Page 7

Claire Mitchell’s house sat back from the road, a blueprint of middle-class suburbia with its well-maintained flower beds and neatly trimmed hedges. Rachel noted the fresh mulch around the dogwood trees, the recently painted shutters. Someone in this house cared deeply about appearances.

"Nice place," Novak said, killing the engine. He squinted through the windshield at the two-story colonial. "You want to take point on this one?"

Rachel nodded, already opening her door. The afternoon sun beat down on them as they made their way up the curved walkway. Wind chimes tinkled softly from the covered porch, their gentle melody at odds with the gravity of their visit. Before Rachel could ring the bell, movement caught her eye through the frosted glass panel beside the door. A shadow approached, hesitated, then the door creaked open.

Claire Mitchell stood in the doorway, and her height was the first thing Rachel noticed. She was easily six feet tall, with the kind of plain, honest features that probably photographed better than they appeared in person. Her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed, a tissue crumpled in her left hand. She wore a navy cardigan despite the reasonably warm weather, as if seeking comfort in its embrace.

"Ms. Mitchell?" Rachel kept her voice gentle. "I'm Special Agent Rachel Gift, and this is Agent Novak. We're with the FBI. We'd like to ask you a few questions about your sister, Sandra."

Claire's face crumpled slightly at Sandra's name, but she stepped back, gesturing them inside. "Of course. Please, come in."

The entryway opened into a living room that spoke of a life carefully curated. Family photos lined the walls in matching frames – holidays, graduations, moments frozen in time. Rachel's trained eye caught Sandra in several of them, always slightly apart from the group, her smile never quite reaching her eyes. A leather-bound photo album lay open on the coffee table, as if Claire had been revisiting happier times when they arrived.

"We can sit in the kitchen," Claire said, leading them through a dining room where a child's art project dominated the refrigerator door. "It's... it's more comfortable there."

The kitchen was bright and airy, windows overlooking that spacious backyard where a swing set stood sentinel against the tree line. Modern appliances gleamed under recessed lighting, and a row of potted herbs lined the windowsill above the sink. A half-eaten toast sat abandoned on a plate near the coffee maker, testament to a morning appetite lost to grief.

Claire all but collapsed into a chair at the oak table, her hands immediately finding and gripping a half-empty mug of coffee. The table itself bore the marks of family life – slight scratches, water rings partially hidden by placemats, a stack of mail pushed to one corner.

“I saw the drawings on your fridge,” Rachel said. “You have a kid?”

“I do. Mariah. But she’s at a friend’s house. I haven’t told her about her aunt Sandra yet.”

Rachel nodded and looked to Claire’s left hand. No wedding band…which meant she was a single mother.

“At the risk of sounding uncaring, would you mind if we got right to the questions?” she asked. “I’m sure you can understand how odd this case is. The quicker we get answers—”

“Oh, of course. Please…go ahead.”

Rachel sorted her questions out in her head while Novak leaned against the opposite end of the kitchen counter. "When was the last time you spoke with your sister?" Rachel asked.

"Tuesday." Claire's voice cracked. She cleared her throat, tried again. "We had our weekly call. She seemed... normal. Maybe a little distracted, but nothing unusual. We talked about..." She paused, closing her eyes briefly. "We talked about getting together this weekend. Maybe hitting the trails with Mariah.”

“And she seemed fine then?” Novak asked.

“Yes. Same old Sandra.”

"Was she seeing anyone?" Rachel asked. "A boyfriend, perhaps?"

Claire shook her head, her fingers tightening around the mug. "No, not for months. She was focused on work. The accounting firm kept her busy. She said... she said she needed time to focus on herself." A bitter laugh escaped her…a sound that almost turned into a soft cry.

Rachel leaned forward slightly, noting how Claire's gaze kept drifting to a photograph on the refrigerator – Sandra and Claire at what looked like a beach, both squinting toward the camera. "Had anything unusual happened recently? Any changes in her routine, new friends, strange phone calls?"

"No, nothing like that." Claire twisted the tissue in her hands until it began to shred. "She was just Sandra. Reliable. Organized. Always ready to help anyone who needed it. She'd been doing better at work, too. Said she was finally getting recognition for her attention to detail."

The questions continued, each answer adding nothing substantial to their understanding. Through the window, Rachel watched a neighbor walking their dog, the mundane scene a sharp contrast to the heavy atmosphere in the kitchen.

Rachel was about to ask her next question when Claire spoke again, her voice barely above a whisper. "You know... the fact that someone stuffed her into one of those suicide pods... it's sort of eerie." Claire swallowed hard, her throat working. "Sandra... um, she attempted suicide last year."

The air in the kitchen seemed to thicken. Rachel exchanged a quick glance with Novak before asking, "Can you tell us about that?"

Claire's hands trembled as she brought the coffee mug to her lips. A drop spilled onto her cardigan, but she didn't seem to notice. "It was in our family's old barn. She... she tried to hang herself. But the rope was old, thank God. It broke." She set the mug down with a sharp click. "I found her there, just sitting on the floor, crying. We got her help after that. She was doing better. She was doing better ."

“Do you know she would have wanted to attempt suicide?” Novak asked.

Claire only shrugged. “She’s always been sort of a gloomy person, you know? Intense mod shifts, that sort of thing. And it got so much worse two years ago when our dad passed away unexpectedly.”

Rachel committed all of this to memory, her mind already cataloging the possible connections. A failed suicide attempt followed by murder in a suicide pod two years later – it felt meaningful, but she couldn't yet say how.

"Was Sandra seeing a therapist?" Rachel asked gently.

Claire nodded, wiping fresh tears with what remained of her tissue. "Dr. Harriet Chen. Twice a month. She really liked her. Said she was finally starting to understand herself better." She stood suddenly, moving to a drawer near the sink. "I have her card somewhere. Sandra gave it to me in case... in case I ever needed someone to talk to, too."

“We can get the number if we need it,” Rachel said. “In the meantime, would it be okay if we contacted you should we need any more information?”

“Yes, please do. I want…Christ, I want answers. I want to know who did this.” She bit at her bottom lip to stop a flow of tears…perhaps an intense bout of wailing, judging from the way her cheeks had gone tight.

Claire Mitchell grabbed a fresh tissue as she escorted them back to her front door. She gave them a small, defeated wave as the agents made their way back to their vehicle. As they walked back to their car, Rachel pulled out her phone. She took note of a neighbor across the street, watching them with undisguised curiosity.

“Who you calling?” Novak asked as he opened the driver’s side door.

"Going to give Detective Wheeler a call," she said, fishing for the business card Officer Williamson had given them out at the site of the pod. “I wonder if he could maybe fill in some blanks about Sandra's suicide attempt."

She got into the car and dialed the number as Novak started the engine. The line was answered after two rings. “This is Wheeler.” His voice was gruff, distracted.

"Detective, this is Special Agent Rachel Gift with the FBI. I'm calling about Sandra Mitchell's case. We got your contact info from an Officer Williamson."

"Gift? Yeah, Williamson mentioned you might be reaching out." There was the sound of papers shuffling. "Actually, your timing is perfect. We just managed to unlock Sandra's phone."

Rachel's pulse quickened. "And?"

"We found a text message. Someone asked her to meet near where we found the pod. Message came from a contact listed as Alana Townsend – coworker at the accounting firm. And it looks like she’s the one who sent her out there."

“When did the message come through?”

"Just shy of nine o'clock last night."

“And this was a friend?”

“Seems that way,” Wheeler said. “You want me to send you the transcript?”

“That would be amazing. You can text it to this number. Can you also send me contact information for this friend?”

“Sure thing. But I can tell you right now that we’ve already tried calling, and there’s no answer. You need an assist?”

“No, not just yet,” Rachel said. “My partner is here with me, too. But we’ll certainly call if we need help. Thank you.” Rachel ended the call and looked at Novak. "Feel like making another house call?"

"Lead the way."

As if in the form of a response, Rachel’s phone buzzed as Wheeler sent over the information. She looked to the screen and went directly to the text message. It was simple and direct. It literally read: Need to see you tonight. Important. Follow these coordinates. And then there were set of GPS coordinates.

A failed suicide attempt, a mysterious text message, and now an unreachable coworker. The pieces were there, but the picture they formed was still frustratingly unclear.

She then copied and pasted the address into her GPS software before inputting Alana Townsend's phone number. It rang six times before going to voicemail. She ended the call without leaving a message, a familiar tension building at the base of her skull. In her experience, people who couldn't be reached often had something to hide.

Or worse – they had something to run from.

"Head east," she told Novak, looking to the address.

Novak pulled out onto the street and did just that.

The sun climbed higher in the sky as they drove, casting sharp shadows across the dashboard. Rachel watched the suburban landscapes blur past her window, her mind circling back to an image of a broken rope in an old barn, wondering what connections she was missing, what deadly pattern might be forming just beyond her grasp.