Page 8 of Her Last Confession

“Yes, ma’am. Anything you need in terms of evidence or forensics analysis, you can get from Detective Wheeler.” He plucked a business card from his front pants pocket and handed it over to her.

Rachel looked back to the pod once again. Novak sidled up beside her and said, “Here’s a terrible thought…but if someone can make this thing…what's to stop them from making more?"

The question hung in the air between them, heavy with implications. Rachel looked back at the pod, imagining otherslike it hidden throughout the area, waiting in remote locations for their victims. A killer who could turn a device meant for mercy into an instrument of torture—what else were they capable of?

Rachel straightened up, fighting back a shiver that had nothing to do with the morning chill. "We need to get ahead of this. If therearemore out there, we need to find them. And if we find even one more of them before the killer is able to use it…maybe we find the killer, too.”

The forest seemed to close in around them at the thought, branches creaking in a sudden breeze. Rachel could feel the weight of what they'd discovered pressing down on her. She desperately wanted to think that this was a solo murder. But for someone to have created a replica of EndLight’s pods…it spoke of cruel intention. And why make just one if you knew how to do it? Why waste your sick talents on one when you could make several?

In her mind, she could hear Sandra Mitchell's final moments—the panic, the desperation, the realization that help wasn't coming. Rachel had faced death before, had made peace with it during her illness. But this... this was something else entirely. This was death perverted into a weapon, mercy twisted into malice.

Rachel took one last look at the pod before turning away. They had work to do, and somewhere out there, a killer was watching, waiting, perhaps already planning their next target.

“I want to speak to next of kin,” Rachel said. “In the files…there was a sister mentioned…”

Williamson spoke up, leaning against his patrol car. “That would be Claire Mitchell. Lives about half an hour away. Want her address?”

“Yes, that would be great,” Rachel said. “Thank you.”

As Williamson looked through his phone for the information, Rachel took in the wide expanse of the forest. On the way to this location, the soft fires coming to life in the autumnal trees had been comforting…almost welcoming. Now, they seemed more like poison. Now it seemed as if the very trees wanted to trap them here, pushing her and Novak toward the pod where there was no way out once they were closed in.

CHAPTER SIX

Claire Mitchell’s house sat back from the road, a blueprint of middle-class suburbia with its well-maintained flower beds and neatly trimmed hedges. Rachel noted the fresh mulch around the dogwood trees, the recently painted shutters. Someone in this house cared deeply about appearances.

"Nice place," Novak said, killing the engine. He squinted through the windshield at the two-story colonial. "You want to take point on this one?"

Rachel nodded, already opening her door. The afternoon sun beat down on them as they made their way up the curved walkway. Wind chimes tinkled softly from the covered porch, their gentle melody at odds with the gravity of their visit. Before Rachel could ring the bell, movement caught her eye through the frosted glass panel beside the door. A shadow approached, hesitated, then the door creaked open.

Claire Mitchell stood in the doorway, and her height was the first thing Rachel noticed. She was easily six feet tall, with the kind of plain, honest features that probably photographed better than they appeared in person. Her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed, a tissue crumpled in her left hand. She wore a navy cardigan despite the reasonably warm weather, as if seeking comfort in its embrace.

"Ms. Mitchell?" Rachel kept her voice gentle. "I'm Special Agent Rachel Gift, and this is Agent Novak. We're with the FBI. We'd like to ask you a few questions about your sister, Sandra."

Claire's face crumpled slightly at Sandra's name, but she stepped back, gesturing them inside. "Of course. Please, come in."

The entryway opened into a living room that spoke of a life carefully curated. Family photos lined the walls in matchingframes – holidays, graduations, moments frozen in time. Rachel's trained eye caught Sandra in several of them, always slightly apart from the group, her smile never quite reaching her eyes. A leather-bound photo album lay open on the coffee table, as if Claire had been revisiting happier times when they arrived.

"We can sit in the kitchen," Claire said, leading them through a dining room where a child's art project dominated the refrigerator door. "It's... it's more comfortable there."

The kitchen was bright and airy, windows overlooking that spacious backyard where a swing set stood sentinel against the tree line. Modern appliances gleamed under recessed lighting, and a row of potted herbs lined the windowsill above the sink. A half-eaten toast sat abandoned on a plate near the coffee maker, testament to a morning appetite lost to grief.

Claire all but collapsed into a chair at the oak table, her hands immediately finding and gripping a half-empty mug of coffee. The table itself bore the marks of family life – slight scratches, water rings partially hidden by placemats, a stack of mail pushed to one corner.

“I saw the drawings on your fridge,” Rachel said. “You have a kid?”

“I do. Mariah. But she’s at a friend’s house. I haven’t told her about her aunt Sandra yet.”

Rachel nodded and looked to Claire’s left hand. No wedding band…which meant she was a single mother.

“At the risk of sounding uncaring, would you mind if we got right to the questions?” she asked. “I’m sure you can understand how odd this case is. The quicker we get answers—”

“Oh, of course. Please…go ahead.”

Rachel sorted her questions out in her head while Novak leaned against the opposite end of the kitchen counter. "When was the last time you spoke with your sister?" Rachel asked.

"Tuesday." Claire's voice cracked. She cleared her throat, tried again. "We had our weekly call. She seemed... normal. Maybe a little distracted, but nothing unusual. We talked about..." She paused, closing her eyes briefly. "We talked about getting together this weekend. Maybe hitting the trails with Mariah.”

“And she seemed fine then?” Novak asked.

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