The tree-lined streets of Charlottesville's University district were winter-stripped and looked almost like natural gates.

Rachel watched them pass by in rows as Novak guided the car past weathered brick buildings where generations of students had pursued their dreams, their windows reflecting the shockingly bright light of the late morning sunshine.

The neighborhood was a stark contrast to the manicured subdivisions they'd visited earlier – here, massive oaks and maples formed natural archways over the street like gnarled arms.

Students wandered the sidewalks in small groups, their backpacks laden with laptops and textbooks, their conversations creating a distant murmur that seemed to belong to another world entirely.

A world where death was still an abstract concept, something to be discussed in philosophy classes rather than investigated in real time.

The police files indicated that Diana Foxworth had not been married and had listed her parents as the next of kin.

Her father, Steven Foxworth, was a professor at the university, specializing in British Literature.

He apparently lived quite close to the campus, which was why they were currently navigating around it.

"Different world over here," Novak said, glancing at a group of students crossing the street with backpacks and coffee cups. He'd been quiet for most of the drive, focused on getting through the city.

Rachel checked the GPS as Novak navigated the car around a delivery truck double-parked outside a small bookstore.

"Should be the next left." Her mind drifted briefly to her own college days, before the FBI, before the cancer, before everything changed.

The memory felt like it belonged to someone else now.

She could remember all three of her different roommates and how none of them had ever really clicked.

She remembered the parties and the late-night study sessions, her discovery of different kinds of music and enjoying a live show whenever she got the chance. God, had it really been that long ago?

The street they turned onto was quieter, lined with faculty housing that had watched the university grow around it over decades.

These weren't the ostentatious homes of newly minted tech millionaires or corporate executives.

These were the residences of scholars and researchers, people who measured wealth in knowledge as much as dollars.

The Foxworth residence sat back from the street, a two-story colonial with black shutters and a small but meticulously maintained garden to the side. While not as imposing as the Whitman estate, it carried the quiet dignity of old money – the kind that valued education over ostentation.

They made their way up the brick walkway, past flowerbeds that were just as stark and as cold as everything else. They briefly made her think of Scarlett—of the flowers she'd planted in her backyard and would now never see bloom.

On the porch, Novak’s knock echoed against the solid wood door. After a few moments, it opened to reveal a man Rachel assumed to be Steven Foxworth. Rachel felt Novak tense slightly beside her – they'd both seen this kind of grief before, but it never got easier to witness.

The man before them bore the unmistakable weight of loss.

His white beard was neatly trimmed, but dark circles haunted his eyes, which were bloodshot from what Rachel suspected were countless sleepless hours.

He wore a brown cardigan that hung loose on his frame, as if he'd lost weight recently.

His shoulders slumped forward slightly, like his body was ready to welcome sleep whenever he decided it was finally time.

A coffee stain marked the sleeve of his cardigan, the kind of detail that suggested someone who had stopped noticing such things.

"Professor Foxworth?" Rachel asked, though she already knew. "I'm Special Agent Rachel Gift, and this is Special Agent Novak. We're with the FBI, investigating your daughter's death."

Something flickered across his face – pain, resignation, or perhaps both. His hand tightened on the doorframe for a moment, as if seeking support. "Yes, of course. Please, come in." His British accent was subtle, worn smooth by decades in Virginia, but still detectable in certain words.

He led them through a foyer decorated with framed photographs – Diana's graduation, family vacations, random scenic shots – into a den that managed to be both scholarly and welcoming.

A flat-screen TV hung above a brick fireplace, but it was the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf along the back wall that dominated the room.

Leather-bound classics shared space with well-worn paperbacks, their spines forming a literary tapestry.

Rachel noticed several volumes of Shakespeare prominently displayed, their bindings well-worn from years of use.

The room smelled of old books and coffee, with an underlying hint of something else – the staleness that comes when grief disrupts normal routines when windows stay closed too long, and daily habits fall away. A half-empty cup of coffee sat on the side table, the liquid long since gone cold.

Rachel and Novak settled into a pair of worn leather armchairs while Steven lowered himself onto the matching sofa.

His movements were careful and deliberate, as if he was operating on autopilot.

Above them, footsteps creaked across the ceiling, followed by the sound of drawers opening and closing.

Each sound seemed to hit Steven like a physical blow.

Steven glanced upward, his expression tightening.

"My wife, Becka. She's been..." He paused, swallowing hard.

His hands fidgeted with the edge of his cardigan, a professor's hands more used to holding books than bearing this kind of burden.

"She's been cleaning Diana's old room. Has been for the past day or so.

I don't think she's... I don't think she's accepted it yet.

But when she does..." His voice cracked slightly. "God, it's going to level her."

Rachel leaned forward slightly, choosing her words carefully. "We understand this is difficult, Mr. Foxworth. We'll try to keep this brief." She'd conducted countless interviews like this over the years, but each one required its own approach, its own careful navigation of raw grief.

Novak leaned forward, with his phone in his hand; Rachel saw that he had the initial police reports pulled up. "Sir,” Novak said, “the police report indicates that Diana was attacked after leaving dinner at a downtown restaurant. Do you know who she was meeting by any chance?"

Steven shook his head, running a hand through his beard.

The gesture seemed automatic, a scholar's habit of contemplation transformed into a mourner's nervous tic.

"A business dinner, that's all I know. We spoke to her four days ago.

.." His eyes grew distant, no doubt replaying that last conversation.

"Rebecca – Becka – she was teasing her about being single, hoping maybe it was a date.

They always bickered about how Diana always preferred to remain single.

" A ghost of a smile touched his lips before fading, like sun breaking briefly through storm clouds. "But Diana said no, just business."

"Can you tell us about her work?" Rachel asked, watching his face carefully for any hint of something held back, something unspoken.

"She was an attorney. A good one. Knew what she wanted since she was fifteen – used to argue circles around me even then.

" Pride mingled with pain in his voice. "But the details of her practice?

No, I'm afraid not. She loved it, though.

That much I know." His fingers drummed absently on the armrest, a nervous energy that seemed to build with each passing moment.

A muffled sob drifted down from upstairs, followed by more shuffling.

Steven's face crumpled slightly as he looked toward the ceiling.

The shadows under his eyes seemed to deepen, the grief etching new lines around his mouth.

In that moment, he looked older than his years, as if Diana's death had aged him a decade in days.

"Excuse me," he said, pushing himself up from the sofa with visible effort. "I should check on her." There was something deeply painful in watching this clearly educated, articulate man reduced to such simple, inadequate phrases.

Rachel stood quickly. "Of course. We'll see ourselves out. Thank you for your time." She gestured to Novak, who pocketed his phone and got to his feet.

They made their way back through the foyer as Steven's footsteps climbed the stairs behind them.

Rachel caught one last glimpse of a family photo – Diana in her law school graduation robes, beaming between her proud parents – before closing the door behind them.

The contrast between that moment of triumph and the current reality felt like a physical ache.

The walk back to the car felt longer than it had to come in. An icy breeze stirred the leaves, carrying with it the distant sounds of campus life not too far away – a world that continued turning while inside that house, time stood still.

Neither agent spoke until they were back in the vehicle. Rachel could feel the frustration rolling off Novak in waves, matching her own growing sense of unease about the case. The heater blasted out warmth, but Rachel still felt a chill.

"Well, we didn’t really get much of that, did we?" Novak said finally, frustration evident in his voice.

"No, we didn’t."

“You think it’s time to speak with Jill Satterfield?”

Rachel thought it was a good idea. Not only had she found Thomas’s body, but he had been killed at her house.

Besides…maybe she had a husband or boyfriend that had known about the affair and had gotten jealous.

She had no idea how Diana Foxworth played into any of it, but it might at least be somewhere to start.