Page 10 of Her Last Escape

“Okay, so where to next?”

“Let’s try the coroner’s office,” she said. “Maybe there’s more to the attacks than we’re seeing. Maybe we can find something that will help us positively ID the exact weapon the killer has used.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Novak said.

As they pulled away from the curb, Rachel glanced in the rearview mirror. The Foxworth house grew smaller behind them, its windows now glowing amber in the dying light. Somewhere inside, a mother was going through her murdered daughter's childhood belongings, trying to hold onto whatever pieces of her she could still touch. Rachel felt the familiar weight of responsibility settle more heavily on her shoulders. They needed to find something soon – before another family was torn apart, before another parent had to clean out another bedroom too soon.

SEVEN

He guided the Mercedes along the curved entrance of Wells Luxury Motors, past the ornate water feature that marked the dealership's main entrance. The fountain's cascading waters caught the midday sun, creating a sophisticated ambiance that perfectly matched Peter Wells' carefully cultivated image. Everything about the place screamed success, from the immaculate landscaping to the strategic placement of their most impressive vehicles. But really, he thought Wells choosing a fountain for the entrance to a car dealership was a little much.

The showroom stretched across the front of the property like a wall of glass, reflecting the afternoon sky. Inside, a Porsche Taycan gleamed under perfectly positioned LED spotlights, its pearlescent white finish making it look almost ethereal even from outside. The price tag adhered to the window would make most people wince, but Wells' clientele didn't blink at seven-figure prices.

He continued his circuit of the lot, noting how Wells had arranged his inventory like art pieces in a gallery. The Tesla Model S Plaid commanded its own special area near the front, flanked by two Mercedes EQS sedans. Behind them, a row of Lucid Airs caught the sunlight, their chrome details winking like jewelry. Traditional luxury hadn't been forgotten – a Bentley Continental GT and an Aston Martin DB11 occupied places of honor near the showroom entrance, a reminder that Wells understood both the future and the pleasures of the past.

The employee parking area lay discreet and hidden behind the service center, a deliberate choice that spoke volumes about Wells' business acumen. Everything about the layout was designed to focus attention on the products, to make customers feel like they were entering a realm of exclusive opportunity rather than just another car lot. It was like the difference between a bouncy house at a country fair and stepping foot in Disney World.

His grip tightened on the steering wheel as he spotted Wells emerging from a side door, engaged in animated conversation with a younger man – likely his sales manager, based on the tailored suit and confident bearing. Wells moved with the easy authority of someone who had built an empire from the ground up. Five other dealerships across Virginia, with the D.C. location being the crown jewel. The man had worked his way up from selling used cars in his twenties to becoming one of the most successful automotive retailers on the East Coast.

All that success. All that careful planning. And yet Wells had no idea that his time was running out.

The thought sent a familiar tremor through his hands. The clock was ticking – not just for Wells, but for him, too. But he could not focus on that. There was work to be done. And if he did his work correctly and in a timely manner, maybe the end may not come for him after all.

He watched Wells and his employee climb into a Range Rover, probably heading to one of the upscale restaurants that lined the commercial district for their lunch break. His finger tapped against the steering wheel, counting out seconds. The urge to follow them was almost overwhelming. It would be so easy to walk into the same restaurant and catch Wells in the restroom…or to simply follow them and shadow Wells back to his office and...

No. He forced the thought away. Patience had gotten him this far. And he felt he’d already used up most of his luck on getting away with Diana Foxworth’s murder. He’d been so close to a public space—so close he could hear the laughter of people exiting the restaurant Diana had come out of. But he'd planned that for weeks, learned her schedule, found the perfect moment. Rushing now would be stupid. Reckless.

Instead, he turned his attention back to studying the dealership's layout. The service entrance at the rear of the building looked promising – less traffic, fewer cameras. Wells often stayed late, especially on inventory days. The cleaning crew left at seven, but Wells would sometimes work until nine or ten, going over the books in his private office.

He made another loop around the property, noting the positions of security cameras, the blind spots created by the rows of luxury vehicles. A Rolls-Royce Spectre caught his eye – Wells' latest addition to his electric lineup. He knew that the price tag dangling in the window read just shy of $500,000. Even though he had no intention of ever buying a vehicle from Wells, he'd done his homework. On Wells. On the dealership and the cars, he pandered.

He felt very strongly that people like Wells – people who measured everything in dollars and cents – they couldn't be trusted with humanity's future. They'd sell spots to anyone who could afford it, diluting the quality of the survivor pool.

He couldn't let that happen. The man sold cars for a living, for God's sake. He hadn't contributed anything meaningful to society, hadn't advanced human knowledge or capability. He'd just moved money around and convinced people to spend more than they should on depreciating assets.

No, Wells had to go. Just like Whitman and Foxworth. Thomas Whitman with his shallow tech innovations, and Foxworth with her manipulation of the legal system. The future needed to be preserved for people who could actually improve it, not just profit from it.

He completed another circuit of the lot, this time paying special attention to the loading dock where they took delivery of new vehicles. The security camera there had a blind spot – he'd noticed it during his third pass. More importantly, it was the kind of place where a strange car wouldn't draw immediate attention. Delivery drivers came and went at all hours, especially for the high-end vehicles that required special handling.

Time was running out, yes, but he couldn't afford mistakes. Not when he was so close. He'd wait, watch Wells' patterns for a few more hours. Maybe days…though he wasn’t sure he had that much time. Wells was a creature of habit – they all were, in their own ways. The perfect opportunity would present itself, just as it had with the others.

He pulled out of the lot, taking one last look at the dealership in his rearview mirror. The fountain sparkled in the sunlight, water flowing endlessly in its circular pattern. Soon enough, Wells' time would run out too. It was just a matter of patience and planning.

As he merged into traffic, his mind drifted to how the city temperatures of January had everything outside looking crisp. It made him feel cold despite the heater keeping him comfortable. He could almost feel the cold seeping into his bones, trying to claim him as its own. He smiled, wondering if he might be able to feel that subtle little chill when the time finally came to take Peter Wells out of the world.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The county coroner's office smelled like industrial cleaner—a smell that Rachel had always thought smelled eerily like the busier hallways of a hospital. Rachel had walked through these doors countless times over her career, but the weight never lifted. Each visit represented a failure—proof that they hadn't been quick enough, smart enough, or lucky enough to prevent another death. Sure, they’d only gotten into Charlottesville after both deaths had already occurred, but it was a difficult feeling to shake.

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as a receptionist buzzed them through at the lobby counter. Rachel's footsteps echoed against the tile floor, mixing with the softer tread of Agent Novak beside her.

The smell hit her harder today than usual—that precise mixture of bleach and formaldehyde that seemed to seep into your clothes, your hair, your skin. Maybe it was because she'd spent so much time in hospitals during her cancer treatment, learning to read the subtle differences between the smell of healing and the smell of death. Or maybe it was because of Scarlett, whose murder still felt like an open wound in Rachel's chest.

It made her wonder if something deep inside of her had more or less flipped a switch after the bombing of the hospice center. Had she been more in tune with death since then and simply not realized it? Did she have a proverbial grey cloud hanging over her head now?

"I hate these visits," Rachel muttered, more to herself than to Novak. "Every time we end up here, it means we've exhausted our other options. Like we're admitting defeat and asking the dead to give us the answers we couldn’t find on our own."

“That seems…grim,” Novak said.

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