Page 25

The glass doors of New Horizons slid open with a soft hiss, releasing a burst of climate-controlled warm air into Rachel's face.

The lobby's clinical brightness hadn't changed since their last visit, but something felt different today.

Maybe it was the way her pulse quickened as she crossed the threshold, or how her fingers kept brushing against her holster.

After three visits in two days, the angular modernist furniture and brushed steel accents were becoming uncomfortably familiar – like a second office she never wanted.

"This place is really starting to feel like home," Novak said, voicing her thoughts.

He pulled out his phone, scanning a text.

"And Jason Dewalt's alibi just got confirmed by our friend Deputy Dunphy.

Security footage shows him at work until eight last night, plus at least ten witnesses can verify it. He's definitely not our killer."

Rachel nodded, watching the play of afternoon light across the polished floor.

That meant that this new path they were exploring could very well be more important than it had seemed just two minutes ago.

The list was getting shorter, and with each eliminated suspect, they were closer to the truth.

Her attention shifted to Margaret Fenway, who was already striding toward them from the elevator bank, her fitted charcoal suit a stark contrast against the white walls.

The fact that she had come down to meet them rather than having them come to her only added to the urgent undertone of the moment.

Fenway carried a slim computer bag over her shoulder and a steel coffee cup in her hand.

The ready cooperation was surprising – either Rachel's earlier threat about increased federal presence had hit home, or something else had changed.

Rachel studied Fenway's face as she approached, looking for any sign of what had prompted this reversal.

Fenway intercepted them before they reached reception, her perfectly manicured hand gesturing toward a side hallway.

"Agents, welcome back,” she said. “Follow me.

" She led down the primary hallway and into a conference room just off the lobby – all clean lines and metallic surfaces, with a wall comprised of a sleek dry-erase surface.

The aesthetic screamed cutting-edge tech startup meets medical facility, with just enough clinical sterility to remind visitors that this was, ultimately, a place of science rather than science fiction.

The conference table was a single piece of black glass, so polished Rachel could see their reflections in its surface. Fenway retrieved a laptop and smart pad from her bag, her movements precise and efficient. The tablet made a soft click as she set it on the table's surface.

She slid the laptop to Rachel. "It's already logged into the system." A pause, then, almost apologetically, "And it’s already opened up to the system you need."

"The sign-in records?" Rachel asked.

"Everything's digitized now." Fenway pulled up her own screen. "We still maintain the physical sign-in for legal purposes and ease of access, but it's all transferred to our secure servers weekly. What exactly are you looking for?"

"Days when all three victims were here simultaneously." Rachel's fingers moved across the keyboard as Novak leaned in beside her, close enough that she could smell his aftershave. Fenway had her own fingers poised over the smart pad in front of her. "Thomas Whitman, Diana Foxworth, Peter Wells."

The screens cast a pale blue glow across their faces as they worked. Rachel could hear the soft whir of the building's advanced climate control system, maintaining the perfect temperature for both the living and those in suspended animation below.

"What changed, Ms. Fenway?" Rachel asked as they began searching, her eyes never leaving the screen.

“What do you mean?” she asked, her eyes never leaving her pad as she searched for the names.

"You weren't exactly forthcoming before." The words came out sharper than intended, but she didn't soften them.

Fenway's normally composed features showed a flicker of discomfort.

She smoothed an invisible wrinkle from her blazer sleeve before responding.

"I saw the news about Peter Wells after you left.

The articles, the news coverage..." She paused, matching Rachel's direct gaze.

"I've spent fifteen years building this facility, this technology.

Call it self-interest if you want, but if these deaths are indeed connected to New Horizons, everything we've built could collapse. If I can help prevent that..."

Rachel kept her opinion about the selfish motivation to herself, focusing instead on the screen—mainly because she did see it as selfish self-interest. They worked methodically through the records, Rachel and Novak scanning the laptop while Fenway searched her tablet.

The work was tedious – cross-referencing times, dates, names.

October's records yielded nothing but routine visits and maintenance checks.

September was equally empty, filled with mundane appointments and regular client updates.

Rachel started to worry that they may have to go back even farther.

And if that was the case, there was no telling how long this would take.

The silence was broken only by the soft tapping of keys and the occasional murmur as they compared notes. Rachel felt the weight of time pressing against them, knowing that somewhere in these records was the connection they needed.

"Got something," Novak said suddenly, his voice cutting through Fenway's technical explanation. "November second. All three victims…. all checked in within about an hour and fifteen minutes of one another."

Rachel leaned closer to the screen, the blue light highlighting the tension in her face. "Diana Foxworth, 10:15 AM. Peter Wells, 11:00. Thomas Whitman, 11:05." She turned to Fenway, who was already inputting the information into her tablet. "Who else was here that day…?" she murmured.

Fenway's fingers moved across the screen, her expression growing troubled as she read.

"Five others. An IT specialist for server maintenance, two delivery personnel, a board member from New York, and.

.." She paused, the tablet lowering slightly.

"One client. Richard Aldridge. He checked in at 11:20. "

"Tell me about Aldridge," Rachel said, her instincts humming. The timing was too perfect to be coincidence. She could feel Novak tensing beside her, sensing the same thing.

"Terminal diagnosis. Aggressive form of pancreatic cancer.

" Fenway set down her tablet, her professional demeanor cracking slightly.

Rachel could see the reality of the situation settling into her eyes like storm clouds.

"He'd been interested in cryopreservation for years—before the cancer came around.

But when he got the diagnosis... he wanted everything fast-tracked.

But six months wasn't enough time for our standard protocols. "

"How did he take that news?"

"Badly." Fenway's gaze dropped to her hands, manicured nails pressing into her palms. "He'd already paid the initial deposit fee – a substantial amount.

When I explained the timeline issues, he broke down.

Started talking about how he'd earned his place, how he deserved it more than.

.." She trailed off, looking uncomfortable.

"More than who?" Rachel pressed, leaning forward.

"More than 'trust fund kids who'd never worked a day in their lives.' His words, not mine.”

"Successful people," Novak noted, his pen scratching against his notepad. "Wealthy."

“So, what about the process made it too hard to expedite Aldridge’s need?” Rachel asked.

"The medical screening process alone takes three months minimum," Fenway explained.

Her voice took on a professorial tone, as if she'd given this explanation many times before.

"Then there's the psychological evaluation – multiple sessions with different specialists.

Financial verification isn't just about having the money; it's about ensuring the long-term stability of the investment.

Legal documentation has to be absolutely pristine.

And that's before we even begin the medical preparation protocols.

" She looked to both of them, as if the make sure she wasn’t speaking too much, but carried on when she saw that she had their rapt attention.

"When a client requests expedited preservation, especially on a six-month timeline like his.

.. it's problematic. The preservation process requires precise timing.

We need to begin the cooling process immediately after clinical death, but we also need to have administered specific medications beforehand.

Some treatments start weeks in advance."

She stood, pacing as she continued. "The legal framework has to be airtight.

Insurance, next of kin agreements, advanced directives – rushing all of that and getting sloppy in those areas can get very risky.

It practically invites lawsuits. And that's assuming we even have a chamber ready.

Each unit has to be prepared specifically for the client, calibrated to their body mass, medical history, cellular stability factors. .."

Rachel noted how Fenway's clinical terminology couldn't quite mask the underlying enthusiasm when she spoke about the process. This wasn't just a business for her – it was a calling, a mission she truly believed in.

“But he didn’t want to hear that?” Novak asked.

"Well, from what I recall, he's a very smart man. Went to Yale, I believe. In and out of a few investment firms, I think. He understood it all, and I think that’s why he got so mad. It wasn’t something he could argue about or convince others to change.”

“But I think it’s safe to assume that anyone who could just slap a deposit down on something like cryopreservation must be wealthy,” Rachel said. “It’s one of the reasons Alexander Manning had his issues, right?”

“That’s correct.”

“Would you consider Richard Aldridge wealthy?” Novak asked.

“Most would, yes. Maybe not as wealthy as some of our other clients, though.”

“So this isn’t about wealth at all,” Rachel said, essentially thinking out loud to herself. “This is about jealousy. This is about other being able to have a spot while Aldridge couldn’t.”

"All of the victims…” Fenway said. “They’d already put down deposits.

Hell, Diana Foxworth was almost paid in full.

So maybe that is what he’s going after. But I don’t…

I don’t know that Aldridge, based on what I know of him, would be capable of murder.

” He was weeping when he left that day and told me to forget the whole thing.

But the way he looked at me..." She shuddered slightly. "I should have reported it."

Rachel felt the pieces clicking into place, the pattern emerging with horrible clarity. "The board member from New York – which name is he on the sign-in sheet?”

“Jonathan Maxwell.”

“Is he a client too?"

Fenway's face paled, the blue screen light making her look almost ghostly. "Yes. He helped fund our initial research. He's in town now, actually. For a conference."

"Where?"

"I'm not certain of his hotel, but the conference is at the Metropolitan Convention Center. Most attendees stay at the Radisson nearby." Fenway was already reaching for her phone. "I can call him..."

Rachel was on her feet, adrenaline surging through her veins.

This wasn't just a theory anymore – it was their best lead yet.

Three victims who'd been in the building with Aldridge, all clients who'd secured their spots years ago.

And now Maxwell, another early client, is back in town and potentially exposed.

And on the same list, having checked into the building in that same window of time.

"Get us everything you have on Aldridge," she told Fenway, her voice tight with urgency. "Address, photo, medical records – all of it. And call Maxwell. Tell him not to let anyone into his room, no matter who they claim to be."

“Of course,” Fenway said. Her hands were trembling a bit but Rachel was impressed with how well she was handling the very odd turn of events.

Rachel felt the familiar surge of adrenaline, the clarity that came with finally seeing the pattern.

Aldridge wasn't just killing random clients.

He was eliminating the competition, one by one, making room for himself in the frozen future he believed he deserved.

She knew there was a chance she could be wrong on all of this—that everything lining up on that sign-in sheet could just be coincidence.

But her gut told her the exact opposite.

They had to reach Maxwell before Aldridge did.

"Send everything to this number," Rachel said, handing Fenway her card. "And Margaret? If Aldridge contacts you, if he tries to access the facility again for any reason – call us immediately."

Fenway nodded, already typing on her tablet, her fingers flying across the screen.

As Rachel and Novak hurried toward the exit, she couldn't help but notice how the sleek, futuristic lobby felt different now.

Less like a place of scientific progress and more like a marketplace where the wealthy traded in the currency of extended life.

A place where desperation could drive a man to kill for the mere promise of a future.

The glass doors hissed shut behind them as they stepped into the afternoon sun.

Rachel checked her weapon out of habit as they approached their vehicle, the metal inviting under her fingers.

Somewhere in this city, Richard Aldridge was planning his next move.

And Jonathan Maxwell's time was running out.