Page 10 of Her Last Confession

“No, not just yet,” Rachel said. “My partner is here with me, too. But we’ll certainly call if we need help. Thank you.” Rachel ended the call and looked at Novak. "Feel like making another house call?"

"Lead the way."

As if in the form of a response, Rachel’s phone buzzed as Wheeler sent over the information. She looked to the screen and went directly to the text message. It was simple and direct. It literally read:Need to see you tonight. Important. Follow these coordinates.And then there were set of GPS coordinates.

A failed suicide attempt, a mysterious text message, and now an unreachable coworker. The pieces were there, but the picture they formed was still frustratingly unclear.

She then copied and pasted the address into her GPS software before inputting Alana Townsend's phone number. It rang six times before going to voicemail. She ended the call without leaving a message, a familiar tension building at the base of her skull. In her experience, people who couldn't be reached often had something to hide.

Or worse – they had something to run from.

"Head east," she told Novak, looking to the address.

Novak pulled out onto the street and did just that.

The sun climbed higher in the sky as they drove, casting sharp shadows across the dashboard. Rachel watched the suburban landscapes blur past her window, her mind circling back to an image of a broken rope in an old barn, wonderingwhat connections she was missing, what deadly pattern might be forming just beyond her grasp.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The late autumn sun cast long shadows across the dashboard as Rachel and Novak drove toward Alana Townsend's house. The weather had taken a turn, bringing with it the kind of gray skies that made 2:00 PM feel like dusk. Rachel watched the neighborhoods gradually improve through the passenger window, from working class to something a little more comfortable. She couldn't help but think about Sandra Mitchell, about how someone had lured her out into the darkness with a simple text message. The thought made her fingers curl into fists in her lap.

"It doesn't sit right," Novak said, breaking a silence that had stretched for several minutes. He was gripping the steering wheel too tightly, his knuckles white. "EndLight might not be directly involved, but they have to know something…right?”

Rachel took it all in, but her mind was elsewhere. "The booth feels secondary somehow. Like window dressing. Someone wanted Sandra Mitchell dead and found an elaborate way to do it." She watched a mother pushing a stroller along the sidewalk; it seemed like an almost eerie sight, given the things they’d seen and heard so far today.

"To make it look like suicide," Novak added. He turned onto a street called Sycamore Ridge, where cookie-cutter houses spread out before them in neat rows. "But why go through all that trouble? A simple gunshot would have been easier."

"Unless the method was part of the message," Rachel mused. "Or maybe they wanted to make absolutely sure it wouldlooklike suicide."

“But that doesn’t quite make sense,” Novak pointed out. “It goes back to the idea that someone put that pod out there…in a very strange place. We need to figure that out, too.”

Rachel nodded, starting to get the feeling that this case might just be too big for the two of them. There were too many questions…too many moving parts.

The houses in Alana's neighborhood were all variations on the same theme—two stories, brick facades, manicured lawns, and two-car garages. They had that mass-produced quality of developments built in the early 2000s, but time and individual ownership had given each one subtle characteristics. Some had garden beds. Others had bright shutters. Children's bikes lay abandoned in driveways, and Halloween decorations clung to some porches in preparation for trick-or-treaters in six days.

The Townsend house was distinguished by a red door and carefully trimmed topiary flanking the entrance. The bushes had been shaped into perfect spheres, suggesting either a professional landscaper or someone with too much time on their hands. A silver BMW sat in the driveway, its pristine condition at odds with the subtle signs of wear on the house itself—aging gutters, a few missing roof shingles, paint beginning to peel around the window frames.

Rachel's knuckles had barely left the door when it opened a crack, held in check by a security chain. A man's face appeared in the gap—early forties, clean-shaven, with the kind of tension around his eyes that suggested recent sleepless nights. His gaze darted between them, then past them to the street, as if expecting more visitors. It was clear he did not want to let them inside.

"Can I help you?" His voice was guarded, almost hostile. Rachel noticed his left hand was hidden behind the door, and she wondered if he was holding something.

Novak held up his credentials. "FBI, sir. I'm Agent Novak, this is Agent Gift. We need to speak with Alana Townsend."

The chain scraped against metal as Mike Townsend reluctantly undid it, the sound sharp and grating in the quietafternoon air. The interior of the house revealed itself gradually: hardwood floors that had seen better days, walls painted in safe beiges and grays, furniture that was chosen for comfort over style but still managed to look presentable. A large sectional dominated the living room, facing a mounted flatscreen TV. Family photos lined the walls—happy moments frozen in time, featuring Mike, Alana, and two young children who weren't currently present.

The house smelled of lemon cleaning products and fresh coffee, but underneath there was a tension that seemed to permeate everything. A half-eaten sandwich sat abandoned on the coffee table, and a laptop was open but dark on the kitchen counter. Signs of a normal day interrupted. It made Rachel think of her own interrupted Saturday—Monopoly board and all.

"Alana," Mike called out, his voice tight. "The FBI is here." He stood aside to let them in, but positioned himself between them and the hallway leading deeper into the house. Rachel noted the protective stance, the way his shoulders remained rigid.

As they made their way into the house, Rachel heard small footsteps running around somewhere upstairs. One of the Townsend children, she assumed.

Alana emerged from what appeared to be a home office, her face pale and drawn. She appeared to be in her mid-thirties, wearing business casual clothes that suggested she'd been working from home on a Saturday. Her hands were visibly shaking as she gestured for them to sit. Dark circles under her eyes matched her husband's, and she kept glancing at her phone as if expecting bad news.

"Mrs. Townsend," Rachel began, settling onto the edge of the sectional, "we need to ask you about a text message sent to Sandra Mitchell last night."

"What text messages?" The words came out sharp, defensive. Alana's right hand clutched at her collar, a nervous gesture that drew attention to a simple gold necklace.

“Please don’t play dumb,” Rachel said. “If you have no idea why I’m talking about, why have you not been answering your phone. The local police have tried calling, as did I.”

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