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She slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb the perfectly made other side – a habit from sharing a bed with Jack that persisted even when she traveled alone.

The carpet felt rough beneath her feet as she padded to the bathroom, going through her morning routine with mechanical efficiency: brushing her teeth, combing her hair, getting dressed with a speed she’d long ago gotten down to a science.

Dressed in a charcoal pantsuit that had spent the night hanging in the bathroom to release its wrinkles, Rachel approached the room's diminutive coffee maker.

The thing looked like it had been designed for a dollhouse, but it would have to do.

She loaded the provided packet of house blend, wincing at the artificial hazelnut smell that wafted up as hot water began trickling through.

While the coffee maker wheezed and sputtered, she spread the case files across the room's small desk.

The autopsy reports for their three victims stared back at her, full of clinical details that failed to paint the bigger picture she was searching for.

The coffee finished brewing, and she took a sip of the weak result, grimacing.

No hidden clues emerged from the files, just the same frustrating dead ends they'd been chasing.

Rachel walked over to the meager variety of selections and picked out a slightly stale blueberry bagel, an orange that was about two days away from being over-ripe, and a yogurt cup from the breakfast spread.

She chose a seat in the far corner, positioning herself to keep both exits in view – another habit she couldn't shake.

The businessman didn't look up as she passed.

She sat down and spread cream cheese on the bagel and was pleased to find that it wasn’t as stale as she’d thought.

She had taken three bites of it and had peeled the lid off of her yogurt when her phone's vibration startled her.

Jack's name on the screen brought an involuntary smile to her face. She accepted the FaceTime call, his familiar features filling her screen. She saw that he hadn’t shaved last night, giving him that five o'clock shadow she found so sexy—which was a shame because it was far too prickly whenever he kissed her.

"Hey, stranger," he said, his voice warm even through the tinny phone speaker. The soft light in their kitchen at home illuminated him from behind, and she could see their coffee maker in the background – the good one, that actually produced something worth drinking.

“Hey yourself. Good morning.”

"Sorry I missed your call last night," he continued. "That damn Boston meeting ran late."

"Don't worry about it," Rachel said, meaning it. "How are things at home?"

"Good. Talked to Paige for a while before she went to bed last night." He paused, and Rachel recognized his expression – the one he wore when choosing his words carefully. "She's worried about you. Says you're starting to sound guilty again when you call."

Rachel sighed, picking at her bagel. "I know better than to feel that way, but..."

"But you do anyway," Jack finished. "I know. But there's no need, Rachel. You know that."

"I do. It's just..." She struggled to put the feeling into words. "I can remember the way she used to look at me when she was little…how she used to look at me like I could do anything. Fix anything."

Jack's expression softened. "She still does, you know. These days, she just has trouble finding joy or awe in much of anything. Typical teenage stuff, maybe." He groaned a bit and added: “Sorry. Not trying to talk smack about your child. She’s wonderful. You know that.”

Rachel chuckled. “If that’s what you consider ‘smack talk,’ you’re perfectly fine. "But I think it’s maybe just everything she's been through. Everything I put her through."

"Rachel..." Jack leaned closer to the camera, his face filling more of the screen. "You didn't put her through anything. The cancer, Alex Lynch, Alice – none of that was your fault. You fought through all of it, showed her what real strength looks like."

"I just miss her smile," Rachel said quietly. "The real one, not the one she puts on to make us feel better."

"She smiled yesterday," Jack offered. "Actually laughed. We were watching Brooklyn 99 , and she let out a big ol' belly laugh."

Rachel felt a genuine smile tugging at her lips. "I still think she’s too young for that show.”

"Oh, me, too. But she said you’d okayed it.”

“Well, mister…you’ve been played.”

They shared a laugh together, but movement caught her eye. Novak had entered the breakfast area, already dressed in a crisp navy suit.

"I should go," she said. "Novak’s here….and we’re starting early today."

"Be safe," Jack said, their usual goodbye. "Love you."

"Love you too."

She ended the call just as Novak reached her table, a plate loaded with scrambled eggs and toast in his hand. He sat down across from her, checking his watch.

"Another hour and fifteen before New Horizons opens for the day," he said, reaching for the salt. "Do you think Margaret Fenway will be happy to see us?"

Rachel thought of their three victims – Thomas Whitman, Diana Foxworth, and Peter Wells. All connected to New Horizons, all dead. All brutalized.

Popping another piece of bagel into her mouth, Rachel said: "I honestly don't care if she is or not."

***

The morning sun cast long shadows across the New Horizons parking lot as Rachel and Novak approached the building.

As they came to the guard shack, Rachel saw evidence of yesterday's protest lingering in the form of discarded signs and pamphlets that the morning wind scattered across the asphalt. For a group of so-called Christians, they apparently didn’t give much of a crap about other people’s property.

After parking, they headed inside and Rachel did her best to remain in control, keeping her pace to a steady walk rather than a march.

The lobby's automatic doors whispered open, releasing a burst of climate-controlled air that carried the faint antiseptic smell Rachel had noticed yesterday.

The same receptionist from their previous visit sat behind the curved desk, her professional smile faltering slightly when she recognized them.

Rachel noticed her hands still on the keyboard mid-type, like a pianist caught between notes.

"We need to speak with Ms. Fenway," Rachel said, her tone leaving no room for deflection.

She watched the receptionist's throat work as she swallowed and wondered if her mounting frustration was visible on her face, like storm clouds gathering before lightning strikes. She kept her voice as professional as possible, but with a tone that indicated she really didn’t have the patience for an argument.

The receptionist's fingers trembled slightly as she reached for her phone and punched in the numbers for an extension within the building.

Rachel listened to the one-sided conversation, reading volumes into each "yes" and "of course.

" When the girl hung up, she seemed almost relieved to deliver good news.

"Ms. Fenway will see you in her office," she said, smoothing her skirt as she stood to guide them. "Second floor, end of the hall."

They found the elevators at the end of a wide, short hallway. The entire back wall was made of reinforced glass that looked out onto a patio that was covered in a variety of plants—most of which looked rather dead and sad, given the recent cold weather.

The elevator ride was silent except for the soft hum of machinery and the faint click of floor numbers changing.

Rachel used the time to study their reflection in the polished steel doors – herself, tension visible in the set of her shoulders, and Novak, maintaining his usual calm demeanor but with a glint in his eye that made it look like he was always ready for the unexpected.

The doors opened onto a floor that struck a careful balance between professional and futuristic.

The sci-fi elements of the lobby were muted here, replaced by tasteful abstract art and warm wood accents, but hints of the building's purpose remained in the sleek chrome fixtures and glowing LED strips that lined the hallway.

Their footsteps were muffled by thick carpeting as they made their way to Fenway's office.

The CEO's corner office commanded impressive views through floor-to-ceiling windows that wrapped around two walls.

The open expanse of the land around the building spread out below, the morning sun beginning to paint the grass in a golden light.

Fenway stood as they entered, her trepidation evident in her stiff posture as she gestured for them to sit in the leather chairs facing her desk.

"Something else I can do for you?" she asked, her carefully maintained smile not reaching her eyes.

There was a tone hidden in her voice, barely there but there all the same, that indicated she was not at all happy to see them again.

A half-empty cup of coffee sat cooling on her desk, the surface marked with countless rings from previous cups – small imperfections in her otherwise perfect workspace.

Rachel leaned forward, abandoning any pretense of social niceties.

"There's been a third murder, Ms. Fenway.

Peter Wells, a man that has visited this facility and spoken to either you or someone else about cryopreservation.

That makes three victims, Ms. Fenway, all connected to New Horizons.

Given this obvious link…well, I'm beyond trying to be nice or by-the-book. We need information."

Fenway's perfect posture faltered slightly as she sank back into her chair. "Agent Gift, I understand your position, but I can't simply—"

"Can't give out client information?" Rachel finished. "Fine. Let's talk about prospective clients instead. People who couldn't afford your services and maybe got angry when they were rejected. People with a reason to lash out."

"That's not how we operate," Fenway said, her own frustration beginning to show as she shifted files on her desk, straightening already straight edges.

"We're very upfront about the costs involved.

It's often the first thing discussed before anyone even tours the facility. We don't waste anyone's time."

Novak cleared his throat. "Even if that were the motive, eliminating current clients wouldn't guarantee entry for someone who couldn't afford it."

"I'm sorry, agents." Fenway spread her hands in a gesture of helplessness that Rachel didn't buy for a second. "I can't just hand over that sort of information...even for potential clients. Surely you understand the confidences I'd be breaking."

Rachel felt her jaw tighten, but before she could respond, Fenway continued.

"It's not just me and New Horizons," she said, gesturing toward her window.

Her voice was softer now, almost sad. "You saw the protest yesterday, right?

If I give out names and information and it gets to people like those religious zealots.

.." She shook her head, causing a strand of perfectly styled hair to fall out of place.

She tucked it back with practiced precision.

"Tormenting us and protesting outside the building is one thing, but I fear people like that would start going to these people's homes.

Anyone interested in cryopreservation could become a target. "

Rachel almost dismissed the comment outright – it felt like a convenient excuse to stonewall them.

But something about it nagged at her, like a loose thread that could unravel the whole case if pulled properly.

The religious zealots…targeting. It flipped a switch in her mind as she sat in Fenway’s office.

Maybe they were looking in the wrong direction. Maybe this wasn't about money at all, but something less tangible. Something darker.

"These protests," Rachel said slowly, studying Fenway's reaction. "How long have they been going on?"

"On and off since we opened," Fenway replied, seeming relieved at the change in topic. "But they've gotten more aggressive lately. More organized. The leader – David Thorne – he's become more... zealous in his messaging."

“Aggressive? Have they tried getting into the building?”

“Oh, no. If I’m being honest, they are always quite civil. But they’re growing in size. It used to be just five or six people. But three weeks ago, right after Christmas, there was a protest out there that was about fifty people. It was on the news.”

Rachel felt that new idea tugging at her, demanding her attention.

She leaned forward a bit and said, “I’m going to be honest with you, Ms. Fenway.

If it becomes clear that we have to have information from you, we can make requests to bodies above the FBI to obtain it.

I don’t want to do that because it’s a bureaucratic nightmare.

And it would slow our case significantly.

In the meantime, there are other avenues we are going to pursue.

But if they lead back here, to you and New Horizons, things could get ugly.

I don’t tell you this to scare you or intimidate you.

Just to forewarn you so you can prepare. ”

Fenway considered this and nodded, her expression slack now. For a moment, Rachel thought she was going to cave, but she remained resolute.

As they left Fenway's office, Rachel's mind was already racing ahead.

Money might motivate plenty of killers, but faith?

Faith could drive people to extremes that defied logic.

And someone who viewed cryonics as an abomination against nature or God's will?

They might see themselves as righteous while targeting New Horizons' clients.

“You’re got another idea cooking, don’t you?” Novak asked as they stepped back outside.

“I do. I think there’s a chance this might not be about money—or the lack of it—at all. I think that even though David Thorne, the pastor from yesterday’s protest, seemed harmless, I do think his field of expertise might be just as likely to go after people like our three victims.”

“You’re thinking it’s religiously motivated?”

“I think it could be. I think we should at least explore the idea, given that we know there have been protests on this property.”

"Do you remember which church he said he works out of?” Novak asked.

She pulled it out of her memory instantly. “Christ's Hope Church.”

“Well, let’s go say good morning to Pastor Thorne.”

They got into the car and started back out toward the security gate.

Rachel looked back via the rearview, watching the shape of the New Horizons building shrink smaller and smaller.

She wasn't sure if they'd end up back here with an official order for Fenway or not, but she felt a small twinge in her gut when she realized that there was a very good chance their killer was just as familiar with the building as she and Novak were slowly becoming.