AllFreeNovel
Share Us
She watched as Marcus exhaled deeply, his chest deflating like a balloon after a party. The anxiety didn't leave his face entirely, but the acute panic seemed to have subsided. He'd stepped into the light of truth, and regardless of the consequences, there was honor in that.
Fiona stepped out of Power Juice, her mind racing as she thanked Marcus one last time. The door closed behind them with a soft jingle, the sound sharply contrasting with the gravity of their situation. She glanced at Jake, noting the grim set of his jaw, and they both started toward their car parked down the street.
"Victor Harmon," Fiona muttered under her breath. Her eyes scanned the busy sidewalks, half-expecting to see the man in question lurking around a corner. "If he is our guy and we let him go..."
Jake's stride faltered for just a moment. "We can't start thinking like that, Red. It's not on us. We'll find him."
"Right." Fiona unlocked the car, the beep echoing in the quiet between them. They slid inside, the interior holding a chill from being in the shade. Her hands gripped the steering wheel tight enough to whiten her knuckles, a tangible display of her frustration. "But Erica Silverman could still be alive if..." Fiona began, but Jake cut her off before she could spiral further.
"Hey," Jake said, reaching over to place a hand over hers, gently easing her grip. "We're going to find Victor, and we're going to get answers. That's what matters now."
She nodded, taking a deep breath as she turned the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life, disrupting the silence that had settled inside the vehicle. Fiona focused on the road ahead, letting the familiar task of driving anchor her scattered thoughts.
"Let's go over what we know," Jake suggested, pulling out his notebook filled with scribbles and case notes.
Fiona merged onto the road, the scenery blurring past as she drove. She thought about Erica Silverman, a woman close to her own age with a passion for kickboxing, whose life had been cruelly snatched away.
"We can't afford to think about the what-ifs," Jake reiterated, his voice firm yet supportive. "Not when there's still so much to do."
"Right," Fiona agreed again, this time with more conviction. She sped up slightly, eager to leave behind the shadow of regret that seemed to cling to the rearview mirror. Ahead lay the pursuit of truth, and with it, a chance to prevent another tragedy.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Jake gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white against the black leather. The car's heater fought valiantly against the biting chill that had settled over Portland, sending shivers down his spine despite the warmth it offered. He glanced at Fiona, her curly red hair a stark contrast against the pale light filtering through the clouds.
"Almost there," he muttered, more to himself than to her. As they turned onto the neglected road leading to Victor Harmon's house, Jake could feel the thrum of anticipation—or was it dread?—beating in his chest. His concentration wavered, his hands shaking uncontrollably. He tried everything to keep it together. All those years of training, all the cases he’d worked. It’d all come down to this. He could not mess it up.
The house itself was an aberration amidst the winter bleakness, a solitary structure seemingly forgotten by time and care. Its windows were soulless eyes, and the overgrown weeds stood like silent sentinels guarding the secrets within. Metal scraps scattered around the yard spoke of neglect and decay. Jake parked the car with a crunch of gravel, the sound jarringly loud in the quiet that enveloped them.
"Here we are," he said, cutting off the engine and turning to face Fiona. "Ready?"
"Are we sure about this?" she responded. She fiddled with the arm of her glasses, a nervous tick he'd come to recognize.
"Victor's slippery," Jake stated flatly. "Last time, he got away clean with that bogus alibi. We can't let him wriggle out again."
Fiona exhaled, fogging up the window beside her. "I know, but we need to be careful. This guy...he's not right."
"Which is exactly why we can't play nice." Jake's voice was firm, his gaze locked with Fiona's. "We've done it by the book and where has it gotten us? Nowhere. It's time to change tactics."
She nodded slowly, the determination setting into her features. "Okay, then. Let's do it your way."
"Good." Jake opened his door but paused before stepping out. "Red, we're a team. I've got your back, always."
"Same here," she replied, with a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Together, they stepped out into the brisk afternoon, the world around them holding its breath. They walked towards the weathered front door, each step heavy with intent. Today, Victor Harmon would have nowhere left to hide.
Jake’s boots crunched on the gravel as he strode toward the house, Fiona's footsteps keeping rhythm beside him. The front door loomed, its paint peeling like old scars. With a gloved hand, he rapped sharply on the wood, the sound slicing through the stillness of the neighborhood. "FBI," he announced, his voice carrying authority and impatience. “Victor Harmon, open up!”
Silence greeted them. No shuffle of feet, no murmur of a voice from within. Jake glanced at Fiona, her curls a fiery contrast against the drab surroundings. She met his gaze, an unspoken agreement passing between them.
He knocked again, harder this time. The echo hung in the air, unanswered. A cold gust of wind swept past, carrying with it the scent of decay from the unkempt yard. Jake’s eyes narrowed, his instincts prickling beneath his skin.
"His car's there," Fiona pointed out, nodding toward the rusty vehicle in the driveway. Its presence was a silent taunt, a ghostly admission of occupancy.
"Looks like he's playing hide-and-seek," Jake muttered. His temper flared, hot and quick—a flame that refused to be stifled. He balled his fist and pounded on the door once more. "Victor! We know you're in there. Come out and talk to us!"
No response came, but the silence felt charged, as if the very air vibrated with unspoken words. Jake’s jaw clenched tightly, a muscle ticking in frustration. He had seen this dance before, suspects thinking a locked door could shield them from their sins. It was a temporary reprieve, nothing more.
"Enough games," he growled under his breath. He glanced at Fiona, her expression a mix of concern and determination. This was it—the moment they'd been building toward. Victor Harmon had slipped through their fingers once, but not again. Not today.
