Page 18 of Her Last Escape

"Thank you for your time, Pastor Thorne," Rachel said, watching as another car approached and parked behind the others—another protestor, eager to get started. "We appreciate your cooperation. Please ensure the protest remains peaceful."

"Of course, Agent Gift." Thorne's smile never wavered. "We're soldiers in a spiritual war, not a physical one. Violence would only serve the enemy." The words were perfect, rehearsed, ready for the evening news.

Back in the car, Rachel watched through the window as Thorne positioned himself for the news cameras yet to come, his Bible held high. The elderly woman with the silver bun dabbed at tears while she carried her sign in her trembling hand. The teenage girl had finally put away her phone, standing dutifully beside her mother and watching the FBI agents walk away.

"What do you think?" Novak asked as they got back into their car and pulled away, the engine's hum replacing the sound of religious chants.

Rachel shook her head, watching the scene shrink in her side mirror. "I think we need to focus on people with inside access to client information. Someone who knows enough about the victims to target them specifically." She paused, considering her words carefully. "Thorne wants to save souls, not take them. Our killer wants to end lives. Different motivations entirely."

The protest faded from view, but Rachel couldn't shake the image of all those signs, all that certainty. In her experience, the truly dangerous ones rarely advertised their intentions so boldly. They worked in shadows, not in front of news cameras. Still, she made a mental note to perhaps take a look into the killer, perhaps approaching this from a religious angle. In this job, you couldn't afford to dismiss any possibility completely.

The car fell into silence as they merged onto the highway, leaving New Horizons and its protesters behind. But Rachel's mind was already racing ahead, analyzing angles, connecting dots to a picture that was starting to look larger and larger with every step they took.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Peter Wells closed his laptop with a satisfied click, leaning back in the butter-soft leather of his executive chair. The quarterly numbers had exceeded even his optimistic projections – the new Lexus line was practically selling itself, and the certified pre-owned program he'd implemented last quarter was showing remarkable returns. He allowed himself a moment to savor the victory, eyes drifting across his corner office to the framed photo of Michelle and Chloe at the beach last summer, both of them laughing as they buried him in sand. Cloe looked just like her mother in the picture, and it was a resemblance that only got tighter as the years went by. And those years were going by far too fast.

He pulled out his phone and typed a quick message to Michelle: Heading home. Should be there in 30. Grocery store first. Need anything?

The response came almost immediately: Fresh strawberries for Chloe's lunch tomorrow? And maybe a bottle of that Cab we like? Also…warning: she’s obsessing over her science fair project. Be prepared for an onslaught of info when you get in.

The thought of his daughter's enthusiasm made him smile. At ten, Chloe attacked everything with the same fierce determination, whether it was mastering her multiplication tables or perfecting her Belle costume from Beauty and the Beast. Just yesterday, he'd caught her twirling through the kitchen in her yellow dress, singing to their increasingly exasperated golden retriever, Max, asking him to “Be our guest, be our guest…”

"Speaking of Belle," Peter murmured, pulling up his to-do list. The princess performer company still hadn't confirmed for Chloe's birthday party, three weeks away. He'd pay double their normal rate if he had to – the thought of his little girl's face lighting up when her favorite Disney princess walked through their front door would be worth every penny.

Rising from his desk, Peter walked through his meticulously appointed office. The space reflected the success he'd fought so hard to achieve: original artwork on the walls (Michelle's choices – she had the eye for these things), custom mahogany furniture, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the showroom floor. He paused at the glass, admiring the lineup below.

A metallic blue BMW M8 Competition Gran Coupe caught the recessed lighting perfectly, its curves suggesting motion even at rest. Beside it, a pearl white Porsche Cayenne Turbo GT practically glowed, while a murdered-out Mercedes AMG GT crouched like a predator ready to pounce. The sight still gave him a thrill, even after all these years. Sometimes, usually, late at night when he was closing up alone, he'd walk the showroom floor and remember the kid he'd been, pressing his nose against dealership windows, dreaming of just sitting in cars like these.

Twenty-six years ago, he'd been that kid: a college dropout sleeping on his buddy Mark's lumpy couch, eating microwave burritos and desperately applying for any job that would take him. The used car lot had been his last resort – minimum wage plus the theoretical possibility of commission, working for a manager who looked at him like something scraped off his shoe. But Peter discovered he had a gift, an ability to connect with people that transcended the usual sleazy car salesman stereotype. He remembered his first sale: a beaten-up Dodge Neon to a single mom with two kids. He'd spent hours helping her figure out financing, running numbers until they found a payment plan she could manage.

"You're different," she'd told him after signing the paperwork. "You actually care."

He'd carried that moment with him as he worked his way up from lot assistant to top salesman within two years, saving every possible penny. When he was twenty-five, he'd leveraged everything he had – including a second mortgage on the tiny starter home he and Michelle had just bought – to secure a loan for his first dealership. The place had been struggling, the previous owner practically giving it away, but Peter had seen the potential.

Michelle had believed in him even then when they were living on ramen and store-brand cereal when he worked eighteen-hour days trying to turn the business around. "You're building something," she'd tell him, massaging his shoulders after another marathon day. "We're building something together."

Now, at forty-seven, he owned six dealerships across Virginia, two ranked in the state's Top 25 for sales volume. The success had brought everything they'd dreamed of: the stunning five-bedroom house in Riverside Heights, private school for Chloe, summer vacations exploring Europe. Chloe's college fund was already substantial enough that she could attend any university she chose.

He'd made another investment in the future recently – one that had led to a rare argument with Michelle. Peter thought of the New Horizons Cryonics membership card in his wallet, and a trail of scattered memories followed. The memory of his father's death still haunted him: watching helplessly as the massive heart attack took him at forty-eight, barely older than Peter was now. He could still smell the antiseptic hospital air, still hear the flat tone of the heart monitor, still feel the crushing weight of finality.

The terror of mortality had never quite left him after that day. Every time he had a headache, every slight chest pain from too much coffee, every routine physical – they all carried the whisper of his father's fate. Cryopreservation felt like insurance, a chance at more time with his family, even if Michelle thought it was a waste of money.

"It's not natural," she'd said during their argument three days ago, her voice tight with frustration. "And two hundred thousand dollars, Peter? For something that might not even work?"

"What if it does work?" he'd countered. "What if it means we’re guaranteed to get to see Chloe graduate college? See our grandchildren? Wouldn't that be worth any price?"

“And you expect me to do it as well?” she asked, nearly fuming at that point.

"I'd hope you would. It would suck to be brought back to life only to find you gone." He'd meant it as a sweet sentiment, but it had come off as creepy.

The argument had ended in a stalemate, but Peter knew Michelle would come around. She always did when she understood how much something meant to him. And nothing meant more than time with his family.

"Hey, Rich!" Peter called out as he made his way through the showroom. His night manager looked up from the computer at the sales desk. "Everything set for closing?"

"All good, Mr. Wells. Just finishing up the paperwork on that RS7 we sold this afternoon. That custom order you suggested for Dr. Fabri? He loved it."

"Perfect. See you tomorrow. Oh…and what’s with this ‘Mr. Wells’ crap?”

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