Page 32 of Her Last Confession

"Only one name comes to mind... Christopher Bradley. He was with us for two years. Brilliant engineer, really. Until..." She paused, and Rachel could hear her taking a steadying breath. "Until his wife committed suicide. It destroyed him. He left the company shortly after. He just became a completely different man after that."

Rachel's pulse quickened. "Do you keep in touch with him?"

"I've tried. Several employees have. But..." Diana's voice grew troubled. "No one has been able to reach him for about six months now. It's like he just... disappeared."

Rachel's eyes met Novak's, and she saw her own certainty reflected there. The pieces were falling into place, forming a picture that was both crystal clear and deeply disturbing. The energy in the small office seemed to shift, charged with the electricity of revelation.

Christopher Bradley had just become their prime suspect.

“Thank you, Mrs. Tatum.” She ended the call before Diana Tatum could give any arguments that certainly none of her employees were capable of such a thing.

As Rachel ended the call, she felt the familiar surge of energy that came with a breakthrough. But mixed with it was something else – a creeping dread that settled in her stomach like ice. Because now they weren't just looking for a killer. They were looking for someone who had intimate knowledge of EndLight's technology, engineering expertise, and a deeply personal motivation for seeking out suicide survivors.

"We need to move fast," she said to Novak, already reaching for the door. "If Bradley's been off the grid for six months..."

"He could be anywhere," Novak finished, his face grim. "And he could have several of those pods scattered around the area.”

Rachel nodded, her mind already racing ahead to the next steps. They had a name now, but time was still against them. And somewhere out there, Christopher Bradley was watching, waiting, planning his next victim. The race to find him before he could strike again was on.

As they exited the office, Rachel caught sight of Sergeant Briggs, speaking with Officer Matthews and a few others. She hurried over to him, and when he saw her approaching, he instantly stepped away from his group.

“Something I can do for you?” Briggs asked.

“Yes, actually. Two things. First…can you get someone to look up any sort of criminal record for a man by thename of Christopher Bradley? And second…what sort of drone capabilities does Wyler County have?”

Briggs looked excited and eager to help when he answered. “In terms of drones, the department has just two. But we also work with a local photographer that has three…he does freelance work for commercials, documentaries, things like that.”

“We need as many drones as you can get in the air as soon as possible,” she said. She looked to Wheeler and added, “Can you get to work on the same thing in your county? If there are more pods hidden away on back roads or in the woods, we need to find themnow.”

“Got it,” Briggs said. “And as for the records for Bradley, we can—”

“Already on it, sir,” Matthews said, marching to a slightly cluttered desk in the bullpen.

All the pieces were in motion and for just a split second, Rachel allowed herself to enjoy the feeling of progress—as chaotic as it might be. Then, with a shared look to Novak, she walked over to the desk Matthews had commandeered and waited patiently for criminal record results, an address…anything they could find on their new suspect.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

The forest wrapped around him like a shroud, dense and ancient. He sat in his small-bodied truck, parked on a narrow dirt road where undergrowth threatened to reclaim the edges. The late afternoon sun filtered through the canopy of leaves, casting dappled shadows across the dashboard, and the open laptop balanced on his knees. A warm breeze carried the scent of pine and decaying leaves through his partially open window, a smell that always reminded him of those final camping trips with Kelly.

On the screen, three icons pulsed softly against the topographical map of the Shenandoah Valley. Each one represented months of work, countless hours of precise engineering, and a promise he'd made to Kelly…after she’d died. His fingers traced the edge of the laptop, remembering how she'd always teased him about his obsession with perfection, with getting every detail exactly right. The memory of her laugh, light and musical, echoed in his mind.

There had been four of those icons up until last night. But the police or FBI or some other government body had apparently moved the pod that had taken Sandra Mitchell’s life.

The sunlight revealed one of his fingerprints on the laptop screen. He smiled and wiped it away with his sleeve. Kelly had always chided him about his fingerprints on screens.

The first prototype had failed, of course. But failure had always been part of the engineering process – Kelly had taught him that, too. He remembered the night it had malfunctioned, the acrid smell of burnt wire insulation filling his basement workshop. That setback had cost him three weeks, but it had also taught him valuable lessons about power management and fail-safes. The other four, though... They were flawless recreationsof the EndLight design. His design, really. The one the company had corrupted, rushed to market before it was ready. Before it was safe.

He knew they were functional and, though it pained him to admit it, quite efficient. But they could have been so much better. There were things about the current design that could have been improved. The pods could have been so much moreperfectif he’d stayed on the project.

He minimized the tracking program and pulled up his calendar. The methodical movements of the past six months filled the screen: carefully plotted routes, strategic deployments, calculated risks. Each entry was color-coded – green for successful placements, yellow for reconnaissance days, red for near-misses when local police or forest rangers had gotten too close for comfort. He'd moved the pods like a chess master positioning pieces, using a small landscaping trailer hitched to this very truck. Just another contractor doing his job, invisible in plain sight.

A deer emerged from the tree line ahead, causing him to hold his breath. It stood motionless, ears twitching, before delicately picking its way across the dirt road. Nature continued its cycles, oblivious to the technology humming quietly in his carefully placed pods. Kelly would have loved seeing the deer – she'd always insisted on bringing her camera on their drives down these old, dusty lanes…just in case.

The memories brought a small smile to his face. How many times had he passed other vehicles on the paved roads that led to these back roads, exchanging casual waves with locals who never questioned the trailer behind him? The worn Ford F-150 and basic equipment trailer had been perfect camouflage. Just another working man making his way through the day. He'd even added magnetic signs to the truck doors advertising"Bradley's Lawn Care" – a touch of authenticity that had proved unnecessary but satisfied his attention to detail.

But the real achievement – the part that made his chest swell with pride – was the intricate web of manipulation he'd woven to bring his targets to the pods. That had been the true test of his intelligence, far more challenging than the engineering problems he'd solved in his basement workshop. Each victim required a different approach, a unique combination of pressure points and incentives. He'd spent weeks studying their routines, their weaknesses, their desperate needs for closure.

He closed his eyes, remembering the countless nights spent in his basement workshop, surrounded by tools and components. The space had become a sanctuary after Kelly's death, the empty rooms above him a constant reminder of what he'd lost. But in the basement, with his hands busy and his mind focused, he could almost feel her presence again. The walls still held the pegboard organizer she'd bought him for Christmas three years ago, each tool hanging in its designated spot, labeled with her neat handwriting.

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