Page 23

Rachel gripped the steering wheel tightly as their car wound deeper into the Virginia woods yet again. In the darkness and glare of headlights, the dirt road ahead grew increasingly narrow and treacherous. The GPS signal flickered weakly on the dashboard display, the blue dot of their location jumping erratically before disappearing entirely. Thick stands of oak and hickory pressed in from both sides, their branches forming a natural tunnel that seemed to swallow what remained of the day's light. Dead leaves scattered across the road, kicked up in their wake like whispered warnings.

"We’re two miles from the main road now," Novak said quietly, checking his phone. "No service out here either." He shifted in his seat, peering through the windshield at the deepening shadows. "Seems like the kind of place where you could disappear and no one would know where to look."

Rachel nodded grimly, her eyes fixed ahead as the car jolted over exposed tree roots and worn ruts in the dirt. The forest had grown denser with each passing minute, creating an almost suffocating sense of isolation. As dusk settled in, long shadows stretched across their path like grasping fingers. The trees themselves seemed to lean inward, their bare November branches scratching against the darkening sky. A deer bounded across the road ahead of them, startling them both and causing Rachel to brake sharply.

"Sorry," she muttered, easing back on the gas. "Everything looks like a potential threat out here."

"That's because everything could be," Novak replied. "People choose places like this for a reason. Plus…that deer was gigantic."

The headlights caught something metallic ahead - an old mailbox nearly consumed by rust, listing slightly to one side on its wooden post. The numbers 817 were barely visible, matching the address they had for Thomas Eaves. Patches of original black paint clung stubbornly to the corroded surface, making the mailbox look like it was suffering from some sort of metallic disease. Rachel slowed the car and turned onto an even narrower drive, the underbrush scraping against the vehicle's sides like desperate fingers.

The cabin that emerged from the gathering darkness looked like something from another time entirely. It was a simple but sturdy structure built of rough-hewn logs, with a tin roof that had weathered to a soft pewter shade. A small, covered porch wrapped around two sides, its aged, wooden boards the color of ash. The cabin seemed to have grown organically from the forest floor, perfectly at home among the towering trees that encircled it like silent sentinels. A thin curl of smoke rose from the stone chimney, disappearing into the darkening sky.

A single window glowed warmly, the light spilling out onto a patch of yard that had been carved from the wilderness. The space was neat but minimal - just enough clearing to provide a buffer between the cabin and the encroaching forest. Dead leaves had collected in drifts against the foundation, and a neat stack of split firewood lined one wall. An ancient pickup truck, its blue paint dulled by years of sun and weather, sat in a dusty driveway.

As they stepped out of the car, Rachel noticed that the air was notably cooler here in the depths of the woods, carrying the musty scent of decaying leaves and damp earth. Something shuffled in the underbrush - perhaps a deer or fox - but the sound was quickly swallowed by the unnatural quiet that seemed to blanket the property. Even their footsteps seemed muffled by the thick carpet of pine needles and leaves.

The porch steps creaked ominously under their weight as they approached the front door. A moth-eaten welcome mat lay before the threshold, its design long since faded into obscurity. Novak knocked, the sound sharp and startling in the stillness. Several long moments passed before they heard movement inside - slow, deliberate footsteps approaching the door.

The door opened just enough to reveal a portion of a man's face, weathered and lined like old leather. Deep-set eyes regarded them with equal parts wariness and resignation. The visible slice of his face bore the marks of someone who had spent years in the elements - sun-weathered skin crossed with fine lines, and a scar that ran along his temple, disappearing into graying hair.

"Who are you?" he asked, his voice rough as bark.

Rachel stepped forward slightly, showing her badge and ID. "Mr. Eaves? I'm Special Agent Rachel Gift with the FBI, and this is my partner, Agent Novak. We'd like to speak with you about some recent disappearances in the area."

The man's expression hardened, deepening the creases around his visible eye. "Thomas Eaves, yes. But I don't know anything about any disappearances." He started to close the door, but Rachel was faster, wedging her shoe in the gap.

"Please, Mr. Eaves," she said, keeping her voice gentle but firm. "We know you volunteer at the suicide prevention hotline. We're investigating the disappearances of several women who were struggling with thoughts of suicide. One of them, Carla Rhodes , was found dead this morning." She began listing the names, watching his partial face for any reaction as she slowly revealed them. "The others missing are Monica Turner, Sarah Dupree, and Andrea Haskins."

At Andrea's name, something flickered in the visible portion of his face…a flash of recognition, quickly followed by what looked like genuine pain. The change was subtle but unmistakable, like a shadow passing behind his eyes.

"Andrea," he repeated softly, the name coming out like a sigh. The grumpy stubbornness was gone now. "Yes, I... I spoke with her."

Slowly, the door opened wider, revealing Thomas Eaves in full. He was smaller than Rachel had expected, almost frail-looking in his flannel shirt and worn jeans. But there was a quiet strength in his bearing, despite the obvious weight of whatever memories he was carrying. His shoulders were slightly hunched, as if bearing an invisible burden.

"Come in," he said, stepping back from the doorway. He continued rather quickly as they entered his home. "I spoke with Andrea just a few nights ago at the hotline. She was... she was clearly distressed but there was an edge of humor to her. You know the kind? She…she reminded me so much of Marion." His voice cracked slightly on the name.

"That’s your wife, right?” Rachel asked.

Eaves only nodded.

Inside the house, the temperature difference was immediate. The cabin was warm, almost uncomfortably so, heated by what looked like a wood-burning stove in one corner.

"Marion," Eaves replied, his voice catching slightly. He gestured toward a framed photo on the wall…a smiling woman with kind eyes, probably taken twenty years earlier. The photo was slightly askew, as if it was frequently touched or adjusted. "She struggled with opioids for years. Started with a back injury, then... well, you know how that story usually goes." He cleared his throat, running a finger along the frame's edge. "That's why I volunteer at the hotline. After she passed—after she took that final handful of pills—I promised myself I'd try to help others who were in that dark place. Maybe save someone else's Marion."

The interior of the cabin was surprisingly welcoming, with warm wood walls and a stone fireplace that dominated one wall of the main room. A few embers still glowed there, casting a faint warmth into the space. The open floor plan revealed a simple kitchen with worn but clean counters, and a living area furnished with a well-used leather armchair and small sofa. The leather was cracked and worn in places, particularly on the armchair. Bookshelves lined one wall, packed with paperbacks whose spines were cracked and faded from repeated reading. Rachel noted titles ranging from religious texts to self-help books, many focused on grief and recovery. A small collection of fishing lures sat in a glass bowl on one shelf, their hooks dulled with age.

“Can I be blunt, Mr. Eaves?” Rachel asked.

“Yes.”

“Your record and your…current situation, I suppose…it made us want to speak with you about these disappearances. The man we believe to be responsible seems to be targeting young women with thoughts of suicide. And given that you also work at the hotline…”

“Ah, Jesus,” he said with a sigh. But he shrugged and placed his hands on his hips as he said, “I guess it makes sense. Covering your bases and all that?”

“Exactly,” Novak said.

"Would you mind if we had a look around?" Novak asked, his tone respectful but professional.

Eaves spread his hands in a gesture of acceptance. "Be my guest. Though I should probably mention the rifles in the gun safe. They're not all registered - hunting weapons, mostly. I know that's what got me in trouble before." He settled into his armchair with a slight grimace. "Been meaning to get them properly registered, but, well... time gets away from you out here."

Rachel nodded, appreciating his honesty. They began a methodical search of the cabin, finding exactly what Eaves had described - a space lived in by someone who preferred solitude but wasn't hiding from the world. The two bedrooms were sparsely furnished, one clearly unused. A thin layer of dust covered the dresser in the spare room, undisturbed except for a single set of fingerprints near a framed photo of Marion.

The bathroom was basic but clean, with a medicine cabinet containing nothing more suspicious than over-the-counter pain relievers and basic first aid supplies. A small trapdoor led to a basement that held nothing more suspicious than boxes of old books and hunting magazines, along with some preserved food and emergency supplies. The space smelled of earth and old paper, with a single bare bulb casting harsh shadows among the stacked boxes.

As they completed their search, Rachel returned to the main room where Eaves sat in his leather chair, looking suddenly very tired. The lines in his face seemed deeper in the dim light, etched with years of solitude and grief. But he watched them closely, with great curiosity and interest.

"Tell me about your conversation with Andrea," she said, taking a seat on the sofa. A spring creaked underneath her, and she shifted slightly to find a more comfortable position.

Eaves rubbed his face, his eyes distant. "She called late…most of them do. The ones who seem to be serious about it, anyway. She said she'd been clean for months, but the emptiness was worse than the cravings. Said she felt like she was disappointing everyone by still being broken even after getting clean. She said she was afraid of letting down her boyfriend, who was also a user and struggling to quit." He paused, swallowing hard. "It was like hearing Marion all over again. That same despair, that same conviction that the world would be better off without them."

His hands trembled slightly as he spoke, and he clasped them together to still them. "I tried to tell her what I wish…what I wish I'd known to tell Marion.”

“And what’s that?” Rachel asked.

“That the darkness doesn't last forever, that there are people who can help. But sometimes... sometimes the words just aren't enough, you know?"

"Did she mention any specific plans?" Novak asked, leaning against the doorframe.

Eaves nodded slowly, his expression growing darker. "Patterson Bridge. Said she'd been driving past it every day, thinking about how easy it would be." His voice grew harder. "That damned bridge. It's become something of a terrible landmark around here. At least three people have jumped from it since they closed it to traffic in the seventies. Maybe more that were never found in the creek bed below, for all we know. The locals don't even like to talk about it anymore. I think if the county could afford it, they’d just tear the damned thing down.”

Something in Rachel's mind clicked at his words—a sudden connection that made her pulse quicken. The bridge. A location where desperate people might go in their darkest moments. A well-known, local landmark place where someone could watch, and wait, and...

The pieces started falling into place, creating a picture that made her stomach twist.

"Where exactly is Patterson Bridge?" she asked, trying to keep her voice casual despite the urgency building inside her.

“Literally just along the outskirts of town. Some people will walk to it from time to time, just for a hike or a jog, you know?” He then went to give them detailed directions, his voice taking on a note of concern. Like most directions that involved back roads and dirt roads, they seemed a bit obscure. Rachel also noted how he’d mentioned it was an easy walk for most people in the area. People committing suicide could just walk to it rather than driving and leaving their car stranded on the side of an old, forgotten road.

"You're not thinking of going out there tonight, are you?” Eaves said. “It's dangerous enough in daylight. At night..." He shook his head, genuine worry creasing his brow. "The footing's not good, and there are sections where the railings have completely rusted away. It’s a huge safety hazard."

"We'll be careful," Rachel assured him, already standing. "Thank you for your help, Mr. Eaves."

“Of course. And…good luck.”

He walked them to the door but didn’t say another word. As they walked back to their car, Rachel's mind was racing. The bridge may be much more than a grim landmark; it could be a hunting ground for their killer. And someone who lived nearby would have the perfect vantage point to watch for potential victims.

The forest had grown completely dark now, the trees nothing more than black silhouettes against the dark sky. As they pulled away from Eaves' cabin, Rachel could feel Novak’s eyes on her.

"What are you thinking?" he asked as they navigated back down the narrow drive.

"I'm thinking we need to see that bridge," Rachel replied grimly. "And I'm thinking we might find more than just a local landmark when we get there."