Page 20 of Her Last Farewell

“Did the two of you fight often?”

“No, not really. A small argument here and there.”

“So you’d say you two were in a happy marriage?”

“Yes,” he said a bit sharply.

"The letter," Novak prompted. "You have a picture?"

"Yeah, I..." Mark pulled out his phone, his fingers trembling slightly as he navigated to the photo. "I know it's weird to keep it on my phone. But sometimes I read it over and over, trying to find something I missed, some clue about where she might have gone."

Rachel read the letter displayed on his phone screen:"You've done nothing wrong. No one has done anything wrong. But over the last few months, I have come to understand that this life I have is so much more than I could have ever dreamed of...but it's not what I want. I'm so sorry."

"This is definitely Sarah's handwriting?" Novak asked.

Mark nodded emphatically. "Yes, the police officer and I compared it to her grocery lists, birthday cards, everything. It's her writing. But it doesn'tsoundlike her. Sarah was always so... direct. If something was bothering her, she'd say it. This letter, it's too vague."

“Did these sorts of thoughts coming from her surprise you?” Rachel asked.

Mark nodded and said, “That’s a severe understatement.”

"Tell us more about Sarah," Rachel encouraged, watching as Mark's eyes grew distant with memory. "How long had you known here, and what sort of woman was she like?"

"We met right here in this store, actually. Five years ago. She came in looking for supplies to start a garden. Didn't know the first thing about it, but she was determined." A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "That was Sarah. When she decided todo something, she threw herself into it completely. The garden, the pottery classes, her job. She loved learning new things. Her favorite thing to do in her spare time was pull up Wikipedia pages on random topics."

He gestured to a display of seed packets. "She'd come in every spring, planning out her garden like she was designing a palace garden. She had such a green thumb by the end. Our backyard..." His voice caught. "The garden's all overgrown now. I can't bring myself to pull up the plants she put in."

"Did she ever talk about Florida?" Rachel asked. "About missing home?"

Mark shook his head. "Not really. She didn't have the best relationship with her parents. They wanted her to go to college, become a teacher like her mom. When she decided to move up here instead, they weren't happy. But she'd made peace with that. At least, I thought she had."

“And let’s just pretend, for a moment, that youhadseen some signs or had some worries that she might simply leave one day,” Novak said. “Can you think of anywhere she’d go? Maybe family members or friends she’d potentially stay with?”

"No. I ask myself that all the time, and I can't think of a single thing."

A customer approached their corner, looking interested in the wind chimes, and Mark straightened up. "I should probably get back to work. But please, if you find anything..." He pulled out a business card with the store's logo and scribbled his cell number on the back. "Any time, day or night. I just need to know what happened to her."

Rachel took the card, studying Mark's shaky handwriting. "One more question, quickly. Did Sarah ever mention feeling depressed? Having thoughts of self-harm?"

Mark's brow furrowed. "No, never. She had her quiet moments, sure, but she wasn't depressed. She was planningthings for the future. She'd just ordered new seeds for next spring's garden. She was talking about taking a pottery workshop in Richmond." His voice grew firmer. "Sarah didn't leave because she was unhappy. Or, if she did, she hid it very well from me. Something happened to her. I know it in my gut."

They thanked him as he turned away toward the customer. Rachel and Novak walked back through the store, the sound of wind chimes fading behind them. Outside, the agents exchanged a look over the roof of the car as they got in on their respective sides.

"Monica Turner's family next?" Novak suggested. "Based on the information we have, they're less than two miles from here."

Rachel nodded, her mind still on Mark Dupree and his haunted eyes. But she shifted her focus over to Monica Turner quickly as she got behind the wheel. "Makes sense,” she said. “She's been missing the longest of our current victims. Four months." She started the car, switching on the heat against the growing chill. And what she thought, but did not say out loud was:That’s just one less month than Carla…and she might be the next dead body to pop up.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Turner residence stood like a monument to small-town success, set back from the street behind a meticulously maintained lawn that stretched nearly fifty yards from the curb. Rachel studied the property as she pulled into the concrete driveway, noting how the November sun caught the red brick facade in a way that made the house seem to glow. The wrap-around porch, supported by thick white columns, circled the entire first floor, its wooden planks recently stained a deep mahogany. An American flag hung limply from a post near the front steps, its colors vibrant against the weathered brick.

As she brought the car to a stop and parked, she noticed the carefully pruned boxwood shrubs that lined the front of the house and the array of chrysanthemums, still holding their autumn blooms, dotting the landscaping. Two white rocking chairs sat empty on the porch. The scene projected an air of perfect suburban tranquility that Rachel knew was merely a facade, hiding the turmoil of a missing daughter.

They made their way up the brick path to the porch steps, their footsteps echoing in the late afternoon quiet. Rachel noticed a single security camera discretely mounted in one of the eaves - a modern touch that seemed at odds with the home's traditional aesthetic. The doorbell was the electronic kind equipped with a camera. It chimed with a deep, resonant tone when Novak pressed it. Rachel wondered if these security measures had always been here or if they’d been added after Monica’s disappearance.

After a moment, the heavy wooden door opened to reveal a woman Rachel estimated to be in her late forties, dressed in pressed khakis and a navy cardigan. Her brown hair was styled carefully, but her face showed the strain of prolonged worry,with dark circles under her eyes partially masked by makeup. She carried herself with the slightly awkward movements of someone who had recently gained weight, as if she hadn't quite adjusted to her new size.

"Can I help you?" she asked, her voice carrying the distinctive local accent.

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