Without hesitation, I repositioned my weight and drove my foot into the door, just beside the handle. The frame splintered with a satisfying crack, and the door flew open under the force of my kick. Gun raised, senses on high alert, I crossed the threshold. The darkness of the house loomed before me, a gaping maw hiding untold terrors, and I stepped into its depths.
The stillness was a void that my heartbeat shattered. Upstairs, I found her in the bedroom. Carol Rudolph, a crumpled heap of life unlived, sprawled across the bedroom floor. Blood—a stark, crimson halo—seeped into the white carpet, staining it with finality. Her eyes stared at nothingness, a silent scream etched onto her face. A blunt object, a lamp, its purpose twisted to violence, lay discarded nearby, smeared with the evidence of brutality.
"God," I choked out, bile rising. The room spun, andevery nerve ending within me recoiled, but I steadied myself. This was no time to falter. I noticed the window was open. That wasn’t a common sight in Florida, where you always strived to keep the heat out. I ran to look down and saw the ladder discarded in the grass below. The killer was gone.
I yanked my phone from my pocket, fingers trembling as I dialed 911.
"This is Eva Rae Thomas, FBI. I need units at 166 Hawthorne Road immediately. We have a homicide." My usually steadyvoice betrayed a tremor of urgency, threading through each syllable like a live wire.
"Please, hurry," I added, almost whispering as if volume could beckon speed. "She's gone."
The wail of sirens crescendoed as red and blue lights strobed through the windows. I stepped back from Carol's lifeless form, my mind whirring with the cold machinery of protocol and procedure. Within minutes, the house swarmed with uniforms, their grim faces a mirror to my own dread.
He arrived like a shadow cast by a looming storm cloud: Detective Larson. The air seemed to bristle as he stepped into the room, his gaze locking onto me with a familiarity that spelled trouble. Larson was broad-shouldered, his jaw set in a way that suggested smiles were a rarity. His eyes, sharp and calculating, had always regarded me with suspicion, even before tonight's grim discovery.
"Thomas," he grunted, barely a greeting but loaded with disdain.
"Larson," I acknowledged, keeping my voice neutral despite the heat rising in my chest.
"Let's take a walk," he said, gesturing with a tilt of his head toward the door. It wasn't a request.
I followed him outside, the night air doing little to cool the tension between us. We reached his cruiser, its doors yawning open like a trap. He gestured again, this time more pointedly. "Get in."
There was no use in arguing.
The ride to the station was a silent duel of wills. My fingers itched for something to do, a report to fill out, anything to distract from the weight of Larson's glare in the rearview mirror.
We arrived, and the sterile light of the interrogation room welcomed me with a harsh buzz. Larson slid a recorder acrossthe table, the click of its button punctuating the beginning of a long night.
"State your name for the record."
"Eva Rae Thomas."
"Agent Thomas, tell me why you were at the victim's house tonight."
"I heard screams, and I went to help."
"Armed and ready to kick down doors? That's quite the neighborhood watch program you're running. What were you doing in that neighborhood?"
"I couldn’t sleep."
"And went for a drive in that particular neighborhood? Quite the coincidence, don’t you think? On the very night of a murder?" His words jabbed at me like accusations made steel.
"I was looking at the Jennings’ house.”
"Kind of an odd hour to do that. Where were you before the screams?"
"In my car."
"Anyone to corroborate that?"
"Are you seriously suggesting?—?"
"Answer the question, Thomas."
"Of course not. I was alone."
"Right," he sneered, as if my answer left a bad taste. "And tell me again, why were you in Carol Rudolph’s house?"
