantha wiped at her eyes with the tissue. "Linda didn't have any enemies. She was just trying to help Ben get back on his feet."

"Ben is your sister's son?"

"Yes. He's twenty-two. He's been in rehab for almost three months, and he was supposed to come home tomorrow." Samantha's voice broke on the word 'tomorrow.' "Linda has been so excited. She's been working on this apartment for weeks, getting everything ready for him.”

Kate felt the final piece of the pattern click into place. "Ms. Harper, had Ben been living with your sister before he went to rehab?"

"Yes, for a few weeks. Well, off and on. He'd been struggling with addiction for a couple of years, and Linda finally convinced him to get serious about treatment. But before he left for the program, he was staying here with her." Samantha looked around the converted garage with fresh tears in her eyes. "She wanted him to have his own space when he got back, somewhere he could feel independent but still be close to family."

That was the confirmation Kate needed. Linda Harper fit the exact same profile as Carol Bennett and Thomas Rodriguez: an empty-nester who had recently welcomed an adult child back home, killed by poisoned pills just before what should have been a positive milestone in their family's recovery.

"Ms. Harper, I know this is difficult, but I need to ask about your sister's medication. Do you know if she was seeing a therapist or taking anything for anxiety?"

Samantha nodded. "She started seeing someone a few months ago, when Ben's addiction got really bad. She was having panic attacks and trouble sleeping. The stress of watching him destroy himself was killing her."

"Do you remember the name of the therapist?"

"Dr. Walsh, I think. Patricia Walsh. Linda said she specialized in helping parents deal with children's addiction problems." Samantha paused, looking confused. "Why are you asking about her therapy? Does that have something to do with what happened?"

Kate didn't want to go into detail about the poisoned medication while Samantha was still processing her grief, but she needed to understand the connection. Three victims, three different doctors prescribing medication, but all fitting the same basic pattern of empty-nesters struggling with adult children's problems.

"We're still investigating," Kate said carefully. "But your information is very helpful. So thank you."

Officer Hall approached them from across the garage. "Agent Wise, the coroner just arrived. Should I have them wait for you to finish examining the scene?"

"Yes, please. I want to take a closer look before anything is moved." Kate turned back to Samantha. "Is there somewhere you can stay tonight? Family or friends who can be with you?"

"I'll probably stay at my boyfriend's house. I need to figure out how to tell Ben what happened." Samantha's voice broke again. "He was doing so well in the program. He was finally getting his life together… and now this."

Kate felt a deep sadness for this family that had been working so hard toward recovery and reunion, only to have it destroyed by someone who saw their situation as an opportunity for murder. This killer wasn't just taking lives; they were destroying hope and shattering families that were already fragile. She wondered what might become of Ben, to have finally beaten his addiction, only to lose his mother.

As Samantha was led back into the kitchen by one of the officers, Kate pulled out her phone to call DeMarco. Three victims in less than a week, all following the same pattern, all killed by the same method. The case was escalating rapidly, and they needed to identify the killer before more families were destroyed.

She looked around the converted garage one more time, taking in the careful preparations Linda Harper had made for her son's homecoming. Tomorrow should have been a day of celebration and new beginnings. Instead, it would be another day of grief and loss for a family that had already endured too much.

Kate scrolled to DeMarco's number and pressed call, knowing that the conversation would confirm what she already suspected: they were dealing with a methodical killer who was targeting vulnerable families at their most hopeful moments.

And in an unknown number of locations throughout the city, more poison pills were waiting in medicine bottles, ready to claim additional victims.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Kate pulled into her driveway at 8:45 that night, the dashboard clock glowing in the darkness as she turned off the engine. She sat in the car for a moment, steeling herself for what she assumed would be a difficult conversation with Allen. The house looked warm and inviting through the front windows, with the soft glow of table lamps creating the kind of domestic tranquility she'd been absent from for most of the day. He'd seemed understanding enough on the phone when she'd called to tell him about needing to travel to another crime scene before returning home. But the guilt was still there, and she knew at some point, his understanding would come to an end… and deservedly so.

She knew Allen had already put Michael to bed. The timing was unmistakable; bedtime routine always began at 8:00 sharp, with bath, stories, and the careful choreography of getting an energetic toddler to settle down for the night. It was a routine she usually shared with Allen, taking turns reading books or managing the inevitable negotiations that came with putting Michael to sleep.

Tonight, she'd missed all of it.

Kate grabbed her purse and badge from the passenger seat, already formulating the apology she'd need to deliver. She'd missed dinner, missed bedtime, missed the ordinary evening moments that Allen had been managing alone while she dealt with Linda Harper's death scene. It was exactly the kind of situation that had caused tension in their relationship before, and she couldn't blame him if he was frustrated.

The front door was unlocked, which meant Allen had been listening for her arrival. Kate stepped into the entryway and set down her things, trying to read the mood of the house. She could hear the television playing quietly in the living room, and there was no sign of the scattered toys and dinner dishes that usually marked the end of a busy day with Michael.

"Allen?" she called softly, not wanting to risk waking Michael if he was still settling into sleep.

"In here," came his voice from the living room.

Kate walked through the hallway, already beginning her rehearsed explanation. "I'm so sorry I'm late. The third victim turned out to be connected to our case, and I had to process the scene and interview the sister who found the body. I know I missed dinner and bedtime, and I feel terrible about—"

Allen appeared in the doorway between the hallway and living room, cutting off her words by pulling her into his arms and kissing her deeply. The kiss was unexpected and intense, filled with the kind of passion that caught her completely off guard. It was so unexpected that she nearly pushed him away. That’s how taken by surprise she was. But after a few seconds, Kate felt herself melt into him. Her prepared apologies were forgotten as she responded to the warmth and urgency of his embrace.

When he finally broke the kiss, Kate looked up at him with surprise and pleasure. "That was nice. What was that f—"

But Allen interrupted her again, this time pressing her back against the wall and kissing her with even more intensity. Kate felt her pulse quicken as his hands moved to her waist, pulling her closer against him. The stress and frustration of the day began to dissolve as she lost herself in the heat of his touch and the familiar scent of his cologne. It made no sense at all, but her nerves and the automatic attraction to him overruled the confusion.

They moved together toward the living room, their kisses becoming more urgent and desperate. Kate's hands worked at the buttons of Allen's shirt while he tugged at her blazer, both of them moving with a kind of fevered need—perhaps partly from a slowly building frustration between the two of them concerning her sporadic job commitments.

They fell onto the couch together, Allen's shirt half-unbuttoned and Kate's hair coming loose from the neat style she'd worn to work. Their hands explored each other with keen familiarity. Kate felt herself responding to Allen's touch in a way that made her forget about crime scenes and victims and the weight of responsibility she'd been carrying all day.

The couch cushions caught them as they moved together, their breathing becoming ragged and urgent as kissing became much more. Kate lost herself in the sensation of Allen's hands on her skin, in the way he whispered her name against her ear, in the overwhelming need to connect with him in the most fundamental way possible. The outside world disappeared completely, leaving only the two of them and the heat building between them.

Afterward, they lay together on the couch, Kate's head resting on Allen's chest while he pulled the soft throw blanket from the back of the sofa to cover their naked bodies. She could feel his heartbeat gradually returning to normal beneath her cheek, and she traced lazy circles on his skin with her fingertip.

"I have to admit," Kate said, her voice still slightly breathless, "I felt sure we'd be arguing a bit tonight."

Allen laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest. "I thought about it. But this seemed like it would be more fun."

Kate lifted her head to look at him, seeing the satisfied smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "More fun than lecturing me about missing family time?"

"Much more fun." Allen brushed a strand of hair away from her face. "Besides, sometimes it's nice to remember what else is waiting at home rather than just dinner and mommy duties."

Kate felt a warm glow of contentment spread through her. After the difficult day she'd had, processing another crime scene and seeing the devastation in Samantha Harper's eyes, this intimate connection with Allen felt like exactly what she needed. It reminded her why she was working so hard to balance her career with her personal life, why coming home to this man and their son mattered more than any case.

"Speaking of dinner," Allen said, his tone becoming slightly sheepish, "I was lazy tonight. There's mac and cheese in the fridge. Michael helped me make it, which means more noodles ended up on the floor than in the pot."

Kate smiled and settled back against his chest. "Do we have a wine that pairs well with mac and cheese?"

"I'm sure we do. We have wine that pairs well with everything."

They both started laughing, the sound filling the quiet living room with the kind of joy that came from being completely comfortable with each other. Kate felt like a college kid again, lying naked with her boyfriend and giggling about nothing in particular. It was a feeling she'd thought was lost to her forever, something that belonged to a younger version of herself who hadn't seen the darker side of human nature or carried the weight of so much responsibility.

"Should we get up and heat it up?" Kate asked, though she made no move to disentangle herself from Allen's arms.

"We should," Allen agreed, also making no effort to move. "Eventually."

Kate closed her eyes and let herself sink deeper into the comfortable weight of the blanket and Allen's embrace. The case that had consumed her thoughts all day felt very far away now, pushed to the back of her mind by the immediate pleasure of being held and loved. Linda Harper's death, the poisoned pills, the pattern of victims, all of it could wait until tomorrow. Right now, there was only this moment of perfect contentment.

She thought about how different this evening had turned out from her expectations. She'd driven home prepared for conflict, ready to defend her choices and navigate Allen's understandable frustration. Instead, she'd found passion and connection and the kind of intimacy that reminded her why their relationship worked despite all the challenges.

The living room was warm and quiet around them, with only the soft glow of the table lamps and the distant sound of the television providing any sensory input. Kate could feel Allen's breathing becoming deeper and more relaxed, and she wondered if he might fall asleep right here on the couch with her in his arms.

The thought didn't bother her at all. In fact, it sounded perfect.

Right now, there was just this. Just them and the simple pleasure of being together, naked and satisfied and completely present with each other. The mac and cheese could wait. The wine could wait. Everything could wait except this moment of pure happiness and connection.

Kate smiled against Allen's chest and let herself drift in the warmth of his embrace, feeling remarkably pleased and content despite everything that had happened during the day. And with his soft heartbeat against the side of her face, the case—the bodies, the pills, the empty-nesters—seemed very far away.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Margaret Holloway pulled her white cargo van into the circular driveway of the Pemberton residence, checking the dashboard clock as she shifted into park. It was 8:02 AM, which meant she was running exactly on schedule. The house that loomed before her was everything she'd expected from the phone consultation: a pristine two-story colonial that probably cost more than most people made in five years. It was gorgeous, though a bit gaudy.

The Pemberton home sat on at least two acres in one of Richmond's most exclusive neighborhoods, where houses were positioned far enough apart to ensure privacy and close enough to the city center to maintain prestige. The brick exterior was painted a soft cream color that complemented the forest green shutters and the perfectly manicured landscaping. Mature boxwood hedges lined the front walkway, and seasonal flowers had been arranged in decorative planters that probably cost more than most people's monthly mortgage payments.

She was excited to be working on it, but at the same time, it was a bit daunting. She found herself surprisingly nervous as she opened the van's rear doors and surveyed the carefully arranged inventory inside. Fabric samples, paint cards, furniture catalogs, and measuring tools—they were organized in portable cases that allowed her to transform any client's living room into a professional design consultation space. She'd built her business, New Beginnings Home Design, on the ability to help clients reimagine their living spaces during major life transitions.

The irony of the company name wasn't lost on her.

She selected the materials she'd need for today's appointment and loaded them into a wheeled case. The Pembertons were simply redecorating their master bedroom and main living areas, nothing complicated or emotionally charged. Mrs. Pemberton had mentioned during their phone call that their youngest daughter had recently graduated from college and moved to Seattle, but they seemed to be handling the empty nest transition well. They weren't inviting anyone back home, weren't struggling with anxiety about their changing family dynamics, and probably weren't taking prescription medications to cope with the stress.

In other words, they weren't candidates for her more specialized services. This job would be only about… well, her job.

Margaret had learned to recognize the difference between clients who were simply redecorating and those who were dealing with deeper emotional transitions. The latter group was much more interesting to work with, though for reasons the clients themselves never suspected.

Before gathering her materials and heading to the front door, Margaret pulled out her phone and opened her browser. She'd developed a routine of checking local news websites before each appointment, partly to stay informed about her community and partly to monitor whether any of her recent projects had reached their intended conclusion.

She typed "Richmond obituaries" into the search bar and scanned the results, looking for familiar names among the recent death announcements. It was always satisfying to see that her work had been effective, though she was careful not to display any inappropriate reactions when she found what she was looking for. She saw nothing there, so she then turned to the world’s most efficient conveyor of breaking news: Facebook.

And after just two minutes of searching, she found a result… and an unexpected one.

Linnda Harper was dead.

Linda had died just yesterday, according to the announcement. The timing was remarkably fast, much quicker than Margaret had anticipated when she'd visited Linda's home three days ago.

She remembered the consultation clearly. Linda had been so excited about her son's upcoming return from rehab, so hopeful about the converted garage apartment she'd been preparing for him. She'd hired Margaret to help select paint colors and furniture arrangements that would make the space feel welcoming but not overwhelming for someone in early recovery.

"I want Ben to feel supported but not smothered," Linda had told her, running her hand along the freshly painted walls of the garage conversion. "This is his chance to start over, and I want everything to be perfect for him."

Margaret had smiled and nodded, offering suggestions about lighting and fabric choices that would create a calming environment. She'd praised Linda's dedication to her son's recovery and had listened sympathetically as Linda described the stress and anxiety she'd been experiencing during Ben's addiction struggles.

"It's been so hard," Linda had confided. "I've been seeing a therapist, and she's prescribed medication to help with the panic attacks. But honestly, some days I don't know how I've gotten through it."

That had been the opening Margaret needed. While Linda was distracted by fabric samples, Margaret had excused herself to use the bathroom and had taken a brief detour through Linda's bedroom. The prescription bottle for Atenolol had been sitting on the nightstand, exactly where Margaret had expected to find it, but there were also anxiety medications. It was the sort of seemingly harmless medication that was becoming more and more common in American households. Anxiety meds were perfect for her purposes because the capsules were small and similar enough to her specially prepared capsules that the substitution would go unnoticed.

Margaret had quickly opened the bottle and added three of her poisoned pills to the legitimate medication, mixing them in so they would be indistinguishable from the real ones. Linda would have no way of knowing that some of her pills now contained a lethal combination of potassium chloride and sedatives instead of anxiety medication.

The beauty of the method was its unpredictability. Margaret had no control over when Linda would take one of the poisoned pills, but she didn't need control. She just needed patience… and she had that to spare. The death would appear natural, a heart attack brought on by the anxiety Linda had been struggling with for months.

What Margaret hadn't expected was how quickly it would happen. Three days was remarkably fast, suggesting that Linda had been taking her medication more frequently than prescribed, probably due to the stress of preparing for Ben's return from rehab. Or she’d just been unfortunate enough to grab one of Margaret’s special pills right away.

Margaret closed the browser and slipped her phone back into her purse. The Pemberton consultation was scheduled to last two hours, which would give her plenty of time to assess whether they might be candidates for her more specialized services. But based on their initial conversation, they seemed to be adjusting well to their empty nest status. They had plans for travel, hobbies they wanted to pursue, and a social circle that would help them navigate this new phase of their lives.

They were probably going to be disappointed with her services, actually. Margaret's expertise was in helping people through difficult family transitions, not in simple redecorating projects for well-adjusted empty nesters.

Margaret gathered her materials and headed toward the front door of the Pemberton house, her professional smile already in place. She would spend the morning discussing paint colors and furniture arrangements, taking measurements, and offering suggestions that would help her clients create the living space they wanted.

But part of her attention would remain focused on identifying her next extra-curricular project. Somewhere in Richmond, there was another parent struggling with an adult child's return home, another family dealing with the stress and anxiety that came with trying to rebuild relationships damaged by addiction, mental illness, or simple failure to launch.

And when she found them, Margaret would be ready to offer her specialized form of mercy, whether they knew they needed it or not.

The Pemberton consultation would be routine and professional. But Margaret's real work, her true calling, would continue as soon as she identified the next family that could benefit from her intervention.

She pressed the doorbell and waited for Mrs. Pemberton to answer, her portfolio of fabric samples and design ideas ready to transform another living space. But her thoughts remained focused on Linda Harper.

Some projects, Margaret reflected, simply worked out better than others.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

The sound of Allen’s alarm sliced through the darkness at 6:15, and Kate felt Allen stir beside her as he reached over to silence it. She stretched languidly, feeling the pleasant ache in her muscles that reminded her of the night before. There was something different about the way they moved around each other this morning, a kind of contentment that seemed to carry over from their passionate night on the living room couch.

"Good morning," Allen murmured, rolling over to face her with a smile that made her remember exactly why she'd fallen in love with him.

"Good morning," Kate replied, reaching up to touch his face. "Thank you for last night."

"Thank you for coming home to me. And for… well, the other stuff."

They got out of bed together, moving through their individual morning routines with a synchronicity that felt natural and comfortable. Kate pulled on her robe while Allen headed for the shower, and she found herself humming softly as she made her way downstairs to start the coffee. The house felt peaceful in the early morning light, with dust motes dancing in the sunbeams that streamed through the kitchen windows. She knew that the peace would be short-lived, though; Michael would be awake soon enough.

Kate poured herself a cup of coffee and opened her laptop at the kitchen table. She logged into her work email while the house remained quiet around her. The familiar blue glow of the screen brought her back to the reality of the case, but somehow the transition felt easier this morning. The balance between her personal life and professional obligations seemed more manageable after the reminder of what waited for her at home.

DeMarco had sent updated case files overnight, and Kate opened them immediately, scanning through the new information while sipping her coffee. The forensics reports on Linda Harper's scene were consistent with their previous victims, confirming the same method of poisoned pills mixed with legitimate medication. Dr. Walsh had prescribed Atenolol for Linda's blood pressure, but the deadly pills had been added by someone with access to her home. DeMarco had also sent bank statements, employment histories, and other small details to look through.

Kate was deep in reading the toxicology details when she heard Michael's voice calling from upstairs.

"Mama! Mama, up!"

She smiled and saved her work, closing the laptop before heading upstairs to get her son. Michael was standing in his crib, his hair sticking up at impossible angles, and his pajamas twisted from sleep. When he saw her, his face lit up with the kind of pure joy that could make anyone forget their troubles.

"Good morning, sweetheart," Kate said, lifting him out of the crib and carrying him to the changing table. "Did you sleep well?"

"Sleep good," Michael confirmed, then looked down at his diaper with interest as Kate began changing him. "Mama, no more diapers?"

Kate laughed as she cleaned him up. "Soon, buddy. When you get a little bigger, we'll learn to use the potty like a big boy. And… you know, that might just be a few more weeks from now. I think you might be ready."

"Big boy!" Michael announced proudly.

"That's right!”

Michael nodded seriously, as if this was a matter of great importance that required his full agreement. Kate finished getting him cleaned and dressed, then carried him downstairs to the kitchen, where she settled him into his highchair.

Allen appeared in the kitchen doorway, dressed for work and looking much more awake than he had twenty minutes earlier. "How's our little man this morning?"

"Big boy!" Michael declared, apparently having decided this was his new favorite phrase.

"He is indeed," Allen said, ruffling Michael's hair before turning to Kate. "I've got him for breakfast if you need to wrap up some work stuff." He nodded toward her laptop on the table, letting her know that he was fully aware of where her head was.

"Thanks," Kate said, giving Allen a quick kiss before returning to the case files. "I'll just be a few more minutes."

She reopened her laptop while Allen began preparing Michael's breakfast, the familiar sounds of their morning routine providing a comfortable backdrop to her work. Kate pulled up the phone records for all three victims, deciding to review them more thoroughly now that she had access to the complete files. She spent the next several minutes going over it all.

The records went back several weeks for each victim, showing the usual pattern of calls to family members, doctors' offices, and service providers. Kate methodically compared the numbers, looking for any connections between the three cases that might have been overlooked.

"Mama, banana!" Michael called out from his highchair.

"Coming right up," Allen replied, slicing fruit while Kate continued her analysis.

Kate was scanning through Linda Harper's phone records when something caught her attention. A phone number appeared in all three victims' call logs, sometimes as incoming calls, sometimes as outgoing. In Linda Harper's case, the number appeared just three days before her death. It was the sort of detail that never really stuck out, but stayed hidden in the weeds.

But Kate had noticed it, and now it stuck to her like a thorn. Feeling the stirrings of hope, she ran a search on the phone number using the bureau database. The results came back in less than ten seconds. The number belonged to a business called "New Beginnings Home Design."

Kate quickly opened a new browser window and navigated to the company's website. The homepage featured professional photos of beautifully decorated rooms and a mission statement about helping clients "reimagine their living spaces during life's major transitions." The site explained that New Beginnings specialized not only in home staging for sales but also in renovations and remodels, with a unique service model that allowed clients to experience new decor and furniture for a couple of weeks before making final purchasing decisions.

Major transitions, she thought. Maybe like a grown child coming back home?

Kate scrolled down to the "About" section of the website. There, she found that the owner of the company was a woman named Margaret Holloway. There was more information on the unique approach of bringing furniture and small items into clients' homes to let them experience the decor for weeks before finalizing transactions. Kate wasn’t sure she’d ever heard of such a thing before.

“Huh,” she said out loud as another bit of information registered with her. If Holloway was moving things in before an actual financial transaction, that could result in murky financial records for the victims. There could potentially be no paper trail between the victims and New Beginnings.

It also meant she had access to all three homes in the weeks before the murders.

Kate began to move a bit faster, really locked in now. She accessed the bureau database and ran a background check on Margaret Holloway.

Michael banged his spoon against his highchair tray, apparently satisfied with his breakfast and ready to move on to more interesting activities. Allen wiped his hands and face while Kate focused intently on her laptop screen.

“Everything good?” Alan said, apparently noticing her sudden focus and concentration.

“Yeah, I’m good. I think I may have just had a breakthrough.”

She poked around the results, and it took less than five minutes before she landed on something that made Kate stop dead for a moment. Her coffee cup froze halfway to her lips.

Margaret Holloway, age forty-nine, had a daughter named Sarah Holloway who had died in a car accident just five months ago. According to the police report, Sarah had been twenty-six years old and was driving to her mother's house after ending a long-term relationship. The accident had occurred late at night during a rainstorm, and investigators had ruled it a tragic accident caused by poor visibility and wet roads.

Kate stared at the information, feeling pieces of a dark puzzle clicking into place. From a profiling perspective, the death of Margaret's daughter had created a textbook scenario for psychological breakdown and displaced anger. A mother who had lost her adult child just as that child was preparing to return home during a crisis… it was heartbreaking, but also a perfect frame for what she and DeMarco were currently investigating. It could be psychologically tormenting to see other parent-child reunions as painful reminders of what she had lost.

The timing was particularly significant. Sarah had died less than half a year ago. Maybe it had taken those months for Holloway to build up the courage to carry out her plans… to get her hands on those deadly pills. If Margaret Holloway was their killer, there was really only one huge question that needed to be answered: was she acting out a grief-driven delusion that other parents needed to be "saved" from the disappointment and heartbreak she believed was inevitable, or were these wretched acts of jealousy?

Kate's profiling training kicked in as she analyzed the psychological framework. Margaret had lost her daughter at the exact moment when Sarah was seeking comfort and support from her mother. The tragedy had robbed Margaret of the chance to help her child through a difficult transition, leaving her with unresolved maternal instincts and a distorted perception of parent-child relationships.

By killing empty-nesters whose adult children were returning home, Margaret was potentially acting out a twisted form of mercy. In her damaged psyche, she might believe she was sparing these parents the eventual pain of watching their children struggle, fail, or disappoint them again.

"Kate?" Allen's voice seemed to come from very far away. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I think I may have just found our killer," Kate said, already reaching for her phone to call New Beginnings Home Design. “I’m sorry, but do you mind…”

“I’ve got Michael. Do your thing.”

Kate stood up from the table and walked into the dining room to make sure things were quiet. She placed the call, and the phone rang twice before she realized that it wasn't even eight in the morning yet. Surely, it would be too early for someone to answer, right?

So she was surprised when a cheerful female voice answered. "New Beginnings Home Design, this is Jennifer. How can I help you?"

"Hi Jennifer, my name is Kate Wise. I'm trying to reach Margaret Holloway about a potential emergency consultation."

"Oh my. An emergency?”

“Well, that may be. Bit of an over-exaggeration,” she said, trying to inject humor into her voice. It felt like the ruse she and DeMarco had walked through in order to meet with Michael Torres.

“Well, Ms. Holloway is out with a client right now. Early, I know, but that’s just the way it is around here sometimes.”

“Do you know when she’ll be back?”

 “She's not scheduled to be back in the office until after lunch."

Kate felt her heart start to thrum wildly in her chest. If Margaret was currently in someone's home, she might be in the process of selecting her next victim or tampering with more medication.

"This really is sort of an emergency," Kate pressed, injecting urgency into her voice. "Could you possibly give me the address where she's working today? I have a family situation that requires immediate attention."

Jennifer hesitated. "Well, I'm not supposed to give out client addresses..."

"Please?”

“Are you a former client?”

“Well, my sister is…” She left it at that, not wanting to dig too deep of a lie.

"Okay, let me check her schedule. She's at the Pemberton residence this morning." Jennifer provided an address in one of Richmond's most exclusive neighborhoods. “I’d expect you could probably swing by around ten or so. She should be done by then.”

Kate was already rushing upstairs to gather her things. "Thank you so much, Jennifer. You may have just saved me a ton of trouble. I really do appreciate it."

She ended the call as she quickly got dressed. Her mind was rushing in a hundred places at once: she needed to call Demarco, she needed to explain to Allen why she’d be gone again today, she hoped she wasn't just overreacting. These thoughts carried her back downstairs in a sort of tidal wave and were still pushing her when she hurried into the living room, where Allen was on his laptop and Michael was playing on the floor.

"I have to go," Kate said, grabbing her badge and gun from the counter. "I’m pretty sure I just located the killer, and they might be working on another victim right now."

Allen nodded, looking at her with a strange mix of pride and concern. "That sounds promising… and a bit dangerous. Be careful, Kate.”

She rushed over to him and kissed him. “I always try to be,” she said. She then kissed Michael on the top of his head and told him she had to be off to work. Fortunately, he was too engrossed in stacking two plastic blocks together that he barely even noticed.

"I love you both," Kate said, heading for the door. "I'll call you when I know more."

She rushed to the garage and as soon as she was in her car, she dialed DeMarco's number. Her hands were shaking slightly with adrenaline as she started the engine. The phone rang once in her ear before DeMarco picked up.

"Kate? I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so early. What’s up?"

"I found her," Kate said, pulling out of her driveway faster than she normally would. "I found our killer."

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Kate drove through the suburban streets with DeMarco in the passenger seat, the exact opposite of how their travels were put together most of the time. A tension seemed to have them coiled upright like tight springs. They'd met at a gas station halfway between Kate's house and the Pemberton address, with DeMarco quickly transferring from her sedan into Kate's car to save time.

Kate had walked her through everything she’d learned during the morning. As she drove, DeMarco was looking for anything else relevant to Margaret Holloway on her smart pad. So far, there was nothing new.

Kate navigated through the increasingly upscale neighborhood, noting the larger lots and more elaborate landscaping that marked their approach to the Pemberton residence. "The whole interior design approach is sort of manically brilliant,” DeMarco said. “It would allow her to spend time alone in their bedrooms, bathrooms, anywhere they kept their medications."

"The psychological profile makes sense, too," Kate said. "A mother who loses her adult child just as that child is seeking help and support. The trauma could easily trigger a delusional belief system where she thinks she's protecting other parents from inevitable disappointment."

"By killing them before their children can let them down again," DeMarco finished in a tone that almost had a touch of sympathy. "In her mind, she's preserving the hope and love instead of letting it turn into frustration and enabling."

They turned onto Ambler Lane, a tree-lined street where houses sat on multi-acre lots behind wrought iron gates and carefully maintained stone walls. The address they were looking for was at the end of a circular drive, a massive colonial that probably dated back to the 1920s, but had been updated with modern amenities while maintaining its historical character.

Kate slowed as they approached the house, scanning for any sign that her hunch might be right. As they came to the driveway, she spotted a white van with simple, yet elegant script on the double back doors: New Beginnings Home Design. It was written in elegant blue lettering, really popping from the white body.

Just as Kate was pulling into the driveway behind the van, the front door of the Pemberton house opened, and a woman emerged. She was average height with shoulder-length brown hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. She wore loose slacks and a professional-looking blouse under a light cardigan. She carried a wheeled case, and what looked to be a roll of some sort of tapestry was tucked beneath her arm.

“Is that her?” DeMarco asked.

“I think so,” Kate said, recalling the single picture she’d seen of the woman on the website. And from this angle, she looked like a small, sweet, middle-aged woman who was simply at work, tending to her business. Nothing about her appearance suggested someone capable of methodical murder.

Kate parked the car, taking another look at the large home. It had to be valued at a minimum of two million dollars, and she'd have no problems imagining a large expanse of sprawling gardens out in the back. When Kate and DeMarco got out of the car, Margaret looked up and noticed them. She was walking toward her van and stopped for just a single moment as she spotted them. Kate saw the moment of recognition in Margaret's eyes, the instant when she realized that these two professionally dressed women emerging from an unmarked sedan probably weren't potential clients who had somehow tracked her down. She seemed to understand the danger and the weight of the moment right away.

The reaction was immediate and telling. Instead of approaching with the curious friendliness of someone wondering if she could help them, she dropped her wheeled case and roll of fabric. She then bolted toward her van.

"Margaret Holloway, stop! FBI!" Kate called out. But Margaret was already fumbling with her keys, her hands shaking as she tried to unlock the driver's door.

"She's running," DeMarco said, pulling out her badge as they both moved quickly toward the van.

Margaret managed to get her van door open just as Kate and DeMarco reached the back of the van. The driver's side door slammed, and the engine turned over. DeMarco's hand went to her holstered Glock, but the van lurched forward instantly. And because the Pemberton driveway was circular, Margaret would be able to get away from them without much of a problem. But apparently, Margaret had other plans in mind.

She had thrown the van into reverse. And with a sudden rev of the engine, it came rocketing back toward them. Kate grabbed DeMarco's arm and pulled her aside as the van lurched backward, its rear bumper missing them by inches. Margaret spun the wheel hard to the left, trying to navigate around Kate's sedan, but there wasn't enough room for the maneuver.

"She's going to go through the yard," Kate said, watching Margaret's increasingly erratic driving.

Sure enough, Margaret gunned the engine and drove the van directly across the Pemberton's meticulously maintained front lawn, leaving deep tire ruts in the grass as she headed for the street. Kate and DeMarco ran back to Kate's sedan, jumping in just as Margaret's van bounced over the curb and onto the roadway.

Kate started her engine and backed up rapidly, preparing to follow Margaret's path across the lawn. She didn’t even have time to wonder if perhaps it might be a better idea to let DeMarco drive.

"Hold on," she warned DeMarco as she turned the wheel hard to the right and accelerated.

The sedan's low clearance made the transition from driveway to lawn more jarring than it had been for Margaret's van. Kate felt the car's undercarriage scrape against the decorative stone edging as they crossed the flower beds, and she had to steer carefully to avoid the large oak tree that dominated the center of the front yard. She looked back in her rearview and saw someone come out to the front porch of the house, yelling.

When they reached the street, Kate had to swerve sharply to avoid a municipal trash truck that was making its way down the residential street on its weekly collection route. The truck driver blared his horn as Kate's sedan slid sideways across the asphalt, her tires squealing as she fought to regain control.

"Jesus, Kate!" DeMarco braced herself against the dashboard as the car straightened out.

“Sorry,” Kate said through gritted teeth.

Kate accelerated hard, trying to spot Margaret's van among the morning traffic. The residential streets clearly had not been designed with high-speed pursuits in mind. There were stop signs at every intersection and children's toys scattered on front lawns that suggested this was a neighborhood where people didn't expect to see vehicles racing past at dangerous speeds.

"There she is," DeMarco said, pointing ahead to where Margaret's white van was visible about two blocks ahead. It was currently weaving between slower-moving vehicles as it headed toward a larger arterial road.

Kate pressed the accelerator to the floor, her sedan's engine responding with a surge of power that closed the distance rapidly. As the car lurched forward, the engine purring in a way she hadn’t heard in a while, DeMarco placed a call on her phone. Kate listened, barely aware of what was being said because she was so focused on the road.

"This is Agent DeMarco, badge number 4721. I'm in pursuit of a suspect vehicle, a white cargo van with the New Beginnings Home Design logo, heading eastbound on Ambler Lane toward Grove Avenue. Requesting immediate backup and roadblock assistance."

Kate forged on as she spotted Margaret's van running through a stop sign at the intersection ahead. This caused a small sedan to brake hard and swerve onto the shoulder to avoid a collision. Kate followed through the same intersection less than ten seconds later, constantly closing the distance between them.

As the chase continued and increased speed, it appeared that Margaret having a bit of trouble with the tight confines of the suburban streets. Kate watched as the larger vehicle scraped against a row of parked cars, leaving a trail of scraped paint and damaged side mirrors in its wake. A BMW's driver-side mirror exploded in a shower of glass and plastic as Margaret's van sideswiped it without slowing down.

"She's destroying everything in her path," DeMarco observed, watching the van careen between parked vehicles like a pinball bouncing between bumpers.

Kate had to swerve hard to the right to avoid a jogger who had stopped on the sidewalk to stare at the chase in disbelief. The woman pressed herself against a brick mailbox as Kate's sedan flew past, close enough that Kate could see the shock and fear on her face.

At her age, Kate thought suddenly, she really couldn't afford to be acting so recklessly. The realization struck her as she took a corner at twice the safe speed, feeling her tires slide on the asphalt before regaining traction. She was nearly sixty years old with a young son at home and a fiancé who was counting on her to come back safely. The days when she could throw herself into dangerous situations without considering the consequences were behind her.

But even as the thought crossed her mind, Kate knew she couldn't back off now. Margaret Holloway had killed three innocent people and would likely kill more if they didn't stop her today. The risk to Kate's own safety had to be weighed against the risk to potential future victims.

"She's heading for the highway," DeMarco observed. "If she gets onto I-95, this could get really complicated."

Kate nodded, knowing that a high-speed chase on the interstate would involve multiple jurisdictions and create risks for dozens of innocent drivers. They needed to stop Margaret before she reached the on-ramp, but the van was still about half a block ahead of them, and Margaret was driving with the desperation of someone who knew that capture meant life in prison.

Ahead of them, the van swerved around a slow-moving truck that was hauling construction materials on a flatbed trailer. Kate had to make a split-second decision about whether to follow the same dangerous maneuver or find an alternate route. She chose to swing into the oncoming traffic lane, passing both the truck and Margaret's van in a move that required precise timing and considerable nerve.

"Kate, you’re overshooting it," DeMarco said, her voice tight with concern.

"I know. I'm trying to get ahead of her so we can set up a controlled stop before someone gets hurt."

Kate pulled back into the correct lane just ahead of Margaret's van, then began gradually reducing her speed to force Margaret to slow down as well. It was a risky strategy that required her to maintain position despite Margaret's attempts to ram her sedan from behind. The hope was that it would trap Margaret between them and the truck hauling the flatbed.

But once again, Margaret had no intention of remaining trapped. She sped up a bit, her van striking the rear of Kate's sedan, giving it a little nudge. Kate fought to maintain control as her steering wheel jerked in her hands.

“Jesus!” she hissed through her teeth.

“You okay?” DeMarco asked, whipping her head around to keep tabs on Margaret.

“For now, yeah.”

"Are you okay?" Kate asked DeMarco, who was shaking her head to clear the effects of the collision.

"I'm fine. Keep going."

Kate pressed the accelerator again, trying to stay ahead of Margaret despite the damage to her sedan's rear end. Behind them, she could hear the distant sound of sirens as backup units responded to DeMarco’s call. But she wasn't sure they would arrive in time to prevent Margaret from reaching the highway entrance that was now visible just ahead.

The chase had become a dangerous gamble with innocent lives at stake, and Kate knew they were running out of time to resolve it safely. Not only could Margaret potentially escape if she made it to the exit… she could unintentionally claim even more lives before she was caught.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

Kate pressed her foot harder against the accelerator, her sedan's engine straining as she fought to keep pace with Margaret Holloway's van. She cursed under her breath as she navigated around a Mercedes, her side mirror clipping the luxury car's bumper with a sharp crack. The streets in this part of Richmond were lined with mature oak and maple trees that created a canopy overhead, their branches reaching across the roadway in some places and leaving narrow channels for traffic.

Margaret had already showed how difficult it was to maneuver the van down these thin thoroughfares. And now, the interstate was right there, just several hundred yards ahead. But even before the van veered toward the exit, Kate knew Margaret was going too fast to take the sharp turn.

Margaret's van took the next corner too fast, its higher center of gravity causing it to lean dangerously to one side. Kate could see the vehicle's left wheels lift slightly off the pavement before slamming back down with a bounce that sent Margaret veering into the opposite lane.

That's when Kate saw the oncoming car.

A dark blue sedan was driving toward them in the opposite lane, its elderly driver unaware of the high-speed chase bearing down on him. Kate could see the man's relaxed posture and casual grip on the steering wheel, suggesting he was probably heading to the grocery store or some other routine errand with no idea that his morning was about to become a life-or-death situation.

"She's going to hit him," DeMarco said, her voice tight with tension.

Margaret must have seen the oncoming vehicle at the last possible moment. Her van swerved violently to the right, missing the sedan's front bumper by what couldn't have been more than inches. Kate caught a glimpse of the elderly driver's terrified face as Margaret's van roared past him, so close that she could see him mouthing what was probably a prayer.

But Margaret's desperate evasive maneuver sent her van careening toward the edge of the exit ramp.  Kate watched in a mixture of relief and horror as Margaret lost control completely, the van's front wheels striking the curb and launching the vehicle partially airborne. She hit the sign that warned drivers to slow down for the ramp, knocking it down. And then it half-flipped into the massive oak tree a few feet behind it.

The impact with the tree was devastating. The van's front end crumpled like an accordion, the hood folding upward as the engine block was driven backward into the passenger compartment. The windshield exploded in a spider web of cracks, and steam began rising from the destroyed radiator.

Kate hit her brakes hard, feeling her sedan slide across the asphalt as she fought to avoid colliding with Margaret's destroyed van. She managed to bring her vehicle to a stop about twenty feet behind the crash site, cutting her hazard lights on as her heart pounded from the adrenaline that had been coursing through her system during the entire chase.

The sudden silence was almost deafening after the noise and chaos of the pursuit. Kate could hear her own breathing and the tick of her sedan's cooling engine, along with the distant sound of sirens that were finally getting closer to their location.

"Are you okay?" Kate asked DeMarco, who was already unbuckling her seatbelt.

"I'm fine,” her partner said, though her eyes looked wide and wild. “Let's check on her."

They both got out of the sedan and approached Margaret's van cautiously, their hands resting on their weapons in case the crash hadn't ended the threat. With its front axle bent at an impossible angle and one front wheel lying several feet away from the vehicle, the van was clearly not going anywhere.

DeMarco moved to the driver's side window while Kate positioned herself so that she could see both Margaret and the surrounding area. The van's windshield was so badly cracked that it was impossible to see inside clearly, but there was no movement from the driver's seat.

"Margaret Holloway," DeMarco called out, tapping on the window with her knuckle. "This is the FBI. Can you hear me?"

No response.

DeMarco tried the door handle and found it jammed from the impact. She cupped her hands around her eyes and peered through the damaged window, then looked back at Kate with a grim expression.

"She's out. Bleeding from the forehead, but I can see her chest moving, so she's breathing."

Kate pulled out her phone to call for emergency medical services while DeMarco continued trying to assess Margaret's condition through the damaged window. The irony wasn't lost on Kate that they were working to save the life of the woman who had methodically murdered three innocent people. Behind her, the wail of police sirens filtered closer, turning the morning into a field of chaos. Kate could see the flashing lights of multiple emergency vehicles approaching their location. The cavalry was arriving, though the chase was over.

Kate looked at the destroyed van and thought about how close they had all come to disaster during the pursuit. The elderly driver who had narrowly avoided a head-on collision, the jogger who had pressed herself against the mailbox, the young children who might have been playing in yards along their route. At her age, with her responsibilities to Allen and Michael, she needed to find ways to do her job that didn't involve so much physical risk.

But today, the risk had paid off. Margaret Holloway was in custody, though in bad shape from the looks of it, unconscious and injured, but alive to face justice for her crimes. The families of Carol Bennett, Thomas Rodriguez, and Linda Harper would finally have answers about what had happened to their loved ones.

As the first police cars reached the crash site, Kate felt the familiar mixture of satisfaction and exhaustion that came with closing a difficult case. The adrenaline was already beginning to fade, leaving her aware of the various aches and bruises she'd accumulated during the chase. She wished things could have gone smoother at the end, but at least they had their killer off the street.

But even above all of that, she was thinking about Allen and Michael as her heart beat like a kick drum in her chest. She’d made it through yet another dangerous series of moments, making it far too easy to imagine how good it would feel to go home to them once all the paperwork and debriefing sessions were finally complete.

And that feeling, in that moment, was all she needed to convince herself that it was time to walk away from the bureau once and for all.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

Harsh overhead lights cast stark shadows across the interview room where Margaret Holloway sat waiting. It was 2:35 in the afternoon, and Kate had spent the past three hours processing the aftermath of the high-speed chase, dealing with damaged vehicles, witness statements, and the mountain of paperwork that came with apprehending a murder suspect after a pursuit through suburban Richmond.

Margaret had been cleared by the bureau's medical team twenty-five minutes ago. No concussion, no serious injuries beyond some cuts from broken glass and bruising from the airbag deployment. They thought her wrist might be fractured at first, but that turned out not to be the case. She was alert, responsive, and, according to the attending physician, perfectly capable of understanding her rights and participating in an interrogation.

Kate studied Margaret through the one-way glass before entering the interview room. The woman looked smaller somehow than she had during the chase, diminished by the orange jumpsuit and the reality of her situation. Her brown hair hung loose around her shoulders, no longer pulled back in the professional ponytail she'd worn that morning. Her hands were folded calmly in her lap, and for someone facing multiple murder charges, her expression was oddly serene.

"Ready?" DeMarco asked, tapping at the small recording device they would carry into the room.

Kate nodded and opened the door, stepping into the sterile space where Margaret Holloway waited to confess to three murders.

The interview room was standard FBI issue: a metal table bolted to the floor, three uncomfortable chairs, and walls painted in a shade of beige that was designed to be completely neutral. Margaret looked up as they entered, her eyes clear and focused despite everything she had been through that morning.

"Mrs. Holloway," Kate said, settling into the chair across from her. "I'm Agent Wise, and this is Agent DeMarco. We'd like to ask you some questions about the deaths of Carol Bennett, Thomas Rodriguez, and Linda Harper."

"I know who you are," Margaret replied, her voice steady and matter-of-fact. "And I know why you're here."

DeMarco placed the recording device on the table and activated it. "This interview is being recorded. You've been read your rights, and you've waived your right to an attorney. Is that correct?"

"Yes, that's correct." Margaret's hands remained folded, her posture calm and controlled.

Kate leaned forward slightly. "Margaret, we have strong reason to believe you are connected to the three deaths Agent DeMarco just mentioned. Your business phone number appears in the call logs of all three victims. We know you visited their homes in the weeks before they died."

"I did visit their homes," Margaret said without hesitation. "They were all clients of New Beginnings Home Design."

"And what did you do during those visits?" DeMarco asked.

Margaret met her gaze directly. "I provided interior design consultations. I helped them select paint colors, furniture arrangements, and lighting options. And I added pills to their prescription medications."

The casual way she delivered the confession was chilling. Kate had interviewed dozens of killers over her career, but few had been so matter-of-fact about their crimes. She’d mentioned it as if was a case of “Oh, and I left a few extra plush pillows for them to use as they wanted.”

"What kind of pills?" Kate asked.

"Potassium chloride mixed with a fast-acting sedative," Margaret replied, as if she were discussing fabric samples. "I purchased empty gelatin capsules online and filled them myself. The potassium chloride causes cardiac arrest, while the sedative ensures the victim loses consciousness quickly and doesn't suffer."

DeMarco typed notes quickly out on her phone while Margaret spoke, her fingers little more than a blur. "How did you gain access to their medications?"

"It was quite simple, actually. During my consultations, I would excuse myself to use the bathroom or get something from my van. While they were distracted by fabric samples or paint chips, I would find their prescription bottles and add two or three of my pills to each container."

Kate studied Margaret's expression, looking for any sign of remorse or emotional distress. Instead, she saw only the clinical detachment of someone discussing a professional project.

"Why those specific victims?" Kate asked.

"They all fit the picture I was looking for…the right kind of people," Margaret said. "Empty-nesters who had recently welcomed adult children back home. Parents who were struggling with anxiety about their family situations, who were taking medication to cope with the stress of trying to help children who couldn't help themselves."

"Okay, but that doesn’t explain—" DeMarco started, but Margaret quickly interrupted her.

"They needed to be saved. They didn't understand what they were setting themselves up for, what kind of heartbreak was waiting for them down the road."

"What heartbreak?" DeMarco asked.

"The inevitable disappointment. The watching and waiting and hoping, only to realize that love isn't enough to fix what's broken. The slow destruction of…" She stopped her, and a tear came trailing down her cheek. She wiped it away at once, as if it burned. "The destruction of believing that this time would be different, that support and encouragement would finally be enough to turn everything around."

Kate felt a chill at the conviction in Margaret's voice. "You believed you were helping them?"

"I was helping them. I was preserving the love and hope before it could turn into resentment and enabling. They would never have to experience the moment when they realized their children couldn't be saved, when they understood that all their sacrifice and support had been wasted."

The psychological framework was becoming clear to Kate. Margaret had developed a delusional system in which killing loving parents was an act of mercy, sparing them from the emotional pain she believed was inevitable.

"Margaret," Kate said gently, "tell me about your daughter."

The change in Margaret's demeanor was immediate and dramatic. Her composed facade cracked, and for the first time since entering the room, her eyes filled with tears. There would be much more than the single one that had escaped several seconds ago.

"Sarah," she whispered, her voice breaking on the name.

"What happened to Sarah?" Kate asked.

Margaret's hands began to shake as she lifted them to wipe at her eyes. She looked to Kate as if she'd been tricked, as if Kate had no business knowing about her daughter. "She was supposed to come home. She'd broken up with her boyfriend, this terrible man who treated her horribly, controlled her, and isolated her from her family. When she finally found the courage to leave him, she called me and said she wanted to come home for a while, just until she could get back on her feet."

"When was this?"

"About six months back. May 14th. She was supposed to drive over that evening after work, bring some of her things, and stay in her old room." Margaret's voice grew thick with grief. "I was so excited. I cleaned her room, bought groceries for all her favorite meals, and even picked up flowers for her dresser."

"But she didn't make it home," Kate said softly.

"He followed her from work. Her boyfriend, ex-boyfriend, whatever he was. He followed her and started ramming her car with his truck, trying to run her off the road." Margaret's tears were flowing freely now. "She called 911, but she was so scared that she was driving too fast. It was raining, the roads were slick, and she lost control on a curve."

The story poured out of Margaret in broken sentences punctuated by sobs. "She hit a tree. Died instantly, they said. Just two miles from my house. Two miles from safety, from home, from her mother who would have protected her and loved her and helped her start over."

Kate felt a deep sadness for this woman's loss, even knowing what that loss had driven her to do. "I'm very sorry about Sarah, Margaret."

"She was coming home to me," Margaret continued, her voice barely above a whisper. "She trusted me to take care of her, to help her heal from what that bastard had put her through. And I failed her. I couldn't save her."

The psychological break was clear now. Margaret had channeled her grief and guilt over failing to save her own daughter into a twisted mission to "save" other parents from the pain she was experiencing.

"So you decided to… to save other parents instead," DeMarco said.

"I couldn't let them go through what I'm going through," Margaret replied, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her jumpsuit. "Watching Carol Bennett prepare that room for her son, seeing how excited she was about helping him get back on his feet... I knew how it would end. Adult children who move back home, they always disappoint in the end. They take advantage of their parents' love, they become dependent, they drain the life and hope out of the people who care about them most."

"But that's not what happened with Sarah," Kate pointed out. "Sarah was trying to escape an abusive relationship. She was seeking help."

"And look how that ended," Margaret said bitterly. "She died trying to get away from him, died coming to me for help. If she'd never left him in the first place, if she'd just stayed away from me, she might still be alive."

Kate could see the devastating logic of Margaret's delusion. In her damaged psyche, she had somehow convinced herself that Sarah's death was the result of seeking parental support, rather than the result of an abuser's violence.

"Margaret," Kate said, "the parents you killed weren't automatically going to experience what you experienced. Their children weren't all running from abusers. They were just people going through difficult times who needed support from their families. And now… now, you’ve taken away any chance they had at having that reunion."

"You don't understand," Margaret replied, her voice gaining strength again. "I saved them from years of watching their children fail over and over again. I preserved the love and hope they felt in that moment when they thought everything was going to work out."

“Yes, but you—”

“No!” she yelled, interrupting Kate. “No. No more right now, please. Please. I’ve confessed. I’ve told you everything you wanted to know. Now just… leave me alone for a while.”

Usually Kate would still press a bit harder, but Margaret was right. She’d confessed and waived her right to counsel. There was no need to keep pushing right now.

“Yes. For now, we’ll leave you be,” Kate said. She got to her feet, and DeMarco opened the door.

When they stepped outside of the room, Kate felt emotionally drained. Margaret Holloway was clearly suffering from some form of psychotic break triggered by her daughter's traumatic death. While she would face murder charges, Kate doubted she would see traditional prison time. Not right away, anyway. More likely, she would be committed to a psychiatric institution where she could receive treatment for whatever mental illness had driven her to kill three innocent people. But depending on how she conducted herself during the trial, standard prison-time might very well be in her future. And a hell of a lot of it.

As they made their way down the hall, DeMarco immediately pulled out her phone. "We need to contact all of Margaret's recent clients," she said. "Anyone who had a consultation in the past month could have contaminated medication in their homes."

Kate nodded, already thinking about the urgency of the situation. "How many clients are we talking about?"

"According to the business records that were pulled for us, at least twelve consultations in the past six weeks."

They spent the next hour making phone calls, working their way through Margaret's client list and warning each person to dispose of any prescription medications immediately and seek medical attention if they had taken any pills since Margaret's visit to their home.

Those calls were difficult to navigate. Most clients were shocked to learn that the pleasant interior designer who had helped them select new curtains was actually a serial killer who might have contaminated their medications. Several people became hysterical, convinced they had already been poisoned. Others refused to believe the information initially, insisting there had to be some mistake.

But by the end of the afternoon, Kate and DeMarco had potentially saved several lives by warning Margaret's clients about the danger in their medicine cabinets. It wasn't enough to undo the damage that had already been done to the Bennett, Rodriguez, and Harper families, but it was something.

As Kate prepared to leave the field office, she reflected on the tragic chain of events that had led to this point. Sarah Holloway's death had been a genuine tragedy, the result of domestic violence and an abuser's determination to maintain control even after his victim had escaped. But Margaret's response to that tragedy had created additional victims, destroying three families in the name of sparing them future pain.

Kate thought about Allen and Michael waiting for her at home, and she felt grateful for the stability and love they provided. She understood Margaret's fear about adult children disappointing their parents, about the complex dynamics that could develop when family members moved back home during crises. But she also understood that love and support, even when imperfect, were better than the alternative Margaret had chosen.

The case was closed, but its emotional impact would linger. Kate knew she would be thinking about Sarah Holloway and Margaret's twisted form of love for her child for a long time to come.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

Shortly after 4:00, Kate watched through the bulletproof glass as two correctional officers escorted Margaret Holloway down the hallway toward the transport vehicle that would take her to county lockup. Even in handcuffs and an orange jumpsuit, Margaret maintained the same calm demeanor she'd displayed throughout the interrogation, as if being arrested for multiple murders was simply another item on her daily schedule.

"Think she'll plead insanity?" DeMarco asked, standing beside Kate at the observation window.

"Doubtful,” Kate said. “Because I believe she thinks she was completely in the right." Kate turned away from the window as Margaret disappeared from view. "Her daughter's death clearly triggered some kind of psychotic break. The delusion that she was performing acts of mercy is textbook."

"Doesn't make the victims any less dead."

"No, it doesn't." Kate gathered her jacket and purse from the chair where she'd left them hours earlier. "But at least their families will have answers now. And we prevented more deaths by warning her other clients."

DeMarco nodded, checking her watch. "It's a bit after 4:00. You heading home?"

"Finally, yes. Allen's been far more than understanding, and I'd like to be home for dinner tonight." Kate paused at the door. "Good work today, DeMarco."

"Team effort," DeMarco replied. "Drive safe. And Kate? Try to leave this one at the office. You've got a wedding to plan and a family to enjoy."

Kate managed a smile, though she could already feel the weight of the case settling into her thoughts. "I'll try. See you Monday."

The elevator ride down to the parking garage gave Kate her first quiet moment since the morning's pursuit, and she found herself replaying Margaret Holloway's confession in her mind. The image of Sarah Holloway driving through the rain, fleeing an abusive boyfriend and trying to reach the safety of her mother's home, only to die just two miles away from sanctuary.

As Kate approached her car in the parking garage, she noted the scratches and dents from the morning's chase. The insurance company would have questions about how an FBI agent had managed to damage her vehicle pursuing a suspect through suburban Richmond. She smirked, thinking about how fun that particular conversation was going to be.

As she started the engine and pulled out of the garage, Kate tried to focus on the positive aspects of the case. They'd caught a serial killer before she could claim more victims and had reached out to those who might potentially still be in danger, making sure they remained alive as well.

But the image of Sarah Holloway kept intruding on her thoughts. A young woman seeking help from her mother, cut down by the very violence she was trying to escape. The cruel irony of dying so close to safety, so close to the love and support that might have helped her rebuild her life, was almost sickening.

Kate found herself thinking about Melissa, about how precious and fragile the relationship between mother and adult child could be. In Margaret's twisted logic, she had been sparing parents from inevitable disappointment, but Kate knew the truth was far more complex. Adult children sometimes struggled, sometimes failed, sometimes made choices that broke their parents' hearts. But they also grew, learned, succeeded, and built lives that brought joy and meaning to their families.

The traffic on Broad Street was light for a Friday afternoon, with most commuters already headed home to their weekend plans. Kate navigated through the familiar intersections, her mind still processing the emotional toll of the interrogation. Margaret's breakdown when discussing Sarah had been genuine, her grief raw and devastating even after a month of living with the loss.

What if something happened to Melissa… some awful, unseen accident that yanked her right out of existence? The thought struck Kate with unexpected force, causing her chest to tighten with sudden anxiety. Her daughter was twenty-eight years old, married, with a child of her own. She lived a stable, responsible life with no dangerous boyfriend to flee from, no addiction struggles or mental health crises that might put her at risk.

But accidents happened. Life was unpredictable. People could be taken away in an instant, leaving behind only grief and regret. And just like that, the weight of the case she and DeMarco had just wrapped came slamming down on her.

Kate felt tears begin to blur her vision and quickly pulled into the parking lot of a small strip mall, finding an empty space near the back where she could compose herself without attracting attention. She sat in her car with the engine running, wiping at her eyes with a tissue from her purse.

The tears came harder now, fueled by the accumulated stress of the day and the haunting image of Margaret Holloway's daughter dying alone on a rainy road. Kate thought about all the times she'd been too busy with cases to call Melissa, all the family dinners she'd missed, all the small moments she'd sacrificed in the name of professional duty.

She pulled out her phone and scrolled to Melissa's number, pressing the call button before she could talk herself out of it.

"Mom?" Melissa answered on the second ring, her voice carrying a note of concern. "Is everything okay?"

Kate struggled to keep her voice steady. "Hi, honey. I'm fine, I just... I wanted to call and check on you."

"Check on me? Mom, you sound like you've been crying. What's wrong?"

"I'm okay," Kate said, though her voice cracked slightly on the words. "I just finished a difficult case, and it got me thinking about family… about how much you and Michelle mean to me."

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and Kate could imagine Melissa processing this unexpected emotional conversation. "Mom, you're scaring me a little. Are you sure you're okay?"

Kate took a deep breath, trying to find the right words. "I think sometimes I take our relationship for granted. I get so caught up in work that I forget to tell you how grateful I am to have you in my life, how proud I am of the woman and mother you've become. I know it has to be a lot… to be a daughter and a new sister to Michael. God… the life I’ve led… it couldn’t have been easy on you.” Kate felt fresh tears starting. "I know I've missed a lot of dinners and bedtimes and ordinary moments because of my work. I know it hasn't always been easy having an FBI agent for a mother."

"Oh, Mom." Melissa's voice softened. "Where is this coming from?"

"Like I said… just a hard case.”

"Maybe not always easy, but I've always been proud of you,” Melissa said. “Of what you do, of how you help people and solve cases that other people can't solve." Melissa paused. "And honestly, seeing you with Michael, seeing how present you are with him now, it shows me that you've learned from those experiences. You're finding the balance."

Kate wiped her eyes, feeling some of the tension in her chest begin to ease. "I love you, Melissa.”

"I love you too, Mom. And I know that. I've always known that." There was a brief pause, and Kate could hear voices in the background. "Listen, I hate to cut this short, but Terry and I are about to have a guest over for a late lunch. Michelle's been napping, but she should be waking up soon."

"Of course, I don't want to keep you. I just needed to hear your voice."

"Are you sure you're okay? You don't sound like yourself."

Kate managed a more genuine smile. "I'm okay, sweetheart. Just had a stressful morning, and it left me feeling emotional. But I'm fine now. Allen and Michael will be there to cheer me up when I get home, too."

"Okay, but call me later if you need to talk more. Or come by this weekend. Michelle would love to see her grandma, and I'm sure Allen and Michael would enjoy spending time with Terry."

"That sounds wonderful. We'll figure out a time that works for everyone."

"Good. And Mom? Thank you for calling. It means a lot to know you're thinking about us."

"Always, honey. Always."

Kate ended the call and sat in her car for a few more minutes, letting the conversation settle into her heart. The parking lot around her was quiet, with only a few customers coming and going from the small businesses in the strip mall. The late afternoon sun slanted through her windshield, warming the interior of the car.

She felt better now, more grounded and less overwhelmed by the emotional weight of the case. Talking to Melissa had reminded her of what really mattered, of the love and connection that made all the professional challenges worthwhile. She thought about Michael waiting at home, probably playing with his toys or helping Allen prepare dinner. At twenty-two months old, he was becoming more interactive every day, developing his own personality and preferences. Soon he would be old enough for longer conversations, for shared activities, for the kind of relationship Kate was building with Melissa, but from the very beginning.

She put her car back in drive and pulled out of the parking lot, heading toward home with a lighter heart. The case was closed, Margaret Holloway was in custody, and potential future victims had been warned about contaminated medications. She had done her job, and now it was time to focus on her family.

The thought of Michael's enthusiastic greeting when she walked through the front door made her smile for the first time since the interrogation ended. She was looking forward to scooping him up in her arms, to feeling his small body relax against hers, to the simple pleasure of being needed and loved.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

Diana sat comfortably on the plush sectional sofa in Melissa and Terry Goldman's living room, cradling a steaming mug of coffee between her hands. The Goldman home was everything she had expected from her weeks of surveillance: warm, lived-in, decorated with the careful balance of comfort and style that spoke of a young family making their way in the world. Family photos lined the mantelpiece above the fireplace, and toys were scattered across the hardwood floor in the organized chaos that came with having a toddler.

"I still can't believe you found my phone and went to all this trouble to return it," Melissa said, settling into the chair across from Diana. "When Terry told me someone had called about it, I was so relieved. I'd been going crazy without it."

Diana laughed, the sound coming easily despite the calculated nature of everything she was doing. "Oh my goodness, I felt so terrible about the whole thing. When I got home and realized I had someone else's phone mixed in with my groceries, I knew exactly how panicked I would be if it were mine."

Terry emerged from the kitchen carrying his own coffee mug and a plate of what appeared to be homemade cookies. He was tall and lean, with sandy brown hair and the kind of easy smile that suggested someone comfortable with himself and his place in the world. Diana had observed him during her surveillance, but seeing him up close allowed her to assess his personality more directly.

"Diana was just telling me she's new to the area," Melissa said as Terry settled onto the couch beside her. "She moved here about six months ago."

"Really? Where did you move from?" Terry asked, offering Diana a cookie from the plate.

Diana accepted the cookie gratefully, buying herself a moment to ensure her story remained consistent with what she had already told Melissa. "North Carolina originally, but I'd been living in Virginia Beach for a few years before coming to Richmond. After my divorce was finalized, I decided I wanted a fresh start somewhere new."

"That must have been difficult," Melissa said with genuine sympathy. "Starting over in a place where you don't know anyone."

"It's been challenging," Diana admitted, allowing a note of vulnerability to creep into her voice. "I've been trying to get out and meet people, but it's harder than I expected. Everyone already has their established friend groups and busy lives."

Terry nodded understandingly. "Richmond can feel like a small town sometimes, even though it's actually pretty big. People tend to stick with the friends they made in college or through work."

"That's exactly what I've noticed," Diana said, taking a sip of her coffee. "It's why I was so grateful when our little collision in the parking lot led to this invitation. You both seem so genuinely nice."

"Well, the least we could do was feed you lunch after you went to all the trouble of returning my phone," Melissa said. "Plus, I have to admit, I'm curious about what brings people to Richmond. It's not exactly a destination city like New York or San Francisco."

Diana laughed again, this time with what appeared to be genuine amusement. "You're right about that. For me, it was mostly practical considerations. The cost of living is reasonable compared to the coast, and I have some distant family in the area. Plus, I read that Richmond has a good job market for people in my field."

"What kind of work do you do?" Terry asked.

"Freelance marketing and social media consulting," Diana replied smoothly. "I help small businesses develop their online presence. It's the kind of work I can do from anywhere, which made the move easier."

The lie rolled off her tongue easily, supported by the basic knowledge she had acquired during her preparation. She had even created some sample marketing materials and a simple website to support the cover story if anyone decided to investigate her claims. She had gone deep to make sure her fake identity seemed legitimate.

From upstairs came the sound of a child's voice calling out, followed by what sounded like small feet hitting the floor. Melissa immediately stood up, her maternal instincts clearly activated by the familiar sounds.

"That would be Michelle waking up from her nap," she explained to Diana. "She's two, and she has very strong opinions about when naptime should end."

"How sweet," Diana said. "I'd love to meet her, if that's okay."

"Of course," Terry said, standing as well. "Fair warning, though. She's in that phase where she's suspicious of strangers but also incredibly curious about them. It makes for interesting social dynamics."

Melissa disappeared upstairs, and Diana could hear her talking softly to Michelle, coaxing the toddler fully awake and probably changing her diaper. Terry remained in the living room, and Diana took the opportunity to gather more information about the family's routines.

"Do you and Melissa both work from home?" she asked.

"I'm in the office most days, but Melissa works from home when she doesn't have Michelle in daycare. It's a balancing act, trying to manage client calls and deadlines with a two-year-old running around."

"I can imagine. What kind of work do you do?"

"Accounting for a mid-sized firm downtown. Not as glamorous as marketing consulting, but it pays the bills and gives us good benefits." Terry smiled. "Plus, it means I'm home by six most nights, which is important with a little one."

Diana filed away this information about Terry's schedule, adding it to her growing knowledge of the family's daily routines. "That's wonderful that you prioritize family time. Not everyone manages to find that balance."

"We try. It helps that Melissa's mom is so involved with Michelle. Kate watches her sometimes when we both need to work, and she's getting married soon, so Michelle will have a step-grandfather too."

"How nice that you have family support," Diana said, though inwardly she felt the familiar surge of anger at the mention of Kate Wise.

Before Diana could ask more questions, Melissa returned with Michelle in her arms. The little girl had blonde curls similar to her mother's and wide blue eyes that immediately fixed on Diana with the kind of frank curiosity that only small children could manage.

"Michelle, this is Diana," Melissa said gently. "She's the nice lady who found Mommy's phone and brought it back to us."

Michelle studied Diana solemnly for a moment, then buried her face in Melissa's shoulder with typical toddler shyness.

"She's beautiful," Diana said, and for once her compliment was entirely genuine. Whatever her feelings about Kate Wise and this family, the child herself was innocent and lovely.

"Thank you," Melissa said, settling back into her chair with Michelle on her lap. "She'll warm up in a few minutes. She always does."

As if to prove her mother's point, Michelle peeked out from her hiding spot to look at Diana again, this time offering a tentative smile.

"Hi Michelle," Diana said softly, matching the child's tentative energy. "I like your pink shirt."

Michelle looked down at her shirt as if she had forgotten what she was wearing, then looked back at Diana with increased interest.

"She loves pink," Terry said. "Everything has to be pink these days. Pink clothes, pink cups, pink toys."

"Pink is a very good color choice," Diana agreed seriously, speaking directly to Michelle.

The conversation continued for another hour, with Diana carefully gathering information about the family's routines while maintaining her persona as a lonely newcomer seeking friendship. She learned that Michelle attended daycare three days a week, that Melissa did her grocery shopping on Tuesday mornings, and that the family often spent Saturday afternoons at the park near their house.

Most importantly, she learned that Kate Wise was deeply involved in their daily lives, often babysitting Michelle and joining them for family dinners. The information would be invaluable as Diana refined her plans for getting closer to her ultimate target.

When she finally announced that she should probably head home, both Melissa and Terry seemed genuinely sorry to see her go.

"This has been so nice," Melissa said as she walked Diana to the front door. "I'm so glad we got to meet properly instead of just bumping into each other in parking lots."

"I've really enjoyed it too," Diana replied. "You and Terry are exactly the kind of people I was hoping to meet when I moved here."

Melissa pulled out her phone, which Diana noted with satisfaction was the same device she had held in her hands just days earlier. "Let me get your number so we can set up that coffee date we talked about."

Diana provided her phone number, making sure Melissa entered it correctly into her contacts. "I'm free most afternoons this week if you want to try that new place on Grove Avenue."

"Perfect. I'll text you tomorrow, and we can figure out a day that works."

They exchanged a brief hug on the front porch, and Diana made her way to her car with the satisfaction of a job well done. She had successfully inserted herself into the Goldman family's social circle, established her cover story, and gathered valuable intelligence about their routines and Kate Wise's involvement in their lives.

As she drove away from the house, Diana allowed herself a small smile. The plan was proceeding better than she had dared to hope. Soon, she would be positioned perfectly to begin the final phase of her carefully orchestrated revenge against Allen and his miracle mate, Kate Wise.

And God, that revenge was going to be so sweet.

NOW AVAILABLE!

IF SHE DARED

(A Kate Wise Mystery—Book 12)

“A masterpiece of thriller and mystery.”

—Books and Movie Reviews, Roberto Mattos (re Once Gone)

An unseen terror uses open houses to mark his victims, drawing FBI Agent Kate Wise into a web of deceit and murder. As she peels back layers of envy that cloak a community in fear, will she close in on the killer before another door opens to doom?

IF SHE DARED (A Kate Wise Mystery) is the twelfth book in a new psychological thriller series by bestselling author Blake Pierce, whose #1 bestseller Once Gone (a free download) has received over 1,000 five star reviews. The series begins with IF SHE KNEW (Book #1).

An action-packed thriller with heart-pounding suspense, IF SHE DARED is book #12 in a riveting new series that will leave you turning pages late into the night.

Future books in the series are now available!

“An edge of your seat thriller in a new series that keeps you turning pages! ...So many twists, turns and red herrings… I can't wait to see what happens next.”

—Reader review (Her Last Wish)

“A strong, complex story about two FBI agents trying to stop a serial killer. If you want an author to capture your attention and have you guessing, yet trying to put the pieces together, Pierce is your author!”

—Reader review (Her Last Wish)

“A typical Blake Pierce twisting, turning, roller coaster ride suspense thriller. Will have you turning the pages to the last sentence of the last chapter!!!”

—Reader review (City of Prey)

“Right from the start we have an unusual protagonist that I haven't seen done in this genre before. The action is nonstop… A very atmospheric novel that will keep you turning pages well into the wee hours.”

—Reader review (City of Prey)

“Everything that I look for in a book… a great plot, interesting characters, and grabs your interest right away. The book moves along at a breakneck pace and stays that way until the end. Now on go I to book two!”

—Reader review (Girl, Alone)

“Exciting, heart pounding, edge of your seat book… a must read for mystery and suspense readers!”

—Reader review (Girl, Alone)

IF SHE DARED

(A Kate Wise Mystery—Book 12)

Did you know that I've written multiple novels in the mystery genre? If you haven't read all my series, click the link below to download a series starter!

Blake Pierce

USA Today and #1 bestselling author Blake Pierce is the author of numerous series in the mystery and thriller genres, spanning 10 years of work, including the Jessie Hunt, Ella Dark, Rylie Page, Faith Bold and Rachel Gift series. Blake's most recent latest releases are the Alison Payne, Isla Rivers Kari Blackhorse, and Kate Valentine series.

Please visit blakepierceauthor.com to learn more, join the email list, receive free books, and stay in touch.

SERIES BY BLAKE PIERCE

KATE VALENTINE

KARI BLACKHORSE

ISLA RIVERS

ALISON PAYNE

JENNA GRAVES

THE GOVERNESS

RACHEL BLACKWOOD

SHEILA STONE

FINN WRIGHT

MORGAN CROSS

JULIETTE HART

FAITH BOLD

FIONA RED

DAISY FORTUNE

AMBER YOUNG

CAMI LARK

NICKY LYONS

CORA SHIELDS

MAY MOORE

PAIGE KING

VALERIE LAW

RACHEL GIFT

AVA GOLD

A YEAR IN EUROPE

ELLA DARK

LAURA FROST

EUROPEAN VOYAGE

ADELE SHARP

THE AU PAIR

ZOE PRIME

JESSIE HUNT

CHLOE FINE

KATE WISE

THE MAKING OF RILEY PAIGE

RILEY PAIGE

MACKENZIE WHITE

AVERY BLACK

KERI LOCKE