And now that opportunity was coming. Mary's footsteps approached from the adjoining room, accompanied by the sound of folders being shuffled.
"Sorry about the wait," Mary called out from the other room. "I wanted to pull some specific packages I think you'll love. Iceland in September is absolutely gorgeous from what I understand. I’ve never been there myself, but—"
Jennifer stood and moved behind the desk, her hand hovering near the letter opener. Her heart was beating fast buther hands were steady. She'd thought this through carefully. No hesitation. No second-guessing.
Mary appeared in the doorway with a smile on her face, holding several glossy folders and what looked like a tablet. She was dressed casually in jeans and a white blouse, clearly comfortable working from home. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail.
"Okay, so I pulled three different itineraries that might work for you." Mary walked into the office, her eyes on the materials in her hands. "The first one is a ten-day tour that hits all the major attractions. The second focuses more on the natural hot springs and hiking. And the third is more of a luxury experience with..."
She trailed off as she looked up and registered that Jennifer was no longer sitting in the guest chair. Mary's eyes found her standing behind the desk, too close to Mary's personal space. Confusion flickered across her face.
"Jennifer? What are you..."
Jennifer moved forward in one smooth motion. Mary's confusion shifted to alarm, but she was too slow to react. Jennifer drove the blade of the letter opener into her chest, just below the ribcage. The folders and tablet fell from Mary's hands, scattering across the floor.
Mary made a sound between a gasp and a cry. She stumbled backward, her hand going to her chest. Her fingers touched the handle of the letter opener still embedded there. Blood was already spreading across her white blouse, dark and wet.
"Why?" Mary's voice was barely a whisper. Her eyes were wide with shock and disbelief. This was someone she'd thought was a client, a colleague… maybe even a friend. The betrayal and hurt were also buried in there with the shock and pain.
Jennifer didn't answer. She stepped back and watched as Mary grabbed at the desk chair for support. The chair rolledslightly under her weight. Mary's breathing was shallow and rapid, her face draining of color as shock set in.
The Disney memorabilia surrounding them seemed absurd now. Mickey Mouse ears hanging on the wall. Tinker Bell lamp casting cheerful light over a murder scene. All that forced optimism surrounding a woman bleeding out in her home office.
Mary tried to speak again but couldn't form words. She slumped into the chair, her hand still pressed uselessly against the wound. Blood continued to spread, soaking through her blouse and beginning to pool on the floor beneath the chair.
There was a knock at the front door. Loud and insistent.
Jennifer's head snapped toward the sound. Her heart hammered against her ribs as panic flooded through her. She looked down at her hands and saw Mary's blood on her fingers, dark red and still wet. The knocking came again, more persistent this time.
"Mary? Mary Latrobe?”
It was a woman's voice. A neighbor, maybe, or a friend who had stopped by without calling first. Jennifer looked back at Mary, who was still slumped in her chair, barely conscious but not quite dead. Blood continued to spread across her blouse and was starting to pool on the floor beneath the chair.
The knocking continued. Jennifer looked around the office, searching for a way out that wouldn't take her past the front door. There was a window, but it faced the street. Running out the back door would mean crossing through the kitchen and living room, both visible from the front entrance.
She was trapped, standing in a home office with a dying woman and blood on her hands, while someone stood on the other side of the front door waiting for an answer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Sloane pounded on Mary Latrobe's front door for the third time. There were two cars in the driveway, and lights were on inside the house—more importantly, the addition that, according to a small sign over the door, was the home office of Latrobe Travels. Someone was home, but no one was answering.
"Mary Latrobe? This is the FBI." Sloane waited five seconds, then knocked again. "I need to speak with you. It's urgent."
But there was still nothing.
Sloane tried the handle, but found it locked. She stepped back and looked at the small windows flanking the door. Both had their curtains drawn, but she could see movement inside. A shadow passing through the living room, quick and furtive, lit up by soft light in the background.
That was enough—someone was inside, luring, and refusing to answer the door. A million thoughts flooded through her mind, but they were all dwarfed. By the possibility that the shape she saw through the curtains might very well be their killer.
Sloane drew her weapon and took two steps back from the door. She turned her shoulder into it and drove forward with her full weight. The door frame splintered around the lock, and thedoor swung inward with surprising ease. It slammed against the interior wall as Sloane made her way inside. She instantly took a shooter stance, her grip around her service Glock tight.
"FBI!" Sloane moved inside, sweeping the room with her gun. The front room to the home office was empty; it was quite small, with a few shelves of books, binders, and cute decorative items. She could hear sounds from the adjoining room straight ahead. She was quite sure this was where the figure had been moving when she’d spied it outside. She could hear something scraping, like furniture being moved. Then a muffled cry.
Sloane rushed into the room, taking a split second to take in the entirety of the situation. This was the hub of the home office, filled with Disney memorabilia and travel brochures. Sloane moved inside, gun raised, and right away saw that Mary Latrobe was slumped in a desk chair, her hand pressed to her chest, where a letter opener protruded out. Blood soaked through her white blouse and dripped onto the floor. Her face was gray, her breathing shallow. She looked at Sloane with unfocused eyes but didn't speak.
Shit, I guess she’s not the killer after all,she thought.
But that realization was cut short when she saw the other figure against the wall. She was standing by the window, nearly halfway out of it by now. It was Jennifer Grisham, the bakery owner and graduate of the second Act Success program.
