Page 18 of Her Last Confession

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The sedan’s headlights cut through the darkness of Higdon Hills, illuminating pristine sidewalks and meticulously maintained flower beds. Even at this hour, the neighborhood screamed old money—the kind that whispered rather than shouted. Three-story colonials and sprawling Tudor-style mansions loomed behind wrought iron gates and perfectly trimmed hedgerows, their windows dark except for the occasional security light.

Rachel watched the houses scroll past, each one easily worth seven figures. The streets were empty save for their car, the silence broken only by the purr of their engine and the soft crunch of fallen leaves beneath their tires. October had painted the neighborhood in shades of amber and burgundy, though in the darkness, everything took on a bluish tinge from the LED street lamps.

"Eight-fifteen Maple Grove," Novak muttered, slowing the car. "Should be coming up on the right."

They rounded a gentle curve, and Dr. Marcus Kent's house came into view. It was a modern interpretation of Mediterranean architecture—clean lines and stark white walls softened by terracotta roof tiles and generous arched windows. A curved driveway led to a two-car garage flanked by sculpted olive trees in massive ceramic planters.

Rachel checked her watch: 1:27 AM. She knew the protocol about late-night visits—knew they were pushing it—but the gnawing in her gut wouldn't let her wait until morning. Two years away from active duty hadn't dulled her instincts. If anything, her brush with death had sharpened them. A case this unpredictable meant that every minute counted. And if it meantwaking up an apparently wealthy man at 1:30 in the morning, so be it.

They approached the front door, their footsteps echoing off the stone pavers. A Ring doorbell camera stared at them like a cyclopean eye. Rachel held her badge up to it, making sure the credentials were clearly visible in the infrared light. She figured the first thing Kent would do was check the footage before coming to the door at 1:30 in the morning.

Several moments passed. Rachel was about to press the doorbell when they heard movement inside—the soft thud of footsteps on stairs, the rattle of a security chain being removed, the mechanical hum of an electric lock being disengaged. The door opened to reveal a man in silk pajamas and a hastily donned robe, his silver hair disheveled from sleep. Deep lines around his mouth deepened as he frowned at them.

"What in God's name do you want at this hour?" His voice was rough with sleep but carried the precise diction of someone used to commanding attention.

Novak stepped forward, badge already out. "Dr. Kent? I'm Special Agent Novak, this is Special Agent Gift. We're with the FBI, and we need to speak with you about an urgent matter concerning.”

“Concerning what, exactly?” he asked.

“EndLight."

Kent's expression shifted from annoyance to something more complex—worry, perhaps, or fear. After a moment's hesitation, he stepped back, gesturing them inside. Rachel noticed his hands trembling slightly as he did so.

As they entered, a woman's voice called out from somewhere above: "What in the hell is going on down there?"

"It's all right, Margaret," Kent called back. "Just give me a moment." He turned to Rachel and Novak. "Please, wait in there." He gestured to an archway on their right where a largesitting room awaited. He then walked halfway down a stunted hall and headed upstairs…likely to inform his wife of what was going on, Rachel assumed.

The sitting room was a study in understated luxury. Coffered ceilings soared fourteen feet overhead, while floor-to-ceiling windows looked out onto a moonlit garden. The furniture was all clean lines and rich fabrics—a pale gray sectional that probably cost more than Rachel's car, paired with leather club chairs in a warm cognac color. Abstract paintings in muted tones hung on the walls, while built-in shelves displayed what looked like first editions behind glass doors. A baby grand piano occupied one corner, its polished surface reflecting the soft light from Murano glass sconces.

Kent returned just a minute or two later, his robe now properly tied and his hair somewhat tamed. "Now then," he said, lowering himself into one of the leather chairs, "what's so urgent it couldn't wait until morning?"

Rachel decided to cut straight to the chase. "We understand that when you were fired from EndLight, you had voiced some major safety concerns. Can you tell us about those?"

The change in Kent was immediate and dramatic. His face drained of color, and his hands gripped the arms of his chair. "I—I can't discuss any of that without a warrant and my lawyer present. EndLight made it very clear what would happen if I broke the non-disclosure agreement."

"Dr. Kent," Rachel said, leaning forward, "someone has died, and we’re currently working the case. We believe someone has reverse-engineered one of EndLight's pods and is using it to commit murder."

Kent's eyes widened, and for a moment, Rachel thought he might break. His mouth opened, then closed, and she could see him wrestling with some internal decision.

"My God," he whispered, more to himself than to them. "Someone else made one?”

“It seems that way. It’s very similar to the EndLight designs, only without the safety mechanism in place. No room for error, no series of commands to get it started. Once you’re in…you’re dead.”

Kent looked furious but also, in an odd way, broken-hearted. “I warned them. I warned them this could happen."

"What could happen?" Rachel pressed, sensing a crack in his resolve. "Dr. Kent, please. Whatever you're afraid of, we can protect you."

He laughed bitterly. "Protect me? Doubtful. And even if you could, anything I say can have me end up in court…tied up in courtrooms and litigation for years. No, thank you."

"Dr. Kent," Rachel said softly, "whatever you know, whatever you're afraid of—it's not worth another life. Someone has used the idea and design of a project you once worked on and used it as a killing machine."

For a long moment, Kent seemed to be on the verge of speaking. Rachel could almost see the words forming on his lips. But then his eyes darted to a family photo on the mantel—him, his wife, and what looked like grandchildren—and the moment passed.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "All I can say is that, yes, I had serious concerns about EndLight's safety protocols. Anything more than that—I just can't. Please understand."

“And while I am very sorry to hear that, it does not change the fact that I can get into a world of trouble if I talk about anything related to EndLight. If you need further proof of this, I can give you the number of my lawyers.”

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