Page 25

The gravel crunched beneath their tires as Rachel guided the car up the winding driveway. Ancient oaks and towering pines lined both sides of the path, their branches creating a natural archway that filtered the late afternoon sunlight into dappled patterns on the hood of their vehicle. The Shenandoah foothills rolled away in every direction beyond the trees, waves of deep green disappearing into the misty distance.

According to the address Officer Matthews had pulled from the local database, this was the address listed for Christopher Bradley.

"This is... unexpected," Novak said, breaking the contemplative silence that had fallen between them. He gestured toward the house as it came into view around the final bend. "For someone who spent most of his career in tech."

Rachel had to agree. The house was a masterpiece of rustic architecture – a sprawling two-story structure that seemed to have grown organically from the surrounding wilderness. Natural stone and weathered cedar siding blended seamlessly with the landscape. A wraparound porch hugged the entire first floor, its posts made from whole tree trunks that still retained their bark. Floor-to-ceiling windows reflected the dying sunlight like sheets of burnished copper. The driveway was uninterrupted by any vehicles; they were the only ones here.

"Could be a secondary property," Rachel suggested, scanning the empty driveway as they pulled to a stop. "Summer home, maybe. Or..." She let the thought trail off as she took in the profound isolation of the place. No other houses are visible. No other cars. Just wilderness and silence.

"Or the perfect place to retreat to after your wife takes her own life," Novak finished, his voice grim.

Rachel nodded, thinking back to the information Detective Wheeler had sent during their drive over. The local paper's account had been clinical in its brevity: Kelly Bradley, found in an upstairs bathroom eight months ago, wrists slit in the bathtub. A note and red water left behind. Case closed.

They approached the front door, their footsteps hollow on the wooden planks of the porch. Rachel rapped her knuckles against the heavy oak door. The sound echoed inside, met only with silence…which is exactly what she expected, given that there were no other cars in the driveway.

"Nobody home," she said, then added with a hint of gallows humor: "Are you going to get all up in arms again if I suggest breaking in?"

Novak's lips twitched. "No. In fact, I'll go get the pick set." He returned to the car, retrieved the tools, and made quickly returned. He didn’t bother handing the set over. He approached the door and went to work on the lock himself. He had it opened in less than ten seconds. Rachel nodded in acknowledgment, slightly impressed.

He opened the door and gestured for her to head inside. “Ladies first.”

The interior was a study in contrasts. Traditional cabin aesthetics – exposed beams, stone fireplace, hardwood everything – mixed with sleek modern furnishings and state-of-the-art technology. A massive flat-screen TV dominated one wall. The kitchen gleamed with professional-grade stainless steel appliances.

They started their search in the kitchen, moving with practiced efficiency. Rachel began opening cabinets while Novak checked the pantry. The cabinets were well-stocked with high-end cookware, but it was the trash that caught Rachel's attention first – fresh garbage, including an empty pasta box, coffee grounds, and an empty milk carton. The date on the carton was just three days old.

A few dishes sat unwashed in the sink, a film of soap still clinging to their surfaces. Rachel touched one of the plates gently – the soap hadn't fully dried yet. Someone had been here very recently.

The dining room is connected to the kitchen through an open archway. A solid oak table dominated the space, its surface dusty except for a single clear spot where someone had recently eaten.

Moving into the living room, Rachel noted more signs of recent habitation. A single pair of black socks lay discarded by the leather sectional, as if their owner had been sitting there recently, comfortable enough to kick his feet up. An iPad on the coffee table still had 42% battery life. The leather of the couch still held a slight depression from someone sitting in the same spot regularly over a lengthy period of time.

"He's been here as recently as today," Novak said quietly. "Maybe even within the last few hours."

A home office off the living room yielded more clues. The desk chair was slightly askew from a desk that harbored nothing more than a laptop. A coffee mug held the remnants of what was once hot coffee, now room temperature; the creamer had changed into a small, white swirl along the surface. The computer was password protected, but Rachel made a note to have a tech team come back for it if necessary. A stack of mail on the corner of the desk showed regular deliveries to this address. If this had once been a retreat, it now seemed to be Bradley's primary residence.

They moved upstairs, the wooden steps creaking under their feet. The second floor opened onto a wide hallway with hardwood floors partially covered by an expensive-looking Oriental runner. Two bedroom doors and a bathroom branched off from the main hall.

The first bedroom was set up as a home gym, with a treadmill, weights, and a yoga mat. A towel hung over the treadmill's handle.

The master bedroom stopped Rachel in her tracks. Unlike the rest of the house, which showed signs of recent life, this room felt frozen in time. A king-sized bed dominated the space, one side perfectly made, the other rumpled and clearly slept in. On the untouched side, a woman's robe still hung on a hook by the bed. A pair of reading glasses sat on the nightstand, along with a half-finished novel, a bookmark still holding the reader's place.

This was his wife’s side of the bed, Rachel thought. Her side of the bed—of the entire room probably—hadn’t been touched since her death.

The master bathroom was equally preserved. High-end toiletries lined the double vanity, one side clearly feminine – expensive creams and perfumes arranged just so. Rachel's eyes were drawn to the oversized soaking tub, its porcelain surface gleaming in the afternoon light. She couldn't help but picture Kelly Bradley's final moments, the water turning pink, then red...if this was even the same home where she’d committed the act.

A walk-in closet revealed the same story – Christopher Bradley’s clothes showed regular use, while Kelly's remained untouched, like artifacts in a museum dedicated to her memory.

In other words, upstairs revealed nothing of use. They made their way back downstairs and Rachel instantly walked to the hallway, where they’d earlier passed a door that led down to the basement. They went down together, the stairs creaking under their weight. The sound of it was somehow more ominous than the normal settling of an old house. At the bottom, Rachel's hand found the light switch, and fluorescent tubes buzzed to life overhead, revealing a space that had been converted into a makeshift workshop.

The space was immaculate – almost surgically clean – but that only made the purpose of the room more obvious. Blueprints covered one wall, some printed, others drawn by hand with meticulous attention to detail. They showed cross-sections of what were unmistakably suicide pods, with annotations about materials, circuitry, and construction methods. Right down to the contours of the cushioned surfaces inside, Bradley had gone into meticulous detail.

Curved sections of metal were arranged on storage racks like macabre puzzle pieces. A workbench held an array of circuit boards and spools of wire. Tools hung on pegboard in perfect alignment, each one in its designated spot. A separate table held what appeared to be partially assembled control panels, their switches and displays waiting to be connected to their final destination.

The corner of the room housed a small office area with a desk covered in technical manuals and engineering references. A laptop sat closed on the desk, its power light blinking in sleep mode. A corkboard above the desk held various notes and diagrams, all related to the pods' construction.

"He's not just copying them," Rachel said, moving closer to examine the blueprints. "He's improving on the design. Simplifying it in a way. Look at these modifications to the ventilation system, the backup power supply..."

Her voice trailed off as her eyes caught something in the corner of one blueprint – a list of names. No, not names. Just surnames, written in a hurried hand, as if added as afterthoughts:

- Mitchell

- Walsh

- Parker

- Reynolds

- Chen

"Mitchell and Walsh," Rachel breathed. "Sandra Mitchell…Timothy Walsh. In the order they were killed." Her finger traced down to the next name. "Parker is next. Whoever that might be.”

Her brain felt as if it was on fire as she tried to figure out how to pinpoint the name. She was now fairly certain Bradley wasn’t going after EndLight employees specifically, but so far, each victim had at least an overall connection to the company.

“Man,” Rachel said as she dug her phone out. “Diana Tatum is going to start asking for a salary if I keep calling.”

She called Diana Tatum again; the process was much quicker this time because she’d been given her direct extension when she’d called back at the precinct. Diana answered on the second ring, her voice solid and all business.

“Agent Gift?”

“Yeah, it’s me again. Look… I may have a huge lead here, but I need to ask you another question. I'm sorry about all of the disturbances, but I assure you, it's necessary."

“I’m happy to help however I can. What do you need?”

"Do you have anyone on staff with the surname Parker?"

"Parker?" A pause as she thought. "Nothing comes to mind immediately, but let me check with HR. I'll call you right back."

The call ended, and Rachel felt anxiety coil in her stomach like a spring wound too tight. They had their killer. They had proof. They even had his next target's name. But until Diana called back with a full name, all they could do was wait.

She looked around the basement again, seeing it with new eyes. This wasn't just a workshop – it was an execution chamber in progress. It appeared that Christopher Bradley had created his suicide pods in this very room. Her only hope was that seeing as how it was mostly clean at the moment, maybe he was done.

It was flimsy, but it did give her a bit of hope. Then again, if he was done…what were the other names for?

The silence stretched on, broken only by the soft hum of the fluorescent lights and the pounding of Rachel's heart in her ears. She checked her phone again. No missed calls. No texts. The phone remained stubbornly silent.

And when it did finally vibrate in her hand, Rachel nearly dropped it out of anticipation. She answered right away, noting that only three minutes had passed since they’d last hung up.

“Did you get a name?” Rachel asked, skipping formalities.

“I did. The only Parker we have on the payroll is actually a freelancer. Her name is Jennifer Parker, and she’s our social media manager.”

“Freelance…so she probably doesn’t even come into the office?”

“No. She does it remotely. But she does live close by.”

“Do you have contact information?” Rachel asked.

“Phone number and address. I’ll text it all to you right away.”

“Thanks again.”

They ended the call and again, Rachel found herself staring at her phone, waiting. But this time, she and Novak were already heading out of the basement and to the front door. Rachel had no idea where Jennifer Parker’s address would take them, and she honestly didn’t care. They were nearing the end now, and the only thing she was concerned about was stopping Christopher Bradley before he got his hands on Jennifer Parker.