Page 20

Marcus Kent’s house looked different somehow as they pulled up in front of it again. Rachel was delighted that the drive had gone by quickly, pushed along by conversations and theories related to the case. She was starting to see more and more of the sort of analytical agent Novak was. He was honestly a little too by-the-book for Rachel, but he had a very level head on his shoulders.

The late morning sun cast harsh shadows across Marcus Kent's front lawn as Rachel and Novak stepped out of the car. Rachel's mind felt as if it was bursting at the seams with questions about the alternative EndLight pod designs Dr. Kent had conveniently failed to mention during their first visit. It made her assume that during their first visit, she and Novak had gotten nothing more than carefully measured responses during their first interview. And, going on no sleep the night before, that sort of offense had her nice and pissed off.

The neighborhood was quiet…a typical late Sunday morning. Most of the surrounding houses showed signs of life: a forgotten garden hose snaking across a lawn, children's bikes tipped over in driveways, a wind chime tinkling in the late autumn breeze. But Kent's property felt sterile, maintained with an attention to detail that bordered on obsessive. The grass was perfectly trimmed, the hedges mathematically precise, the windows spotless.

When their first knock at the front door went unanswered, Novak tried again, the sound echoing through the quiet suburban street. Rachel counted in her head: one-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand. Then she stepped off the porch and started making her way across the grass to the side of the house.

"What are you doing?" Novak called after her, his voice carrying the edge of someone who already knew the answer but hoped he was wrong.

"Going to check the back," she said, already rounding the corner of the house. The manicured lawn crunched under her feet, each blade of grass seeming to stand at attention.

"Check the back for what, exactly?" Rachel could hear the disapproval building, could practically feel his by-the-book sensibilities bristling.

Rachel paused at the gate leading to the backyard, her hand resting on the latch. "For a way in."

"You can't be serious." Novak grabbed her arm, forcing her to turn and face him. His usually calm demeanor had hardened into something closer to anger, his jaw set in a way she'd never seen before. "We don't have probable cause. We don't have a warrant. We don't have anything that gives us the right to enter this house."

She looked down to where his hand still gripped her arm. It was a gentle, almost caring grip, but it was still doing nothing more than making her angrier.

"What we have are two dead bodies," Rachel shot back, jerking her arm free. The motion was sharper than she'd intended, and she saw Novak's eyes narrow at the display of emotion. "Also…you saw how Diana Tatum reacted when we mentioned Kent's name. You know there's more here. We know he was not being totally honest with us the first time we were here."

"Maybe. But breaking and entering isn't going to help us build a case. It'll poison everything we find inside." Novak ran a hand through his hair, a rare gesture of frustration. "Everything we find becomes fruit of the poisonous tree. You know this, Rachel. This isn't your first year on the job."

Rachel felt her teeth grinding together. Was he really trying to go this route with her? Who the hell did he think he was? "Sometimes you have to bend the rules to—"

"To what?" Novak cut her off, stepping closer. "To get results? To play hero? That's not how this works, Rachel. That's not what we do. We're FBI agents, not vigilantes. The rules exist for a reason."

The words hit harder than Rachel expected, stirring up memories of other lines she'd crossed, other times she'd convinced herself the ends justified the means. She thought of Alex Lynch, of Alice, of all the times playing by the rules hadn't been enough to protect the people she loved. The weight of those decisions—and their consequences—pressed down on her shoulders.

"What we do," she said quietly, each word measured and deliberate, "is stop killers before they can strike again. You really want to wait for a warrant while this guy potentially moves or destroys evidence? While he maybe preps another pod? While someone else's family gets that phone call?"

"What I want is to do this right." Novak's voice had dropped to match hers, but the intensity remained. In that moment, he reminded her painfully of Jack—the same stubborn adherence to procedure, the same frustrated concern. However, Jack would have likely given in by now. "You're letting your emotions about these pods cloud your judgment. I get it—after everything you've been through, how could you not? But that's exactly why you need to step back and think this through."

Rachel turned back toward the gate, pushing it open with perhaps more force than necessary. "You're right. I am emotional about this. Because I've been where these victims were...thinking of suicide. I've stared death in the face and felt that desperation. The difference is, I got a second chance. These people? Not so much." She then started walking toward the car, gravel crunching under each determined step. "I'm getting my lock picks. You don't have to come with me."

"Rachel!" Novak called after her. "I'll have to report this to Anderson." It was a last-ditch effort, a desperate attempt.

She retrieved the small leather case from the glove compartment, not bothering to respond. Let him report it. Some things were worth the reprimand. Some things were worth sacrificing your reputation for, if it meant saving lives. She'd learned that lesson the hard way during those dark days when cancer had been eating away at her body while killers threatened her family. Sometimes the right thing and the legal thing weren't the same thing at all.

She went around to the back of the house, not giving a damn if Novak followed her or not. The back porch steps creaked beneath her weight as she climbed them, each sound seeming to announce her presence to the empty house. Her hands were steady as she worked the lock picks—muscle memory taking over despite the months away from field work—but her mind was churning. Novak was right—this was wrong. Illegal. The kind of thing that could torpedo a case if handled badly. The kind of thing Jack would have tried to talk her out of.

The lock clicked open under her fingers, and Rachel opened the back door. She stepped into a modest kitchen. The space was immaculate—granite countertops gleaming, copper pots hanging in perfect alignment above a professional-grade range. Everything had its place, each appliance positioned with geometric precision. It opened into an equally pristine living room, where modernist furniture created careful geometric patterns against pale hardwood floors. Everything felt staged, like a showroom rather than a home. There were no magazines scattered on the coffee table, no mail waiting to be sorted, no cups left out or throws casually draped over chairs. It was the kind of perfect that made Rachel's skin crawl.

A hallway branched off to the right, and Rachel's attention immediately locked onto a home office visible through its open door. Her pulse quickened as she crossed the threshold. A glass desk dominated the space, its surface clear except for a closed laptop and a few scattered papers. But it was the row of thick black binders against the far wall that drew her eye, their spines unmarked but somehow managing to look important.

The first binder opened to reveal exactly what she'd hoped: detailed technical specifications for the EndLight pods. Page after page of blueprints, engineering notes, and material requirements. Rachel's phone came out, capturing key pages in rapid succession. Her hands moved quickly, efficiently, years of experience guiding her through the process of documenting evidence—even if this evidence might never see the inside of a courtroom.

She found that the second and third binders contained more of the same. She took her phone out and snapped pictures of each binder before turning her attention to a long desk pushed against the far wall. The laptop sitting in its center was a dead end, locked behind password protection. But as she looked at the laptop, a piece of paper partially hidden beneath it caught her attention. Rachel carefully slid it free, her heart rate picking up as she registered what she was seeing.

Her breath caught. It was a rental invoice for a box truck, dated two days ago. No a huge one, but bigger than the more modest ones as well. In other words... it is just large enough to transport a peaceful passage pod.

And the rental date was from three days ago—recent enough to match their timeline. The details jumped out at her: twelve-footer, local rental company, valid for a week. Truck number, license plate number, make and model, rental company information. Everything they needed to track it down.

Rachel's hands shook slightly as she photographed the invoice. This was it—the missing piece they needed. The thing that would make breaking in worth it, consequences be damned. Sometimes, you had to sacrifice the small rules to uphold the bigger ones. Sometimes you had to trust your gut, even when your head—and your partner—were telling you otherwise.

She exited the house quickly and found Novak exactly where she'd left him, pacing by their vehicle. His expression was thunderous, but it shifted when he saw her face. Years of working with witnesses had taught Rachel to read people, and she could see the moment curiosity overcame disapproval.

"What did you find?"

Rachel held up her phone, already pulling up the invoice photo. "I know where our missing pod went. And more importantly? I think I know how we're going to find it. Oh, and then there’s this.” She then scrolled through the photos she’d taken of the EndLight schematics. “It’s him, Novak. We got the bastard.”

The anger hadn't fully left Novak's face, but now it warred with reluctant interest. "This doesn't make what you did right."

"No," Rachel agreed, "And I’ll be okay with that for now. And while it may not have been the right thing to do, it might help us prevent another murder. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to call this in. We need an APB on that truck right now."

“I’ll do it,” he said, and she could sense some of his growing excitement.

As Novak pulled out his phone, Rachel glanced back at Kent's house. The pristine windows reflected the midday sun, revealing nothing of the secrets inside. She'd crossed a line today, no question. But standing here, with solid evidence in hand and a real lead to follow, she couldn't bring herself to regret it.

Not if it meant stopping another death. Not if it meant keeping another person from having their moment of desperation twisted into murder.

The real question was: how many more lines would she have to cross before this was over? And would she recognize herself when it was done?