Page 20 of Her Last Confession

Rachel reached out, gently touching Timothy's wrist, but a good distance away from the abrasion she’d spotted. The skin yielded slightly under her touch, still holding the last remnants of warmth. "He's still warm. This is recent." Her voice carried the weight of what that meant—they had missed their killer by mere hours, maybe even minutes.

“Jesus,” Novak said. “What if the headlights Muntz saw were the killer? What if it’sthatrecent?”

Rachel didn’t say so, but she very much thought this was the case.

Novak seemed to be bothered by this idea and had moved to the edge of the road, where the gravel and dirt gave way to grass and pine needles. He crouched down, his flashlight beam scanning the ground in methodical sweeps.

"These skid marks are just as recent as the death," he said, tracing the beam along dark scuffs in the dirt. "Looks like a fight... some kind of struggle." The light moved to a depression in the grass. "And there's the edge of a tire track here... it's recent too."

Rachel joined him, studying the scene. The story was written in the disturbed earth and broken vegetation. Here, the mark of a heel drag where Timothy had tried to brace himself. There, a wider scuffle mark where he had likely been overtaken. The trajectory led straight to the pod like a cruel breadcrumb trail.

The forest around them seemed to press in closer, its darkness holding secrets just beyond the reach of their lights.A slight breeze stirred the branches overhead, creating moving shadows that made every officer on scene glance up nervously. Rachel could see their reflection in the pod's open lid—a bizarre light show playing across its surface like some twisted carnival attraction.

She stood slowly, her eyes moving from the pod to the tire tracks and back again. The same questions that had plagued the previous scene rose up like ghosts: How were these pods being manufactured? Who had the technical knowledge to replicate EndLight's proprietary technology? And most disturbing of all, how were they being placed here, in these remote locations, without anyone noticing?

The crime scene technicians were arriving now, their van crunching up the gravel road. Soon the area would be a hive of activity—photos taken, evidence bagged, measurements made, the coroner having a peek. But Rachel knew the most important elements of the scene were already disappearing. The warmth leaving Timothy's body with each passing minute. The headlights that Muntz had seen, now long gone down some dark road, carrying their secrets with them.

She looked at Timothy's face one more time, committing it to memory. In death, his features had settled into an expression that might have been peaceful if not for the violent story told by the ground around him. Another victim. Another family shattered. Another piece in a puzzle that seemed to grow more complex with each new discovery.

The world around them was beginning to lighten imperceptibly as dawn approached, but Rachel knew this case was leading them into darker territory. Somewhere out there, someone was building these pods, choosing their victims, and executing their plans with terrifying precision. And unless they could find them soon, Timothy Walsh would not be the lastname on their growing list of victims. Who knew how many more of these pods were out there?

The crime scene techs began to set up their equipment, the sounds of cases being opened and cameras being checked adding to the quiet chaos of the scene. Rachel turned to Novak and Wheeler, both still studying the ground with intense concentration.

"We need to get search parties out into these forests,” she said. “Drones, helicopters, whatever it takes. If there are more of these things out there, we need to find them. It would be like disarming a killer, in a way.”

Wheeler nodded and she could see him thinking, trying to put together the pieces of what needed to be done to get that sort of manpower and effort together. “I can work on it on the State level. You think the bureau can lend a hand?”

“I’ll make the call right now,” Novak said.

“What else do you need from me?” Wheeler asked.

Rachel thought it over for a moment before asking, "You said the victim's wife works at a hospital. Where's it located?"

“Leesburg…about half an hour outside of town. A forty-minute drive.”

“You said a unit was on the way, right?”

“Yeah, probably already there.”

“When the officers are done speaking with his wife, I need to talk to them. I need to know anything they find from her. And if you don’t mind…can you reach out to them and make sure they ask one particular question?”

“Yeah, I can do that,” Wheeler said. “What do you need?”

It creeped her out to even think such a thing while standing in these dark forests just ten feet from the recently dead body of Timothy Walsh. But in that moment, it seemed like the most important thing of all.

“Have them ask her if at any point during his life, did Timothy ever attempt to kill himself.”

Wheeler’s face went slack for a moment, almost a brief state of shock. But he nodded as he took his phone from his pocket and turned away to make the call.

The forest watched silently as they worked, its shadows holding close whatever secrets it had witnessed in the hours before their arrival. Above them, the moon continued its slow arc across the sky, indifferent to the human drama unfolding beneath its pale light. Another day was beginning, but for Timothy Walsh, time had stopped at the moment he was forced into that pod—another victim in a case that seemed to grow darker with each passing hour.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The suicide pod gleamed under the harsh portable floodlights, its brushed steel surface reflecting fractured beams across the forest floor. Rachel stood before it, her shadow stretching long and dark against the surrounding trees. The night had grown colder since they'd arrived, and her breath escaped in visible puffs that dissipated into the darkness.

She studied the device, almost feeling bad for its creators. Peaceful passage pods. She figured you could call them whatever you wanted, but their main intentions would always mar any name you gave them. Suicide. Even someone like her, who understood and appreciated the thought and intention behind them, had to admit that there were dark and slightly morbid undertones.

Inside the pod, Timothy Walsh's body remained untouched, waiting for the medical examiner's team. His face was frozen in an expression that Rachel couldn't quite read – something between terror and resignation. The pod's interior lights cast an unnaturally blue glow across his features, making him look almost artificial, like a mannequin posed in death. His attire – just a light blue tee shirt and boxer shorts – seemed incongruous with the surrounding wilderness, as if he'd been plucked from his ordinary life and dropped into this nightmare. Which, she supposed, was probably very much the case.

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