Page 20 of Her Last Escape

They spent the next few minutes reading over everything—Novak typing in the occasional name into the bureau database to see if anything popped up. By the time Rachel came across anything of note, the sandwiches were gone, and what remained of their coffee had gone lukewarm.

"I think I may have found something here,” she said, stretching her neck slightly. "Look at the pattern. Over six years, they've recruited forty-seven top-tier scientists and doctors. And here's what's really interesting—" she tapped the employment records, "—only three people have ever left voluntarily, all for prestigious positions elsewhere. Dr. Michael Chang went to lead research at the Max Planck Institute. Dr. Rebecca Sullivan took over as department chair at UCLA Medical. Dr. Thomas Lienhart was personally recruited by the NIH to head their new cryobiology division."

"Instead, they're all working for a six-year-old startup," Novak mused. "That's how long New Horizons has been around, right?"

"According to these records." Rachel took a sip of her coffee, wincing at the temperature. "And again…just look at these retention statistics. Three voluntary departures in six years—all to incredibly prestigious positions. That’s saying something. Zero firings…except a guy named until Alex Manning. Zero resignations without immediate career advancement. That's not normal, Novak. Even the best research facilities have turnover."

She pulled out another set of documents. "Their support staff is just as stable. Lab technicians, administrative personnel, facility managers—most places cycle through those positions every couple of years. But at New Horizons?" She tapped a spreadsheet. "Ninety-eight percent retention rate across all non-research positions. The only people who've left their maintenance and security teams did so for medical retirement or relocation due to family circumstances."

Around them, the dinner crowd had begun to thin, replaced by students settling in for evening study sessions. The playlist had moved on to what might have been a folksy rendition of "Smells Like Teen Spirit," though she couldn't be entirely sure.

"Fenway must have one hell of a recruitment pitch," Novak said, scrolling through database entries. "Or deep pockets."

"Probably both." Rachel continued through the files, noting publication records and research achievements that read like a who's who of cutting-edge medical science.

Then she paused, something catching her eye. "Hold on. Here's something interesting."

"What've you got?"

"Alex Manning…again. Harvard Medical School, biochemistry research fellowship at Stanford, impressive publication record in cellular preservation techniques." She frowned, scanning the documentation. "But, like I said, he’s the only one to have ever actually been fired.”

“How long ago?” Novak asked.

“Five months.”

Novak looked up from his screen. "Fired? That doesn't track with what you’ve been reading to me. Most of their staff either stays put or moves on to other positions. Nobody gets fired."

"Exactly." Rachel pushed the file across the table. "Can you pull up anything on him?"

"Give me a minute." Novak's fingers flew across the keyboard, the soft clicking nearly lost under the sound of an acoustic guitar transforming what might have been a Metallica song into something unrecognizable.

Rachel's phone buzzed against the table. It was a familiar number…one she’d seen recently. She was pretty sure it was a call from Sergeant Rose.

"This is Agent Gift," she answered, already knowing from the late hour that it couldn't be good news.

"Agent Gift." Rose's voice was tight. "We've got another one."

Rachel caught Novak's eye across the table, doing what she could to communicate the news without breaking away from the call. "Where?"

"Car Dealership near Beacon Hill. Owner's name is Peter Wells—runs those car dealerships you see advertised everywhere. He just also happens to be the victim. Looks to be the same M.O. as the others."

Rachel's hand tightened around her phone. Three victims now, and a pattern emerging that she didn't like at all. "We're on our way."

She ended the call, looking at Novak, who was already closing his laptop. The cozy atmosphere of the Copper Bean suddenly felt very far away from the reality of their investigation.

"That was Sergeant Rose,” she said. “We've got a third victim."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Rachel watched the dealership materialize through the passenger window as Novak guided their vehicle toward the entrance. Sodium lights cast an artificial day across rows of gleaming metal and chrome, creating harsh shadows that seemed to pulse with each sweep of red and blue from the police cruisers already on the scene. A new nearby Mercedes caught the light, its silver paint transformed into liquid mercury. Beyond it, a line of BMWs stood like high-end sentinels.

Three police units were already on scene. Two blocked off the employee parking lot while another maintained position at the dealership entrance. Novak lowered his window and held out his badge as they came to the one partially blocking off the entrance. The officer—young, probably fresh out of the academy—gave it a cursory glance before waving them through. His face had the pale, tight look of someone trying very hard not to be sick.

They parked behind the other two cruisers. As Rachel stepped out, the chill night air carried the metallic scent of blood. Several officers milled about, their faces drawn, conversations reduced to whispers. One broke away from the group and approached them. He kept his head low at first, but when he looked at them, his nameplate caught the harsh light: S. ROSE.

"Agent Gift?" His complexion had a greenish cast that made the shadows under his eyes look like bruises. "Nice to finally meet you in person. Though I wish it were under better circumstances." He cleared his throat, Adam's apple bobbing. "We've got two officers inside with the assistant manager, going through security feeds. They started about ten minutes ago."

Rachel studied his face—the tight lines around his mouth, the way his eyes kept darting back toward something behind him. "How bad is it?"

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