Page 34 of Her Last Confession

They moved upstairs, the wooden steps creaking under their feet. The second floor opened onto a wide hallway with hardwood floors partially covered by an expensive-looking Oriental runner. Two bedroom doors and a bathroom branched off from the main hall.

The first bedroom was set up as a home gym, with a treadmill, weights, and a yoga mat. A towel hung over the treadmill's handle.

The master bedroom stopped Rachel in her tracks. Unlike the rest of the house, which showed signs of recent life, this room felt frozen in time. A king-sized bed dominated the space, one side perfectly made, the other rumpled and clearly slept in. On the untouched side, a woman's robe still hung on a hook by the bed. A pair of reading glasses sat on the nightstand, along with a half-finished novel, a bookmark still holding the reader's place.

This was his wife’s side of the bed,Rachel thought. Her side of the bed—of the entireroomprobably—hadn’t been touched since her death.

The master bathroom was equally preserved. High-end toiletries lined the double vanity, one side clearly feminine – expensive creams and perfumes arranged just so. Rachel's eyes were drawn to the oversized soaking tub, its porcelain surface gleaming in the afternoon light. She couldn't help but picture Kelly Bradley's final moments, the water turning pink, then red...if this was even the same home where she’d committed the act.

A walk-in closet revealed the same story – Christopher Bradley’s clothes showed regular use, while Kelly's remained untouched, like artifacts in a museum dedicated to her memory.

In other words, upstairs revealed nothing of use. They made their way back downstairs and Rachel instantly walked to the hallway, where they’d earlier passed a door that led down to the basement. They went down together, the stairs creaking under their weight. The sound of it was somehow more ominous than the normal settling of an old house. At the bottom, Rachel's hand found the light switch, and fluorescent tubes buzzed tolife overhead, revealing a space that had been converted into a makeshift workshop.

The space was immaculate – almost surgically clean – but that only made the purpose of the room more obvious. Blueprints covered one wall, some printed, others drawn by hand with meticulous attention to detail. They showed cross-sections of what were unmistakably suicide pods, with annotations about materials, circuitry, and construction methods. Right down to the contours of the cushioned surfaces inside, Bradley had gone into meticulous detail.

Curved sections of metal were arranged on storage racks like macabre puzzle pieces. A workbench held an array of circuit boards and spools of wire. Tools hung on pegboard in perfect alignment, each one in its designated spot. A separate table held what appeared to be partially assembled control panels, their switches and displays waiting to be connected to their final destination.

The corner of the room housed a small office area with a desk covered in technical manuals and engineering references. A laptop sat closed on the desk, its power light blinking in sleep mode. A corkboard above the desk held various notes and diagrams, all related to the pods' construction.

"He's not just copying them," Rachel said, moving closer to examine the blueprints. "He's improving on the design. Simplifying it in a way. Look at these modifications to the ventilation system, the backup power supply..."

Her voice trailed off as her eyes caught something in the corner of one blueprint – a list of names. No, not names. Just surnames, written in a hurried hand, as if added as afterthoughts:

- Mitchell

- Walsh

- Parker

- Reynolds

- Chen

"Mitchell and Walsh," Rachel breathed. "Sandra Mitchell…Timothy Walsh. In the order they were killed." Her finger traced down to the next name. "Parker is next. Whoever that might be.”

Her brain felt as if it was on fire as she tried to figure out how to pinpoint the name. She was now fairly certain Bradley wasn’t going after EndLight employees specifically, but so far, each victim hadat leastan overall connection to the company.

“Man,” Rachel said as she dug her phone out. “Diana Tatum is going to start asking for a salary if I keep calling.”

She called Diana Tatum again; the process was much quicker this time because she’d been given her direct extension when she’d called back at the precinct. Diana answered on the second ring, her voice solid and all business.

“Agent Gift?”

“Yeah, it’s me again. Look… I may have a huge lead here, but I need to ask you another question. I'm sorry about all of the disturbances, but I assure you, it's necessary."

“I’m happy to help however I can. What do you need?”

"Do you have anyone on staff with the surname Parker?"

"Parker?" A pause as she thought. "Nothing comes to mind immediately, but let me check with HR. I'll call you right back."

The call ended, and Rachel felt anxiety coil in her stomach like a spring wound too tight. They had their killer. They had proof. They even had his next target's name. But until Diana called back with afullname, all they could do was wait.

She looked around the basement again, seeing it with new eyes. This wasn't just a workshop – it was an execution chamber in progress. It appeared that Christopher Bradley had created his suicide pods in this very room. Her only hope was that seeing as how it was mostly clean at the moment, maybe he was done.

It was flimsy, but itdidgive her a bit of hope. Then again, if he was done…what were the other names for?

The silence stretched on, broken only by the soft hum of the fluorescent lights and the pounding of Rachel's heart in her ears. She checked her phone again. No missed calls. No texts. The phone remained stubbornly silent.

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