Page 9 of Her Last Escape

He led them through a foyer decorated with framed photographs – Diana's graduation, family vacations, random scenic shots – into a den that managed to be both scholarly and welcoming. A flat-screen TV hung above a brick fireplace, but it was the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf along the back wall that dominated the room. Leather-bound classics shared space with well-worn paperbacks, their spines forming a literary tapestry. Rachel noticed several volumes of Shakespeare prominently displayed, their bindings well-worn from years of use.

The room smelled of old books and coffee, with an underlying hint of something else – the staleness that comes when grief disrupts normal routines when windows stay closed too long, and daily habits fall away. A half-empty cup of coffee sat on the side table, the liquid long since gone cold.

Rachel and Novak settled into a pair of worn leather armchairs while Steven lowered himself onto the matching sofa. His movements were careful and deliberate, as if he was operating on autopilot. Above them, footsteps creaked across the ceiling, followed by the sound of drawers opening and closing. Each sound seemed to hit Steven like a physical blow.

Steven glanced upward, his expression tightening. "My wife, Becka. She's been..." He paused, swallowing hard. His hands fidgeted with the edge of his cardigan, a professor's hands more used to holding books than bearing this kind of burden. "She's been cleaning Diana's old room. Has been for the past day or so. I don't think she's... I don't think she's accepted it yet. But when she does..." His voice cracked slightly. "God, it's going to level her."

Rachel leaned forward slightly, choosing her words carefully. "We understand this is difficult, Mr. Foxworth. We'll try to keep this brief." She'd conducted countless interviews like this over the years, but each one required its own approach, its own careful navigation of raw grief.

Novak leaned forward, with his phone in his hand; Rachel saw that he had the initial police reports pulled up. "Sir,” Novak said, “the police report indicates that Diana was attacked after leaving dinner at a downtown restaurant. Do you know who she was meeting by any chance?"

Steven shook his head, running a hand through his beard. The gesture seemed automatic, a scholar's habit of contemplation transformed into a mourner's nervous tic. "A business dinner, that's all I know. We spoke to her four days ago..." His eyes grew distant, no doubt replaying that last conversation. "Rebecca – Becka – she was teasing her about being single, hoping maybe it was a date. They always bickered about how Diana always preferred to remain single." A ghost of a smile touched his lips before fading, like sun breaking briefly through storm clouds. "But Diana said no, just business."

"Can you tell us about her work?" Rachel asked, watching his face carefully for any hint of something held back, something unspoken.

"She was an attorney. A good one. Knew what she wanted since she was fifteen – used to argue circles around me even then." Pride mingled with pain in his voice. "But the details of her practice? No, I'm afraid not. She loved it, though. That much I know." His fingers drummed absently on the armrest, a nervous energy that seemed to build with each passing moment.

A muffled sob drifted down from upstairs, followed by more shuffling. Steven's face crumpled slightly as he looked toward the ceiling. The shadows under his eyes seemed to deepen, the grief etching new lines around his mouth. In that moment, he looked older than his years, as if Diana's death had aged him a decade in days.

"Excuse me," he said, pushing himself up from the sofa with visible effort. "I should check on her." There was something deeply painful in watching this clearly educated, articulate man reduced to such simple, inadequate phrases.

Rachel stood quickly. "Of course. We'll see ourselves out. Thank you for your time." She gestured to Novak, who pocketed his phone and got to his feet.

They made their way back through the foyer as Steven's footsteps climbed the stairs behind them. Rachel caught one last glimpse of a family photo – Diana in her law school graduation robes, beaming between her proud parents – before closing the door behind them. The contrast between that moment of triumph and the current reality felt like a physical ache.

The walk back to the car felt longer than it had to come in. An icy breeze stirred the leaves, carrying with it the distant sounds of campus life not too far away – a world that continued turning while inside that house, time stood still.

Neither agent spoke until they were back in the vehicle. Rachel could feel the frustration rolling off Novak in waves, matching her own growing sense of unease about the case. The heater blasted out warmth, but Rachel still felt a chill.

"Well, we didn’t really get much of that, did we?" Novak said finally, frustration evident in his voice.

"No, we didn’t."

“You think it’s time to speak with Jill Satterfield?”

Rachel thought it was a good idea. Not only had she found Thomas’s body, but he had been killed at her house. Besides…maybe she had a husband or boyfriend that had known about the affair and had gotten jealous. She had no idea how Diana Foxworth played into any of it, but it might at least be somewhere to start.

“Yeah, I think it might be.” She pulled out her phone and pulled up Jill Satterfield's number from the case file. The call went straight to voicemail after four rings, each one seeming to mock their lack of progress.

“No answer.”

“Maybe she’s being questioned by local PD,” Novak suggested. “We could check with them.”

"Worth a shot," Rachel said, though her tone suggested she didn't expect anything. She then pulled up the contact number of the policeman who had taken down the primary information from the discovery of Thomas’s body. When she called it, he answered on the third ring.

“This is Sergeant Rose,” a deep-voiced man said.

"Sergeant, this is Rachel Gift, with the FBI. We're looking into the death of Thomas Whitman, and I'm trying to get in touch with Jill Satterfield…but she's not answering her phone. We were wondering if maybe she was being questioned or held for any reason with the local PD."

“Oh, well…I’ve not been involved with the later developments on this, but I do know that as of about four hours ago, Mrs. Satterfield is in the hospital. She attempted suicide very early this morning.”

“Oh…I had no idea. Is she stable?”

"Not sure. From what I gather, she did the slit-wrists-in-the-bathtub thing and was discovered by a friend. She made it to the hospital in time, but beyond that, that's all I know."

“Well, thanks, Sergeant.”

Rachel ended the call and said, “Well, we won’t be speaking with Jill Satterfield for a while.” She then gave him the update she’d just received from Sergeant Rose. She saw her own surprise and disappointment mirrored in Novak’s expression.

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