Page 30 of Her Last Farewell

"They were blind, just as you are blind. They refused to see the true path to salvation. They wanted their comfortable Sunday services and their weak platitudes. They didn't understand that sometimes the shepherd must be harsh to save his flock!"

Andrea pressed herself harder against the back of her cage as he approached, his face now inches from the mesh. "I watch over you. I feed you. I keep you safe from your own destructive impulses. And one day, when you are ready, when another lost sheep requires this cage more than you do..." He smiled, and Andrea felt her blood run cold. "Then you will be released. One way or another."

The basement fell silent except for the Monica’s angry sobbing. Andrea's bladder screamed for relief, but she remained frozen, knees clutched to her chest. Their captor straightened his clothes, his calm demeanor returning like a mask sliding back into place.

"I'll leave the water here, close enough for you to all grab it through the bottoms of your cages," he said pleasantly, as if he hadn't just been raving about divine purpose. "Please remember to drink. He turned toward the stairs, then paused. "Oh, and you?” he said, looking at Andrea as he passed by. “You really should eat your sandwich. I promise there's nothing in it but peanut butter and love."

The basement door closed behind him with a terrible finality, leaving three women alone with their fear and the knowledge that their only escape would be through death—either their own, or that of another woman yet to be "saved."

Andrea stared at the sandwich, her hunger warring with her terror. In the next cage, Monica had gone quiet, her sobs reduced to quiet whimpers. Above them, they could hear their captor's footsteps moving across the floor, probably heading to his chair to read more scripture, to find more ways to justify his madness.

Later, when the footsteps had ceased and the basement had grown as quiet as a tomb, Andrea finally crawled to the bucket in the corner of her cage. As she relief herself, tears of humiliation rolling down her cheeks, she wondered if this was how it started—the slow erosion of dignity, the gradual breaking of the spirit. She wondered how long the woman before her had lasted before she'd been "released."

How long before one of them would be "saved" next?

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Rachel gripped the steering wheel tightly as their car wound deeper into the Virginia woods yet again. In the darkness and glare of headlights, the dirt road ahead grew increasingly narrow and treacherous. The GPS signal flickered weakly on the dashboard display, the blue dot of their location jumping erratically before disappearing entirely. Thick stands of oak and hickory pressed in from both sides, their branches forming a natural tunnel that seemed to swallow what remained of the day's light. Dead leaves scattered across the road, kicked up in their wake like whispered warnings.

"We’re two miles from the main road now," Novak said quietly, checking his phone. "No service out here either." He shifted in his seat, peering through the windshield at the deepening shadows. "Seems like the kind of place where you could disappear and no one would know where to look."

Rachel nodded grimly, her eyes fixed ahead as the car jolted over exposed tree roots and worn ruts in the dirt. The forest had grown denser with each passing minute, creating an almost suffocating sense of isolation. As dusk settled in, long shadows stretched across their path like grasping fingers. The trees themselves seemed to lean inward, their bare November branches scratching against the darkening sky. A deer bounded across the road ahead of them, startling them both and causing Rachel to brake sharply.

"Sorry," she muttered, easing back on the gas. "Everything looks like a potential threat out here."

"That's because everything could be," Novak replied. "People choose places like this for a reason. Plus…that deer was gigantic."

The headlights caught something metallic ahead - an old mailbox nearly consumed by rust, listing slightly to one side on its wooden post. The numbers 817 were barely visible, matching the address they had for Thomas Eaves. Patches of original black paint clung stubbornly to the corroded surface, making the mailbox look like it was suffering from some sort of metallic disease. Rachel slowed the car and turned onto an even narrower drive, the underbrush scraping against the vehicle's sides like desperate fingers.

The cabin that emerged from the gathering darkness looked like something from another time entirely. It was a simple but sturdy structure built of rough-hewn logs, with a tin roof that had weathered to a soft pewter shade. A small, covered porch wrapped around two sides, its aged, wooden boards the color of ash. The cabin seemed to have grown organically from the forest floor, perfectly at home among the towering trees that encircled it like silent sentinels. A thin curl of smoke rose from the stone chimney, disappearing into the darkening sky.

A single window glowed warmly, the light spilling out onto a patch of yard that had been carved from the wilderness. The space was neat but minimal - just enough clearing to provide a buffer between the cabin and the encroaching forest. Dead leaves had collected in drifts against the foundation, and a neat stack of split firewood lined one wall. An ancient pickup truck, its blue paint dulled by years of sun and weather, sat in a dusty driveway.

As they stepped out of the car, Rachel noticed that the air was notably cooler here in the depths of the woods, carrying the musty scent of decaying leaves and damp earth. Something shuffled in the underbrush - perhaps a deer or fox - but the sound was quickly swallowed by the unnatural quiet that seemed to blanket the property. Even their footsteps seemed muffled by the thick carpet of pine needles and leaves.

The porch steps creaked ominously under their weight as they approached the front door. A moth-eaten welcome mat lay before the threshold, its design long since faded into obscurity. Novak knocked, the sound sharp and startling in the stillness. Several long moments passed before they heard movement inside - slow, deliberate footsteps approaching the door.

The door opened just enough to reveal a portion of a man's face, weathered and lined like old leather. Deep-set eyes regarded them with equal parts wariness and resignation. The visible slice of his face bore the marks of someone who had spent years in the elements - sun-weathered skin crossed with fine lines, and a scar that ran along his temple, disappearing into graying hair.

"Who are you?" he asked, his voice rough as bark.

Rachel stepped forward slightly, showing her badge and ID. "Mr. Eaves? I'm Special Agent Rachel Gift with the FBI, and this is my partner, Agent Novak. We'd like to speak with you about some recent disappearances in the area."

The man's expression hardened, deepening the creases around his visible eye. "Thomas Eaves, yes. But I don't know anything about any disappearances." He started to close the door, but Rachel was faster, wedging her shoe in the gap.

"Please, Mr. Eaves," she said, keeping her voice gentle but firm. "We know you volunteer at the suicide prevention hotline. We're investigating the disappearances of several women who were struggling with thoughts of suicide. One of them, Carla Rhodes , was found dead this morning." She began listing the names, watching his partial face for any reaction as she slowly revealed them. "The others missing are Monica Turner, Sarah Dupree, and Andrea Haskins."

At Andrea's name, something flickered in the visible portion of his face…a flash of recognition, quickly followedby what looked like genuine pain. The change was subtle but unmistakable, like a shadow passing behind his eyes.

"Andrea," he repeated softly, the name coming out like a sigh. The grumpy stubbornness was gone now. "Yes, I... I spoke with her."

Slowly, the door opened wider, revealing Thomas Eaves in full. He was smaller than Rachel had expected, almost frail-looking in his flannel shirt and worn jeans. But there was a quiet strength in his bearing, despite the obvious weight of whatever memories he was carrying. His shoulders were slightly hunched, as if bearing an invisible burden.

"Come in," he said, stepping back from the doorway. He continued rather quickly as they entered his home. "I spoke with Andrea just a few nights ago at the hotline. She was... she was clearly distressed but there was an edge of humor to her. You know the kind? She…she reminded me so much of Marion." His voice cracked slightly on the name.

"That’s your wife, right?” Rachel asked.

Eaves only nodded.

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