CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Ann Marie watched Riley disappear through the door, Officer Rodriguez following close behind. She turned back to the microphone, acutely aware that a woman’s life now hung in the balance of her ability to maintain Sarah Brooks’ attention.
Sarah’s voice was flowing through the speakers in a passionate monologue about her grandfather’s innovative use of darkness and light. “Critics at the time dismissed it as mere stylization, but it was pure visual poetry.”
“That’s fascinating, Sarah,” Ann Marie interjected when Sarah paused for breath. “Did your grandfather discuss his techniques with you, or did you learn about them through studying his films?”
“Both, in a way,” Sarah replied. “My mother showed me his films. Later, I found his personal journals. His thoughts on visual storytelling. It was like having conversations with him.”
The conversation was nothing short of surreal—all about cinematic aesthetics while a woman’s life was in danger.
But Ann Marie understood Sarah’s mindset.
She was hungry to the point of desperation for anyone to talk to about her grandfather’s work, a topic that must have been a driving obsession since childhood.
She was also so frantic in her desire for revenge that she was easily distracted. Though mentally competent in her day-to-day life, right now Sarah was not in her right mind. Ann Marie had witnessed similar behavior in people deranged with grief in her father’s mortuary.
Ann Marie glanced at her watch. Riley had been gone less than five minutes. How long would it take to pick that lock? How much more time did Lucy Morgan have?
“That’s remarkable,” Ann Marie said, injecting warmth into her voice. “To have that kind of connection with your grandfather’s artistic vision. His work seems to transcend simple entertainment—there’s something almost... sacred about the way you describe his approach.”
“Sacred is precisely the right word, Agent Esmer.” Sarah’s voice took on a reverent quality. “Cinema at its best is a religious experience. It transforms the mundane into the profound. My grandfather understood that.”
Ann Marie wondered how long she could keep this conversation going before Sarah’s craving for vengeance reared its head again. It was a dangerous game, and the stakes were life and death.
***
Crouched before the weathered service door, Riley unrolled her small leather case to reveal the collection of slender metal tools nestled in their individual pockets.
“I need absolute silence,” she whispered to Rodriguez, who nodded and stepped farther back.
Riley inserted a tension wrench into the bottom of the keyhole, applying gentle pressure as she eased the hook pick into the upper portion. The lock was a heavy-duty deadbolt. Its newness made it both more complex in mechanism and harder to manipulate, the internal components stiff and unyielding.
The first pin clicked into place, a subtle vibration Riley felt more than heard.
She adjusted the tension slightly, probing for the next pin.
Sweat beaded along her hairline. Each second that passed was another moment Lucy Morgan spent in terror, another moment Sarah Brooks came closer to completing her third act.
The second pin resisted, then yielded. Then the third. But the old lock still fought her—decades of grime and corrosion making the pins sluggish.
“Come on,” she murmured, barely audible even to herself.
The fourth pin clicked into place, followed quickly by the fifth. Riley held her breath as she felt the cylinder begin to turn. She rotated the tension wrench gently, and the deadbolt slid back with a dull thunk.
She eased the door open a fraction of an inch, pausing to listen for any reaction from inside. Nothing. Just the distant, muffled sound of voices that had to be Ann Marie and Sarah over the PA system.
Riley drew her service weapon and held it at the ready position. She gestured for Rodriguez to maintain his position outside, then eased through the narrow opening.
She found herself in a dimly lit storage area at the rear of the soundstage. Props and partial set pieces loomed all around her. Ann Marie’s voice—calm, conversational—came through speakers mounted high on the walls. Sarah’s responses echoed with the slight distortion of the PA system.
Riley moved forward silently, navigating through the backstage maze. Ahead, a gap between two large set pieces revealed an area of brighter light. When she reached the gap and peered cautiously around the edge, the sight stole her breath.
The church set was magnificent in its detail—gothic arches soaring toward the soundstage ceiling, faux stained glass illuminated from behind to create the illusion of daylight, wooden pews arranged in perfect rows leading to an ornate altar.
Work lights hung from the ceiling, bathing the scene in harsh, unforgiving illumination.
And there, on the altar, lay Lucy Morgan, bound hand and foot with a gag stretched across her mouth, her eyes wide with terror above it. She was still alive—still breathing. Sarah Brooks stood with her back turned toward Riley.
Riley assessed the situation. She didn’t want to shoot if she didn’t have to.
Then Lucy’s eyes shifted, spotting movement at the edge of the set.
When she saw Riley, her body tensed, a muffled sound escaping around the gag.
Riley raised a finger to her lips—a silent plea for silence—but it was too late.
Sarah had noticed her captive’s reaction.
“I wondered when you’d arrive, Agent Paige,” Sarah said without turning, her voice eerily calm. “Your partner is quite skilled at conversation. Almost had me forgetting why we’re all here.”
Riley raised her weapon in a two-handed grip. She moved forward quickly. “Sarah Brooks,” she called, “FBI. Drop the wire and step away from Lucy Morgan.”
Sarah turned slowly, revealing that the garrote wire was already held against Lucy’s neck. Thin, nearly invisible, that wire was capable of slicing through flesh with terrifying efficiency if applied with pressure.
“You know I can’t do that, Agent Paige. Not when I’ve come this far. My grandfather’s trilogy requires completion.”
Riley was twenty feet away now, close enough to see the gleam of tears in Sarah’s eyes. Lucy Morgan’s chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow breaths.
Riley steadied her aim, centering the sights on Sarah’s torso. “Do you value your revenge more than you do your own life?”
Sarah froze. For a moment Riley thought she might try to complete her mission even at the cost of her own life. Her finger tightened on the trigger of her gun.
“That really is your choice, Sarah,” Riley said. “Do you want to die? Because that’s what’s going to happen if you kill this woman.”
Then Sarah’s shoulders slumped. The garrote wire slackened in her grip. A sob tore from her throat—raw, primal.
“I’m so sorry, Mother,” she whispered, her face contorting with grief. “You were right. You were always right. I’m too weak.”
Sarah sank to her knees as she continued to sob.
Riley felt strangely staggered by Sarah’s words. She moved forward quickly, retrieving the garrote wire and throwing it well out of reach. She pulled Sarah’s wrists behind her back and secured them with handcuffs.
“Sarah Brooks, you’re under arrest for the murders of Veronica Slate and Crystal Keene, and the attempted murder of Lucy Morgan.”
***
Soon there was the controlled chaos of first responders, the mechanical efficiency of evidence technicians photographing the elaborate church set, and beneath it all, the invisible current of relief that pulsed through everyone present.
This time, they had arrived before death could claim its intended prize.
Sarah Brooks stood flanked by uniformed officers, her wrists still secured in cuffs, her face a blank mask as she stared at some middle distance only she could see. She offered no resistance as the officers guided her toward the exit.
Detective Hayes approached Riley. “We’ll need your full statement, of course, but that can wait until we’re back at headquarters.” He nodded toward where Sarah was being led away. “Remarkable work, Agent Paige. If you hadn’t figured out she was using the church set rather than a real church...”
He left the sentence unfinished, both of them all too aware of the alternative outcome.
“And if Ann Marie hadn’t kept her talking,” Riley added. “She gave me the time I needed.”
As if summoned by her name, Ann Marie appeared beside them. “Lucy’s stabilizing,” she reported. “Physically, she’s going to be fine. Mentally...” She shrugged slightly. “Time will tell.”
Hayes excused himself to coordinate with the evidence technicians, leaving Riley and Ann Marie standing in the meticulously constructed church set.
“I can drive us to the station,” Ann Marie offered. “We should finalize our reports while everything’s still fresh.”
Riley’s gaze drifted toward the exit where officers were preparing to load Sarah into a police transport van. “You go ahead. I’m going to ride with Sarah.”
Ann Marie followed her gaze, understanding dawning in her eyes. “The thing she said about her mother. About being too weak. That really troubled you.”
Riley nodded.
“Of course,” Ann Marie agreed. “I’ll meet you at the station.”
Riley slid into the police van, taking the seat across from Sarah Brooks. The doors closed with a hollow thunk, sealing them into a confined space, its interior divided by a metal grate that separated the prisoner compartment from the officers’ section.
As the vehicle pulled away from Magnolia Gateway Films, Sarah kept her gaze fixed on her lap, her shoulders hunched forward in a posture of defeat.
“What did you mean?” Riley asked, her voice soft. “When you surrendered, you apologized to your mother. Said you were too weak.”
Sarah didn’t respond immediately. “My earliest memories,” she finally said, “are of sitting in front of a television while my mother played Weston Black’s films. Three, four, five times a day.
‘Watch how he frames this shot,’ she’d say.
‘See how he uses light and contrast here.’ I was five years old, and she’d slap me if my attention wandered. ”
She looked up at Riley, her eyes haunted.
“By the time I was seven, I could recite every line of dialogue from his films. My mother would test me, and each mistake earned punishment. A missed line might mean no dinner. A forgotten camera angle could mean being locked in the closet until I could describe the scene correctly.”
“Your mother was Myra Brooks—Weston Black’s daughter.”
“The guardian of his legacy. The keeper of his grudges. I never knew my grandfather—he died long before I was born—but my mother made sure his ghost occupied every corner of our home. His genius. His suffering. The injustice of his erasure from film history.”
She shifted in her seat, the handcuffs clinking softly.
“When I was twelve, my mother started talking about ‘the plan.’ How we would avenge my grandfather someday. She’d describe it while brushing my hair at night, these elaborate scenarios of revenge, her voice so sweet and tender, like other mothers might use for bedtime stories. ”
“You were a child,” Riley said softly. “That’s a terrible burden to place on a child.”
“It wasn’t a burden,” Sarah countered, her voice suddenly fierce. “It was a sacred trust. My purpose. My inheritance.” The intensity faded as quickly as it had flared. “At least, that’s what my mother taught me to believe.”
She fell silent for several blocks, watching the city slide past the window. When she spoke again, her voice had acquired a distant quality, as if she were reciting.
“After my mother died, I found her journals. Decades of entries, all focused the revenge she never managed to execute. Pages and pages of detailed plans, some dating back to before I was born. And then, toward the end, entries about me.”
Sarah’s eyes met Riley’s. “She wrote that I was weak. That she feared I lacked the necessary resolve to carry out the plan. That I was too soft, too easily distracted by ordinary pursuits. She was disappointed in me, even as she was dying.”
“So you set out to prove her wrong.”
“I spent ten years preparing,” Sarah confirmed. “Perfecting my skills as a production designer. Studying the murders in my grandfather’s films. Gathering information. I told myself I was fulfilling my destiny, honoring my grandfather’s memory and my mother’s wishes.”
She glanced down at her cuffed wrists. “But when it came to the final moment with Lucy Morgan, I couldn’t do it. Not with your gun aimed at me.”
The van slowed as it approached the police headquarters. Sarah spoke softly. “I was too weak, just as my mother feared. And the most terrible part?” Her voice broke slightly. “Part of me is relieved. What does that make me?”
Before Riley could respond, the van came to a stop. The back doors opened, flooding the interior with daylight. Officers appeared and escorted Sarah away.
Riley got out of the van slowly, thinking of her own daughters.
April, still vulnerable to Leo Dillard’s obsession.
Jilly, watching her sister and mother navigate dangers she was only beginning to understand.
What legacies was Riley herself passing down to them, knowingly or unknowingly?
What might haunt them long after she was gone?