Her Last Secret (A Rachel Gift FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 15) by Blake Pierce

Author:Blake Pierce [Pierce, Blake]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: UNKNOWN
Published: 2024-07-30T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The theater was a cavern of whispers and shadows, smothered in an expectant hush. The killer sat among the murmuring crowd, a spectator cloaked in the dim lighting. Faces around him were etched with sorrow, eyes glistening as subdued conversations brushed his ears.

He picked up on some of those conversations. News of the two dead actresses was quickly making its way among the theater community. Some people were questioning the thought behind continuing with performances in the wake of such tragedy, while others thought it was the right thing to do—something of a tribute to the fallen actresses.

He sneered at their naivety. How blind and stupid were these people? How heartless and immoral?

He heard fragments of dialogue, snippets of grief and absorbed them.

"She would have wanted us here," a woman whispered to her companion, clutching a playbill like a lifeline.

"To celebrate her life, her passion for the stage."

“Ah, but the show must go on, yes?”

It made him sick to his stomach. His grip tightened on the armrest of his seat, knuckles whitening. It was a grotesque charade, he thought, a mockery of the purity of death he had delivered. These people didn't understand the artistry behind his actions, the necessity of his mission. They thought the true art was what was communicated on the stage, but his work was the truest form of art he could imagine—the purest.

As the minutes passed, a breathless tension swelled within the auditorium. It was almost time for the show to begin. He shifted in his seat, anticipation coiling in his stomach like a restless serpent. His focus narrowed to the stage as the house lights dimmed further, plunging the theater into the twilight of expectancy.

Then, the curtains rose.

The stage bloomed into view, a meticulously crafted realm separate from reality. It was an intricate set—a Victorian drawing room rich in detail, from the delicate china perched on the mantelpiece to the heavy drapes that framed tall windows. The audience exhaled as one, and the performance began.

According to the playbill in his hand and the marketing he had read before purchasing his ticket, this was to be a small production—only four cast members and a total time of fifty minutes. And though he had actually come to appreciate these smaller productions, there was only one reason he was here tonight.

And there she was, stepping out onto the stage in an elegant costume and her bright, mischievous eyes: Rebecca Clarke.

She emerged from the wings, a vision of malevolence swathed in dark velvet. Her character was a villainous specter, threading through the narrative with a dangerous grace that belied the horrors she would unfold. His gaze latched onto her every movement with an unsettling intensity.

It almost made him sad. Almost. She was very good and quite beautiful. She had that easy and effortless look of glamour from the 1970s. It was such a shame that she was wicked, that she had true darkness in her heart.

It was a shame he was going to have to kill her.

Rebecca moved across the stage, her voice a silken menace that ensnared the audience.

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