Page 17 of Her Last Confession

"Yeah," she said, already standing and gathering her things. “I think we need to pay him a visit. That address…maybe half an hour away?” The case files on her screen seemed to stare back at her, full of details that felt important but hadn't quite connected yet. "I think Dr. Kent might have quite a story to tell us."

CHAPTER TWELVE

The first thing Timothy Walsh noticed was the throbbing sensation. A deep, insistent pulse that seemed to radiate from the base of his skull down through his neck. His thoughts came in fragments, disconnected and hazy, like trying to recall a dream that was already fading.

Something's wrong. Something is very wrong.

The surface beneath him was hard, unyielding. Metal, maybe. A vibration hummed through his body, accompanied by a low rumble that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. When he tried to move, his muscles screamed in protest—and then he discovered he couldn't move at all. His wrists were bound behind his back, his ankles lashed together with what felt like rope.

Panic rose in his throat like bile. He tried to call out, but his voice was muffled by something pressed against his mouth. Duct tape. The adhesive pulled at his skin as his jaw worked uselessly against it.

And as his body strained to fight, to get free, to doanything, a roaring headache passed through his head like a thundercloud.

And this is what brought the events of the night crashing back into his consciousness like a wave breaking against rocks. He’d been at home, asleep. A sound from somewhere else in the house and woken him up. He’s gotten out of bed and padding down the hallway in his bare feet, dressed in only his boxers. He was fully expecting to find his cat up to her usual midnight mischief.Not my cat,he thought in the back of the truck.Molly’s cat. I never wanted the damned thing…

There had also been that brief, foolish moment of hope when he'd thought maybe his Molly had come home early from herhospital shift. But she never got off early, and he knew that. And then he’d seen the cat on the couch, half asleep itself.

The detail stuck in his mind, sharp and clear against the blur of everything else. The cat, perched on the arm of the sofa, her yellow eyes reflecting the dim light from the street outside. She'd been staring past him, into the kitchen.

Then movement. A shadow detaching itself from the darkness. The flash of a face—ordinary, unremarkable, yet somehow terrible in its plainness. Something whistling through the air. Pain exploding across his temple.

And now this.

The vehicle—he was certain now it was some kind of truck—hit a bump. Timothy's body left the floor for a fraction of a second before slamming back down. The side of his face caught the brunt of it. His head bounced against the metal, sending fresh waves of agony through his skull. The quality of the movement had changed. The steady hum of pavement had given way to an erratic jostling that suggested dirt or gravel.

They were leaving civilization behind.

His heart hammered against his ribs as the implications sank in. How long had he been unconscious? It was still dark outside, so not long. It had been about one in the morning when he’d woken up to the sound in his house. How would Molly react when she found the house empty, his phone still on the nightstand, his wallet untouched? Would she call the police?

Would anyone find him in time?

The suspension groaned as the truck navigated what felt like a particularly rough stretch of road. Timothy tried to control his breathing, fighting against the rising tide of panic. He needed to think. To plan. But his thoughts kept circling back to one terrible question:

Am I going to die tonight? And why have they taken me?

The truck suddenly lurched to a stop. The engine's rumble cut out, leaving behind a silence that seemed to press against Timothy's ears like a physical thing. A door creaked open, then slammed shut. Footsteps crunched on what sounded like gravel, growing closer.

Metal scraped against metal—the tailgate dropping. Cool night air rushed in, carrying with it the scent of pine needles and damp earth. Hands grabbed his ankles, rough and impersonal, and dragged him backward. He hit the ground hard, shoulder first, unable to break his fall with his bound hands. He let out a groan through his taped mouth. The night was dark, and he was on thick, rich grass. Dark trees loomed overhead, as if watching the scene play out.

The man—his kidnapper—began working at the ropes around his ankles. Timothy's mind raced. This was his chance. Once his legs were free, he could run. Fight. Do something. Anything.

The last of the rope fell away. Timothy kicked out wildly, trying to scramble to his feet. But his legs were numb from being bound, and his attacker was ready. A fist drove into his solar plexus, driving the air from his lungs in a whoosh. He doubled over, gasping uselessly against the tape covering his mouth, spots dancing at the edges of his vision.

Strong hands seized his arms, yanking him upright. He stumbled forward, propelled by series rough shoves. Through tear-blurred eyes, he took in his surroundings. Trees stretched on all sides, their branches weaving together overhead to block out most of the starlight. The air was thick with the musty smell of decomposing leaves and old growth forest.

Then he saw it.

At first, his mind couldn't make sense of what he was looking at. It seemed absurdly out of place—a sleek, almost elegant structure nestled between three ancient trees. Its surfacesgleamed dully in the weak light, all curves and smooth panels that looked more like they belonged in a science fiction story than in these dark woods.

Recognition dawned slowly, horror close behind it. He'd seen something like this before. In technical drawings. In prototype designs. On nights when his sorrows had gotten the best of him and he wondered what it might be to…to just let it all go.

As they drew closer to it, his captor reached out to the thing, and its top came up with a pneumatic hiss.

Timothy's legs went weak. He knew with sudden, crushing certainty that he wouldn't be leaving these woods alive. The device in front of him like an open grave, its door ajar, beckoning him into its sterile embrace.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice whispered that perhaps this was justice. Perhaps this was what he deserved, after everything he'd helped create. After all the tests he'd run, all the data he'd analyzed.

All the times he'd looked the other way. Yes, this was what he deserved, and now, it might very well be time to face the music.

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