Page 31 of Her Last Confession

The corridor felt cooler than the interrogation room, and Rachel took a deep breath, trying to clear her head. The case was starting to feel like a puzzle where the pieces kept changing shape just as she thought she had them figured out.

"He's lying," Novak said immediately, keeping his voice low. His face was set in lines of certainty, but Rachel could see the question in his eyes. "We've got him dead to rights on the pod—not to mention the blueprints you found in his house. “

Rachel shook her head slowly, feeling the weight of the decision pressing down on her. "Something's not adding up. My gut is telling me he's being straight with us." She could see the skepticism in Novak's expression and pressed on. "Look, I know how this sounds. But I've been doing this long enough to know when something feels off."

"Your gut?" Novak's eyebrows rose. "Rachel, we've got physical evidence. The pod—"

"Proves he stole from EndLight, yes. But murder?" She met his gaze, willing him to understand. "Look, I know we're still finding our rhythm as partners. And I know how this sounds. The last thing I want is to come off sounding condescending. But I've learned to trust my instincts on these things."

The moment stretched between them, heavy with implications. This wasn't just about Dr. Kent anymore – it was about trust, about whether their partnership could withstanddisagreement. Rachel could see Novak wrestling with it, his jaw working as he thought. The distant sound of phones ringing and officers talking seemed to fade away, leaving them in a bubble of tension.

Finally, he nodded. "Okay. Fine. We’ll go with your gut…for now. But we verify his alibis first. But if they don't check out..."

"Then we nail him to the wall," Rachel finished. "Deal."

They returned to the interrogation room, where Kent sat exactly as they'd left him, though his fingers were now drumming a silent pattern on the table. Rachel took her seat again, laying her notepad on the table with deliberate precision.

"Alright, Dr. Kent. Let's talk about where you were the night Sandra Mitchell was killed."

Kent's response was immediate and detailed, as if he'd been waiting for this question. "I was in Greensboro, North Carolina. I stayed overnight at a hotel following a job interview with Campbell and Shook – they're a medical supply manufacturer. Stayed overnight at the Hampton Inn on West Market Street. I've got the digital receipt in my phone…email. You can call the hotel, check the security cameras. Hell, just call Campbell and Shook – I had dinner with their hiring manager that night."

Rachel felt her heart sink slightly as she verified the information. The timeline matched perfectly, and Kent's eagerness to provide verifiable details wasn't typical of someone trying to construct a false alibi.

As for his availability in killing Timothy Walsh, she wasn’t sure how hard it would be to get the timeline to match up, but she assumed that if he’d been busy heading to Woodbridge to steal the peaceful passage pod, there was very little chance he’d also managed to be in the Shenandoah Valley, tracking a victim.

Rachel exchanged a glance with Novak. Kent’s alibi, if proven correct, made it next to impossible for him to have killed Sandra. Which meant...

"You're still under arrest for the theft and transport of the EndLight pod," Rachel said, standing. "And for now, we’ll still check your phone. I assume it’s back at the storage unit with the stolen pod?"

As she made this statement, as a thought struck her with the force of a physical blow. The fluorescent light seemed to buzz louder in her ears as the pieces began to rearrange themselves in her mind. What if they'd been looking at this all wrong? What if EndLight wasn't the source of the killer'smotivation?What if it was the commonality between the victims?

It was a theory she’d already given some consideration to…that the killer was selecting his victims because they’d all attempted suicide in the past. And now, having dealt with Kent and seen how possible it truly was to replicate the pods…maybe there was another avenue to pursue here.

"Novak," she said urgently. "We need to make a call."

She again exited the interrogation room. Novak followed her out, playing catch up. “Call who?” he asked as he rushed up beside her.

“Diana Tatum.”

They found an empty office down the hall, closing the door behind them. The room was small and cluttered with old case files, but it offered privacy. Rachel pulled her cell phone from her pocket and ran a quick Google search for the EndLight offices again. She found the number and called it, certain that it would take a lot of connections and transfers, given how dead the building had been earlier in the day.

"What are you thinking?" Novak asked as the phone rang in her ear. He'd closed the door behind them, leaning against it as if to physically block out any interruptions.

"We've been focusing on the wrong connection," Rachel explained, her words coming faster as the theory solidified in her mind. "These victims weren't killed because of their connectionto EndLight – they were killed because they survived suicide attempts. EndLight is just where the killer found them. Maybe where he was…I don’t know…where he washunting."

An automated system picked up and she selected the option that stated: "If you need to speak to someone right away after hours." The phone rang a few times, and she began the dance of transfers. After several transfers and holds—and identifying herself as Special Agent Rachel Gift a grand total of four times—Diana Tatum's voice filled the line.

Rachel placed the call on speaker mode, setting it on the desk so Novak could also hear.

“Agent Gift,” she said, sounding a bit scared. “Have you found something else?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe a new theory. But I need to ask you a strange question.”

“Okay…”

“Mrs. Tatum, can you think of any employees, past or present, who might have lost someone to suicide?"

The silence that followed was long enough that Rachel thought they might have lost the connection. Then Diana spoke, her voice barely above a whisper, carrying the weight of painful memories.

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