Page 7 of Her Last Farewell

"A cell?" Novak asked.

"Possibly. Or a cage." Eleanor stood, removing her purple gloves with practiced efficiency. "I'll know more once I can examine the body properly in the lab, but I suspect you're looking for someone with access to a secure location where they could keep a prisoner for an extended period of time. Somewhere isolated, given that no one heard or saw anything for five months."

Rachel's mind was already mapping out possibilities. A basement, maybe, or an abandoned building. Somewhere in this rural area, there were plenty of places where someone could hide a captive. Old, run-down homes and even tobacco barns, that sort of thing. But the care taken with the body, the professional nature of the killing—it all suggested this wasn't just some random act of violence.

"Deputy Leery," Rachel called out, turning to where the local officer stood speaking with one of his colleagues. He came over, his boots heavy on the leaf-strewn ground. "That suicide note—it's in evidence?"

Leery nodded. "Yeah, it's back at the station. Part of the missing persons file we were working until about a month ago, when the trail went completely cold." He shook his head. "Never would have guessed it would end like this."

"I need to see it," Rachel said. "If we can confirm whether it's genuine or not, it might help us understand what we're dealing with."

"I'll get it for you as soon as we wrap up here," Leery promised.

Rachel turned back to the scene, watching as Eleanor's assistant and the coroner began carefully setting about the task of placing Carla's body into a black bag. The morning had grown warmer, but still felt a chill. Watching Carla placed into that bag roughly twenty-four hours after Scarlett’s funeral—it was eerie.

"You know what bothers me most?" Novak said quietly, coming to stand beside her. "The timing. Why now? Why kill her after all this time?"

Rachel had been thinking the same thing. "Maybe something forced their hand. Maybe they felt they’d already run enough risk. Or maybe…I don’t know. Maybe they got tired of caring for her.”

Novak nodded his understanding, but she could see that he was thinking deeply about his own theories and scenarios.

Rachel watched as Carla's body was lifted onto a stretcher—the sort that was little more than a plastic board without wheels. This deep in the woods, away from the trail, she was going to have to physically be carried out. "I think we need to look at recent missing persons cases in the area,” she said. “And we need to see that suicide note." She thought of Carla, writing that note and then being taken…of being trapped in one place for five months and then, without warning, shot and dumped in the woods. They were missing something…

As she and Novak walked back toward the trail, Rachel's was already planning out the next steps. The suicide note, missing persons reports, possible locations where someone could hold a captive for months without detection. But underneath it all was a growing sense of urgency.

It was then that it dawned on her. If Carla had indeed been held captive for five months and the killer had disposed of herin such a way, how much longer would it be before the killer wanted to fill that space again?

CHAPTER SIX

When Rachel and Novak entered the Bowery Police Department, Rachel was a bit disarmed by how small and quaint it was. The station was a squat brick building that looked like it had been constructed sometime in the late 1960s and hadn't seen significant updates since. The fluorescent lights overhead casting a harsh, slightly yellow glow over the worn linoleum floors. The institutional beige walls were adorned with faded notices and outdated wanted posters. A water-stained ceiling tile in the corner spoke to years of deferred maintenance, while a slightly crooked American flag hung limply beside a cork bulletin board covered in community announcements and safety notices.

The front desk consisted of a simple wooden counter with a scratched protective window, behind which a dispatcher was speaking quietly into a headset. Two wooden benches, their varnish worn smooth by decades of use, lined the wall of the small waiting area. The whole space carried that distinct small-town police station smell – a mixture of coffee, paper, and industrial cleaning products.

Deputy Leery fell in behind them, his boots squeaking against the floor. "Agents," he said with a nod, "follow me." He led them down a narrow hallway where the sounds of ringing phones and muted conversations drifted from the handful of offices. A small break room off to the side revealed two officers sharing coffee and day-old donuts, both glancing up with undisguised curiosity as the FBI agents passed.

Leery's office was tucked away in the back corner of the building, a space that couldn't have been more than ten by twelve feet. Despite its modest size, the office reflected its occupant's attention to detail and organization. The desk,though old, had been well-maintained. There was a small mess of papers and files on top of it, but Rachel could tell it was the sort of mess that had an underlying organization to it. Right away, Rachel noticed a small, framed photograph of what appeared to be Leery's family – a woman with kind eyes and two teenage children, all smiling beneath the summer sun.

"Have a seat," Leery said, gesturing to two chairs that faced his desk. They were standard-issue government furniture, comfortable enough for short conversations but not meant for extended stays. Rachel settled into one while Novak took the other, both watching as Leery moved to a tall filing cabinet in the corner. The cabinet's metal surface bore a few dings and scratches, battle scars from years of use, but fit well into the space.

Leery pulled open the second drawer, the metal tracks sliding smoothly. His fingers moved efficiently through the hanging files, indicating a man who knew his system well. The fluorescent light overhead caught the silver in his hair, and Rachel noticed the way his badge caught the light as he shifted his weight.

"Here we are," he said, pulling out a thick manila folder. "Carla Rhodes." He returned to his desk, settling into his chair with a soft creak of leather. Before handing over the file, he paused, his weathered hands resting on the folder. "I should warn you – this one stuck with us. Small town like this, missing persons cases hit different. Especially when there's a suicide note involved."

Rachel nodded, understanding. In her experience, smaller jurisdictions often took cases more personally. When you knew most of the people in your town, every victim became more than just a case number.

The file was surprisingly thick for a missing person’s case. Rachel opened it carefully, aware of both Novak and Leerywatching her as she began to read. The initial report was typed with meticulous detail, documenting the events that led to Carla Rhodes being reported missing.

The narrative painted a picture that grew stranger with each detail. Carla had been employed at a local hair salon for eight months, described by her colleagues as reliable but a bit spacy. When she failed to show up for work three days in a row, her co-worker, Angela Martinez, became concerned. Multiple calls to Carla's cell phone went straight to voicemail. Text messages were delivered but never read or responded to.

Rachel paused in her reading, looking up at Leery. "The co-worker who checked on her – Angela Martinez – did you interview her personally?"

Leery nodded, leaning forward slightly. "I did. She was pretty shaken up. Said she and Carla weren't close friends outside of work, but they'd had lunch together a few times and went out for a beer here and there after work. She knew something was wrong when Carla missed styling the hair of an older lady here in town…her favorite client, from what I was told.”

Rachel returned to the file, noting how the report detailed Angela's arrival at Carla's home. The door had been unlocked – unusual for Carla, according to Angela. The apartment showed no signs of forced entry or struggle. Everything was in its place, almost eerily so. The only thing out of place was a single sheet of paper on the kitchen table…the suicide note.

The suicide note was preserved in the file, protected by a clear evidence sleeve. Rachel studied it carefully. The handwriting was neat and controlled, showing no signs of hesitation or distress – something that struck her as odd, given the circumstances. The words themselves were heartbreaking in their simplicity:

"I've tried so many times but never found love. My mother died when I was three years old and dad died last year. He wasthe only person I ever knew who loved me and I want nothing more than to feel that again. Please forgive me, Julia."

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