Page 19 of Her Last Confession

"What about the schematics?" Novak pressed, clearly sensing that this was currently leading a dead end. "Were you worried about them being leaked?"

Kent stood abruptly, his hands shaking more noticeably now. "I think you should go now. Please. I'm sorry I can't be more help, but I have my family to think about." His eyes kept darting to the windows, as if expecting to see someone watching.

Rachel wanted to push harder, but she recognized the fear in Kent's eyes. Whatever he knew, whatever he'd seen at EndLight, it had him terrified. They let him escort them to the door, the tension in his shoulders visible even through his robe.

“Can you at least confirm that you did indeed express safety concerns over certain aspects of the design?” Rachel asked.

Kent nodded, but just barely. “Yes. It’s one of the primary reasons they terminated me. It was when I remained vocal after they released me that they started threatening me with severe legal action.” He eyed them both for a moment, a pleading look settling into his gaze. “I really do wish…I wish I could help you.”

You can, you coward,Rachel thought. But she knew that wasn’t fair to him. She only nodded her thanks as she and Novak made their way back to the door. “Sorry to have woken you,” she said as they opened the door—but she didn’t mean it.

The night air felt colder as they walked back to their car. Rachel's mind raced, trying to piece together Kent's behavior with what they already knew. Ultimately, this visit did little to help push the case along…only that some of the higher-ups involved with EndLight didn’t take kindly to their employees—past or present—voicing concerns over safety and protocols. And that, she supposed, said a lot.

She was so wrapped up in these thoughts that when her phone buzzed in her pocket, she jumped a bit in mild fright. Embarrassed, she dug it out and an unsaved local number. She answered it as Novak looked over to her, curious.

“This is Agent Gift,” she said.

“Gift, it’s Detective Wheeler.” His voice was tight and worried.

“Hey, detective. What’s up?”

There was a moment of hesitation before he answered. "We've got another one. Another pod…another victim."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Novak guided the sedan down yet another dirt road and Rachel watched as their headlights cut through the pre-dawn darkness like dull knives. Here and there, the headlights illuminated patches of mist that hung between the trees. It was 3:05 in the morning when they pulled up behind the row of police cruisers. She noted that none of the cruisers were flashing their reds and blues, wanting to keep any possibly prying eyes away.

Rachel stepped out of the passenger side, her boots crunching on gravel that had spilled over from the nearby access road. The sound seemed unnaturally loud in the otherwise quiet scene, where even the usual nighttime chorus of crickets and owls had been silenced by the human intrusion. Above them, a waning moon hung like a crooked smile between breaks in the cloud cover, casting weak shadows through the leafless branches of maple and oak trees. The air held that particular kind of October chill that seemed to crystallize everything it touched, making the entire scene feel brittle and breakable.

The woodland setting should have been peaceful—the kind of place where teenagers might come to stargaze or elderly couples might walk their dogs during daylight hours. Instead, it had been transformed into something else entirely. Three portable flood lights cast harsh white circles on the ground, creating islands of artificial day in the darkness. The nervous chatter of uniformed officers floated through the air, their voices kept low as if they were afraid to disturb something that was already irreversibly disturbed.

"There's Wheeler," Rachel said, nodding toward a tall figure speaking with a uniformed officer near one of the cruisers. As she and Novak approached, their footsteps synchronizedwithout conscious effort, Rachel's attention was drawn to the edge of the woods. Three officers stood in a loose semi-circle around something she couldn't quite make out, their flashlight beams converging on a single point like spotlights on a stage.

But she already knew what it was. It was another pod. A fake peaceful passage pod.

Wheeler turned as they approached, his face grave in the mixed lighting. The officer beside him shifted his weight from foot to foot, his hands fidgeting with the notepad he held. He was young, maybe twenty-five, with the beginning of a pot belly straining against his uniform shirt. Despite the hour and the circumstances, there was an unmistakable gleam of excitement in his eyes—the look of someone who had stumbled onto something bigger than their usual beat.

"Agent Gift, Agent Novak," Wheeler nodded to them both. "This is Officer Muntz. He's the one who made the discovery an hour ago." Wheeler turned to the younger officer. "Officer, tell them what you told me, would you?"

Muntz straightened his posture, clearly practiced at giving reports but nervous about his audience. He also looked slightly bothered by the discovery he’d made.

"Yes, sir. I was out on routine patrol, sir—ma'am," he corrected himself, glancing at Rachel. "Had my usual spot on Route 16, watching for speeders and drunk drivers. We get a few of them usually…between midnight and four on Saturdays. Anyway…it was dead quiet, hadn't seen a car in over half an hour. I was actually about to pack it in when I caught something out of the corner of my eye."

He gestured eastward, where the tree line disappeared into darkness. "Headlights, out in the woods. But they were where they shouldn't be—out on those old dirt roads by Bates Pond." He shook his head. "That pond's been dried up for years now. Nothing out there but old beer cans and deer tracks. Made methink maybe it was kids looking for a make out spot, or..." He lowered his voice, "maybe a drug deal going down. You never know out here."

Rachel noticed how his hand kept moving to his utility belt as he spoke, touching his radio, then his flashlight, then back to his radio—a nervous tick that betrayed his youth and inexperience with major cases.

"I knew I wouldn't catch them in time," Muntz continued. "It was about a mile between my position and the entrance to the dirt road—the very dirt road we’re standing on, you know—and from the way the lights were moving, I knew they were already leaving. So I just wasn’t going to catch them. But something just felt off about it, you know? So I figured I'd drive over, take a look around." His eyes darted toward the woods. "That's when I found... well..."

He stopped and nodded over to the small cluster of cops along the tree line.

“Thank you, Officer,” Novak said. “Good work.”

They nodded their thanks to Muntz and Wheeler, and Rachel was already moving toward the gathered officers at the tree line with Novak close behind. As they approached, the outline of the suicide pod emerged from the darkness like a sleeping beast. It was identical to the previous one—the same sleek design, the same clinical whiteness that seemed to glow under the officers' flashlights. Someone had already opened the lid, and Rachel's stomach tightened at what lay inside.

Timothy Walsh looked peaceful, almost as if he were sleeping. He was dressed only in a pair of boxers, the front of which was slightly caked with dirt. His brown hair was mussed, and there was a bruise along the side of his head. Rachel noticed a scratch on his wrist as well. When she leaned in closer and examined it by the glare of the spotlights behind her, it looked more like an abrasion.

Wheeler's voice came from behind them. "The victim is a thirty-nine-year-old local named Timothy Walsh. One of the officers on the scene knows him personally; they're in a pickleball league together." There was a slight catch in his voice—the kind that only appeared when a case struck close to home. "His wife works at the hospital... we had a unit drive over there to break the news."

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