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"Be careful, Rach."
"If you say so."
She hung up, frowned after another cursory glance around the living room, and then she turned, moving back towards the front door. As she passed the kitchen, through the window, she spotted the garage.
She paused.
Who put tinted windows on a garage?
Her pulse quickened along with her pace, and she hastened out of the home.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The garage door creaked as it opened, revealing a dimly lit interior. As she stepped inside, Rachel wished she had brought a flashlight. The walls were covered in eerie black and white photos that she couldn't quite make out in the low light. They seemed to depict various dark landscapes. Rachel's heart pounded in her chest as she circled the garage, her senses on high alert.
Her hand lingered over a metallic object, half-hidden beneath a tarp. A rifle. She felt a chill run down her spine as she realized this could be the murder weapon. But there was something... off about the rifle. It was too new, too well-maintained to be Bardem's weapon of use. She took a closer look, and her suspicions were confirmed - this weapon hadn't been fired yet. The trigger was still in a zip-tie lock.
She frowned, wondering at this.
And then her eyes moved to the work bench, and she froze.
"Hello there," she murmured softly.
A multitude of screws and wires were scattered on the workbench, a testament to Bardem's recent tinkering. Rachel could see the beginnings of a makeshift circuit board, half-finished. Amidst the chaos, she saw adhesive and tape. And then she spotted a discarded cardboard box under the bench.
She stooped down, glancing at it.
A pressure cooker.
She went still. "Shit," she whispered.
Her heart raced as realization dawned on her. Bardem was making a pressure cooker bomb.
She called Ethan, raising her phone swiftly. He answered on the second ring.
"You good?"
"Bardem's got a bomb."
"What? You sure? Of course you are. Shit. I put out the APBs already."
"Yeah... good job. Keep an ear to the ground..."
"What is it? You sound thoughtful."
"Just... Bardem's not native."
"So why did he target so many? Racist?"
"Maybe..." she said quietly. "Or maybe..." She turned her phone over and swiped up, unlocking the screen. She entered Bardem's name, and narrowed search results by his address now.
She tensed as the screen illuminated.
Then her eyes widened. "Holy shit," she whispered.
"What is it? Rach?"
"News article. Sending it to you now."
