Page 8 of Her Last Escape

"That's right." The laugh that came out of Ellie’s mouth was bitter, hollow, like wind through dead leaves. "Nothing like finding out your husband was unfaithful the same moment you learn he's dead." Ramona placed a hand over her sister's, their fingers interlacing with practiced ease. Rachel noticed their matching rings—probably childhood gifts from parents who had encouraged their close bond.

"The woman's name is Jill Satterfield," Rachel said, watching carefully for any sign of recognition. "Does that name mean anything to you?"

Ellie shook her head, a strand of honey-blonde hair falling across her face. "Never heard it before the police showed up at 10:45 last night." Her voice cracked on the time as if the moment was permanently etched in her memory. Beth reached over and rubbed small circles on Ellie's back, a gesture so natural it spoke of decades of shared comfort.

"Were you surprised?" Novak asked. "About the affair?"

"Not really." Ellie's fingers tightened around her sister's. "He'd been... distant for months. I told myself it was work stress. He was always going crazy with his work. Sometimes fifteen hours days, seven days a week. That was much easier to believe that..." She trailed off, her free hand moving to twist her wedding ring—a large diamond that caught the light like a tiny sword.

Rachel watched the subtle interplay between the three women. Every time Ellie's voice wavered, one or both of them would touch her—a hand on her shoulder, a gentle bump of knees under the table. They moved like a single organism, connected by years of shared secrets and unwavering support. Rachel could almost see the invisible threads that bound them together, strengthened by countless sleepovers, wedding preparations, and late-night phone calls.

"Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt Thomas?" Rachel asked gently, noting how Beth's hand tightened on Ellie's shoulder at the question.

That same conflicted expression crossed Ellie's face—grief wrestling with rage. "Take your pick. Thomas had no shortage of enemies." Her voice grew harder, taking on an edge that seemed to surprise even her. "Mostly because of work. He did as he pleased without asking permission. He got to where he was in his career by stepping over a lot of others."

"Any specific names come to mind?"

"No... not right now." Ellie's grip on her anger slipped, and her bottom lip began to quiver. Rachel recognized the reaction—sometimes anger was easier than facing the crushing reality of loss. It gave you something to hold onto when everything else was spinning out of control. Anger didn't leave you feeling quite so helpless, quite so alone.

Tears began rolling down Ellie's cheeks, cutting trails through her expensive makeup. She brushed them away almost angrily, but they kept coming. Ramona and Beth moved closer, forming a protective circle around their wounded friend. Rachel noticed how they seemed to communicate without words, each knowing exactly what the other would do before they did it.

"I think that's enough for now," Ramona said quietly but firmly, her voice carrying the same cultured accent as her sister. "Maybe you could come back after Ellie's had some time to... to process everything?"

Rachel nodded and stood, recognizing when a door was being firmly but politely closed. "Of course. Thank you for your time." She handed Ellie her card, noting how the younger woman's hand shook as she took it. "Please call if you think of anything else."

As they walked back to their car, Rachel could feel the heaviness of the situation inside the house peeling off of her like a snakeskin. Houses like that—perfect houses with their perfect lawns and empty pools—they were supposed to be fortresses against tragedy. But death didn't care about property values or security systems. It slipped in any way, leaving behind nothing but coffee gone cold and sisters holding hands across polished mahogany tables.

The winter sun had risen higher, making the neighborhood look even more like a movie set. A woman walking a pure-bred golden retriever crossed to the other side of the street as they approached their vehicle, her designer sneakers silent on the spotless sidewalk.

"We should look into Diana Foxworth next," Rachel said as they pulled away from the curb, watching the Whitman house recede in the side mirror. "See if we can establish any connection before we talk to Jill Satterfield."

Novak nodded, but Rachel barely registered his response. Her mind was still in that dining room, watching three women bound by blood and history face the unthinkable together. It was a reminder of why she did this job—not just to catch killers, but to give answers to the people left behind in death's wake. People like Ellie Whitman, who would never look at her wedding photo the same way again.

CHAPTER SIX

The tree-lined streets of Charlottesville's University district were winter-stripped and looked almost like natural gates. Rachel watched them pass by in rows as Novak guided the car past weathered brick buildings where generations of students had pursued their dreams, their windows reflecting the shockingly bright light of the late morning sunshine. The neighborhood was a stark contrast to the manicured subdivisions they'd visited earlier – here, massive oaks and maples formed natural archways over the street like gnarled arms.

Students wandered the sidewalks in small groups, their backpacks laden with laptops and textbooks, their conversations creating a distant murmur that seemed to belong to another world entirely. A world where death was still an abstract concept, something to be discussed in philosophy classes rather than investigated in real time.

The police files indicated that Diana Foxworth had not been married and had listed her parents as the next of kin. Her father, Steven Foxworth, was a professor at the university, specializing in British Literature. He apparently lived quite close to the campus, which was why they were currently navigating around it.

"Different world over here," Novak said, glancing at a group of students crossing the street with backpacks and coffee cups. He'd been quiet for most of the drive, focused on getting through the city.

Rachel checked the GPS as Novak navigated the car around a delivery truck double-parked outside a small bookstore. "Should be the next left." Her mind drifted briefly to her own college days, before the FBI, before the cancer, before everything changed. The memory felt like it belonged to someone else now. She could remember all three of her different roommates and how none of them had ever really clicked. She remembered the parties and the late-night study sessions, her discovery of different kinds of music and enjoying a live show whenever she got the chance. God, had it really been that long ago?

The street they turned onto was quieter, lined with faculty housing that had watched the university grow around it over decades. These weren't the ostentatious homes of newly minted tech millionaires or corporate executives. These were the residences of scholars and researchers, people who measured wealth in knowledge as much as dollars.

The Foxworth residence sat back from the street, a two-story colonial with black shutters and a small but meticulously maintained garden to the side. While not as imposing as the Whitman estate, it carried the quiet dignity of old money – the kind that valued education over ostentation.

They made their way up the brick walkway, past flowerbeds that were just as stark and as cold as everything else. They briefly made her think of Scarlett—of the flowers she'd planted in her backyard and would now never see bloom.

On the porch, Novak’s knock echoed against the solid wood door. After a few moments, it opened to reveal a man Rachel assumed to be Steven Foxworth. Rachel felt Novak tense slightly beside her – they'd both seen this kind of grief before, but it never got easier to witness.

The man before them bore the unmistakable weight of loss. His white beard was neatly trimmed, but dark circles haunted his eyes, which were bloodshot from what Rachel suspected were countless sleepless hours. He wore a brown cardigan that hung loose on his frame, as if he'd lost weight recently. His shoulders slumped forward slightly, like his body was ready to welcome sleep whenever he decided it was finally time. A coffee stain marked the sleeve of his cardigan, the kind of detail that suggested someone who had stopped noticing such things.

"Professor Foxworth?" Rachel asked, though she already knew. "I'm Special Agent Rachel Gift, and this is Special Agent Novak. We're with the FBI, investigating your daughter's death."

Something flickered across his face – pain, resignation, or perhaps both. His hand tightened on the doorframe for a moment, as if seeking support. "Yes, of course. Please, come in." His British accent was subtle, worn smooth by decades in Virginia, but still detectable in certain words.

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