Page 17

The morning sun cast long shadows across EndLight's nearly empty parking lot as Rachel and Novak pulled in at 8:05. Rachel nursed the last of her coffee, still warm from their breakfast stop at the diner where they'd spread case files across the worn Formica table, piecing together what they knew so far.

That had been an hour and a half ago, a little pit stop where Rachel had also done some basic online research on EndLight, trying to figure out who they’d need to speak to if they wanted the most direct route to useful information. It was there, with an omelet eaten and a second cup of coffee perched beside her, that she’d learned that Diana Tatum was their best bet.

Tatum had been the CEO since EndLight's controversial founding five years ago. She was a former biotech executive with degrees from MIT and Stanford. She had a reputation for not just sitting behind a desk and ordering people around; she was apparently also known for being hands-on with product development. Almost obsessive about quality control.

“Well, there are a grand total of five cars in this parking lot,” Novak said. “I doubt there’s a good chance any of them are the CEO of the company.”

“Well, if not, I did pull her address from the bureau database,” Rachel pointed out. “And the woman must love her job because her address is just three and a half miles from here.”

“Damn, that’s dedication,” Novak said.

He pulled their sedan into a space near the front entrance. The EndLight headquarters rose before them, a structure that seemed to defy conventional architecture. Despite its modest size—just four stories—the building appeared to have been designed by someone with a distinctly modernist vision. Curved glass panels wrapped around the exterior like ribbons, creating an almost organic flow that reminded Rachel uncomfortably of the pods they'd been investigating. The morning light caught the glass at odd angles, making the building seem to shift and move as they approached, its surfaces rippling like liquid mercury.

Steel support beams, visible through the glass, curved and intersected in patterns that seemed both random and precisely calculated. The overall effect was unsettling—beautiful, but with an underlying sense of something not quite natural, as if the building itself was trying to seduce visitors into accepting its twisted version of reality.

"Looks like something out of a movie," Novak muttered as they approached the main entrance. "The kind where the evil corporation is doing experiments on people."

Rachel shot him a sharp look. "That's not helping."

The main entrance was set back in a curved alcove, its doors made of the same flowing glass as the rest of the structure. Steel accents in matte black provided a stark contrast, including a sleek intercom box mounted beside what appeared to be an after-hours mail slot. The company logo—a stylized "E" that seemed to be breaking free from its own constraints—was etched into the glass above the doors.

Rachel tested the door. Locked, as she’d suspected.

"Sunday morning," Novak muttered, reaching for the intercom. “I doubt this will do any good.”

He pressed the call button once, waited, then again. On the third try, a woman's voice crackled through the speaker, the sound quality surprisingly crisp for an intercom system. She sounded tired and annoyed that she was being bothered.

"This is Miranda Holt, production engineering. Who's trying to access the building at this hour on a Sunday?"

Rachel stepped forward, her voice clear and authoritative. "Special Agents Gift and Novak with the FBI. We need to speak with Diana Tatum regarding an ongoing investigation. It’s urgent, please. Is she here?"

The silence that followed stretched so long that Novak's hand drifted toward the call button again. Rachel could feel tension building in her shoulders. Finally, the voice returned: "Mrs. Tatum will meet you in the lobby in five minutes. The doors are now unlocked for you."

Novak looked over to her and shrugged as if to say: Sure. I’ll take it. They walked inside, Novak opening the tall glass door and holding it for Rachel as she stepped inside.

The lobby was a study in calculated minimalism that took Rachel's breath away—not with its beauty, but with its careful precision. The ceiling soared two stories high, with a geometric light fixture that cast intricate shadows across the pale marble floor. The shadows shifted and danced as clouds passed overhead, creating patterns that seemed almost hypnotic.

Modern artwork adorned the walls—abstract pieces that seemed to echo the building's exterior design. One particularly large canvas caught Rachel's attention: swirls of deep blue and black that suggested both comfort and oblivion. It was eerily fitting, given what EndLight dealt it. Rachel quickly looked away, disturbed by how easily she'd made that connection.

The waiting area featured low-slung leather chairs in chrome frames arranged around a glass coffee table that appeared to float above the floor. The leather was butter-soft and cool against Rachel's back as she sat down.

Novak remained standing, pacing slowly as he took in the space. "Hell of a place," he said quietly. "Everything's so... perfect."

Rachel nodded. Everything about the space spoke of precision and control, from the perfectly spaced potted plants to the way the morning light filtered through carefully positioned skylights. It was beautiful, but there was something almost clinical about it that made her skin crawl. The air itself seemed precisely temperature-controlled, not a degree too warm or too cool.

The soft ping of the elevator from the far right of the space drew their attention. Diana Tatum emerged, her heels clicking purposefully across the marble floor in a rhythm that echoed off the high ceiling. She was tall, with short silver hair cut in an expensive asymmetrical style that emphasized her sharp cheekbones. Her charcoal suit looked as if it had been tailored within the last hour, despite the early Sunday hour. Everything about her screamed precision and control—exactly like her building.

"Mrs. Tatum," Rachel said, rising to meet her. "Thank you for seeing us."

"Of course." Diana's voice was clipped, professional, but Rachel caught a slight tremor underneath the polished exterior. "Though I admit, it's not typical for me to be here at this hour on a Sunday."

"And yet here you are," Rachel observed, watching carefully for her reaction.

A flash of something—worry, perhaps, or fear—crossed Diana's face. "We're here for the same reason you are, I suppose. As soon as we heard about this knock-off machines.. someone stealing our design..." She paused, composing herself, one manicured hand absently adjusting her jacket. "When we learned someone had been killed in what appeared to be one of our pods, I assembled a team immediately. We've been calling every site where we currently have units installed, making sure this isn’t one of ours."

Rachel watched the woman carefully. The distress in her voice seemed genuine, her hands clasped tightly together as she spoke. Despite the perfect appearance, there were signs of strain —slight shadows under her eyes that makeup couldn't quite conceal, a barely noticeable tremor in her hands.

"Mrs. Tatum," Rachel said gently, "I need to inform you that a second victim has been found in another pod."

Diana's professional facade cracked. Her hand flew to her mouth, and Rachel could see her fighting to maintain composure, tears threatening to spill over. "Oh God," she whispered. "This can't be happening. Our pods... they're meant to provide peace, dignity. Not this. Never this."

“Yes, we know. And having seen these pods up close, we can confirm that while they bear many similarities to your peaceful passage pods, there are just enough differences to confirm that they do seem to be recreations…knock-offs, as you said.”

“We should ask, though,” Novak said, “if you have been able to account for all of your pods?"

Diana took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders as she regained control. A ray of sunlight caught her hair, making the silver strands gleam like polished steel. "We've located all but one." Her voice wavered slightly. "The location-sharing feature has been overridden somehow, and we can't reach anyone at the facility where it's supposed to be."

Rachel and Novak exchanged glances. In the soaring lobby of EndLight's headquarters, with morning sun streaming through the windows, Rachel felt a chill run down her spine. One pod is unaccounted for. One pod that could be anywhere, with anyone. Could it have been used as the template and inspiration for the two they’d seen? The perfect murder weapon, designed with all the precision and attention to detail that surrounded them in this very lobby.

"Tell me everything you know about that pod," Rachel said.

Diana nodded, sinking into one of the chrome and leather chairs. In the harsh morning light streaming through the geometric skylights, she suddenly looked much older, much more aware of the evil her company had inadvertently inspired.