Page 7 of Her Last Escape

“Well, you hope the victims are linked so it provides us with an automatic path to follow. But given how violent this guy seems to be, it makes you wonder what these two victims did to anger him so badly. It makes me think that we may uncover things about the victims that…I don’t know…”

“That might make us almost have sympathy for the killer.”

Novak frowned and said, “You said it, not me.”

“Whatever the case, let’s just hope we can find him before there’s another victim. There's always a next victim with this kind of killer," Rachel said. "And yes, I think the violence will continue to evolve. The question is whether it's evolving toward some specific goal, or just becoming more refined for its own sake."

The sun had fully cleared the horizon now. It was going to be one of those bright, cold days where everything seemed sharp-edged and clear. Perfect weather for hunting killers, Rachel thought grimly. She could feel her mind settling into the familiar patterns of a new case, compartmentalizing everything else – the hospice, Cody Austin, all of it – into boxes to be dealt with later.

The crime scene photos seemed to swim before her eyes: the devastating damage to Whitman's skull, the precise patterns of blood spatter on expensive clothing, the look of surprise forever frozen on Diana Foxworth's battered face. Two successful people, their lives ended with brutal efficiency by someone who felt they had a score to settle.

The GPS directed them into one of Charlottesville's older neighborhoods, where colonial-style homes sat back from the street behind mature trees. The kind of neighborhood where people noticed strangers but were too polite to stare. It was the perfect hunting ground for someone who knew how to blend in.

Someone patient enough to wait for exactly the right moment to strike again.

CHAPTER FIVE

The GPS led them into Oakwood Heights at 9:18 AM. Rachel watched as identical brick mailboxes slid past her window, each one bearing gold-plated numbers that shone brightly in the winter sun. Her eyes swept over the manicured lawns stretching fifty yards deep, each one looking like it had been cut with surgical precision. Even in January, the grass maintained a deep emerald sheen that spoke of expensive winterization treatments and year-round landscaping services. Empty in-ground pools dotted the landscape, their winter covers drawn tight like burial shrouds.

The morning air held that peculiar crispness unique to wealthy neighborhoods—where even the oxygen seemed filtered and purified. A few residents power-walked along the sidewalks in coordinated athleisure wear, their breath coming out in little clouds of vapor, completely unaware of the FBI vehicle cruising past their pristine properties. Rachel noted security cameras mounted discreetly on every third or fourth house, their glass eyes tracking movement with digital precision.

"Check it out," Novak said as they pulled up to the Whitman residence. "Dead ringer for the McCallister place from Home Alone."

Rachel had to admit he wasn't wrong. The brick two-story colonial commanded attention with its symmetrical wings and gleaming windows that reflected the winter morning sun like mirrors. Perfectly trimmed boxwoods lined the curved walkway leading to the front door, and a massive wrought-iron knocker held court in the center of the door like a black eye. A single police cruiser sat at the curb, flanked by an Audi Q7 and a Mercedes G-Wagon in the circular driveway.

The sound of their car doors closing echoed across the manicured lawn with a finality that made Rachel wince. She'd done this hundreds of times—approached homes where tragedy had struck—but something about this place made every movement feel magnified. Their footsteps crunched on salt-scattered pavers as they approached the house.

The front door stood ajar, propped open by a bronze doorstop shaped like a sleeping cat. Inside, a uniformed officer leaned against the wall, looking about as engaged as a museum guard on a Sunday afternoon. A slight weariness in his eyes suggested he'd been there since the initial call. He gave their badges a perfunctory glance and waved them through without a word, his gaze already drifting back to middle distance.

Rachel felt it the moment she crossed the threshold—that suffocating weight of fresh grief. She'd walked into hundreds of homes just like this over her career, where death had made an unexpected visit hours before. The air always felt different, heavier, like gravity itself had increased. But this time, there was no wailing, no dramatic displays of mourning. Just quiet sniffles and hushed voices drifting from deeper in the house. The controlled grief of the wealthy, Rachel thought, where even devastation wore a designer label. It was a slightly cruel thought, but it was there, and all the same.

The foyer opened into a hallway that could have been lifted from an architectural digest. Crown molding traced the ceiling like delicate lace, and vintage sconces cast warm pools of light every few feet. The hardwood floors gleamed with a fresh coat of wax, unmarred by the usual scuffs and scratches that indicated actual life was lived here. A crystal vase on a console table held fresh-cut hydrangeas—probably delivered weekly by some high-end florist. Everything was perfect, curated, artificial.

But something felt off. Rachel realized what it was as they passed a lonely end table—no family photos adorned the walls or surfaces, save for a single wedding portrait. The happy couple—presumably Thomas and Ellie Whitman—smiled out from behind spotless glass, a moment frozen in time that now felt like a cruel joke. Thomas Whitman stood tall and confident in his tuxedo, one hand resting possessively on his bride's waist. The photographer had caught him mid-laugh, his head turned slightly toward Ellie. She gazed up at him with unguarded adoration, her white dress catching the light like fresh snow.

The absence of other photos nagged at Rachel. No vacation snapshots, no casual moments caught on camera. Just this one perfectly staged reminder of happier times. She filed the detail away, letting it settle alongside the other observations accumulating in her mind. She assumed this meant one (or both) of the Whitmans worked far too often and too hard to make time for vacations.

They followed the murmur of voices to an expansive dining room that opened onto what appeared to be a professional-grade kitchen. The space was dominated by a massive mahogany table that could have seated at least a dozen, its surface reflecting the light from a chandelier that probably cost more than Rachel's car. Three women sat clustered around one end, their heads turning in unison as Rachel and Novak appeared in the doorway. One of them clung to a mug of steaming coffee as if it were a life raft.

Two of the women could have been mirror images—same heart-shaped face, same amber-colored eyes, same graceful way of holding themselves. Sisters, without question. The third woman was different in appearance but somehow matched their energy, as if years of friendship had gradually synchronized their movements. They all turned their heads in the direction of their visitors at the same time.

"Sorry to interrupt,” Rachel said, her voice seeming too loud in the hushed room. “I'm Special Agent Gift, and this is Special Agent Novak, with the FBI. We're looking for Ellie Whitman."

The younger of the pair, who were clearly sisters, raised her hand slightly. "That's me." Her voice was steady, but her fingers trembled as they gripped her coffee mug. A diamond tennis bracelet caught the light as her hand shook, the gems throwing tiny rainbows across the table's polished surface. "Can... can they stay?" She gestured to her companions.

"Of course," Rachel said softly. She, perhaps more than anyone, recognized the need for emotional anchors in moments like these.

"This is Ramona, my sister," Ellie said, "and Beth, my best friend since third grade." The women flanked Ellie like guardians, their bodies subtly angled toward her. Rachel recognized the protective formation—they'd probably been up all night, holding Ellie while she cried, making sure she ate something, fielding phone calls from well-meaning relatives. Their designer clothes were slightly rumpled, suggesting they'd slept in them if they'd slept at all.

"Please, sit," Ellie said, indicating the chairs across from them. The coffee cups before them were full but cold, untouched. A half-eaten croissant sat on a bone china plate, torn into tiny pieces but barely consumed.

Novak cleared his throat. "We've reviewed the police reports, but we may need to go over some things again. So I apologize if it seems like a lot of this is just a repeat…”

A flash of something—anger, pain, or both—crossed Ellie's face. Her perfectly manicured nails dug into her palm. "What kinds of things?” she asked. “The fact that someone killed Thomas, or that he was cheating on me?"

"Maybe both," Novak replied evenly, his tone professional but not unkind.

Rachel leaned forward slightly. "The reports indicate you weren't aware of the affair until last night."

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