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The bandage on Rachel's thigh had become more of an irritation than a necessity.

She peeled back the edge, examining the healing contusion beneath - a mottled purple landscape that served as a daily reminder of how close she'd come. Again. The wound throbbed as she investigated it in the ladies’ room of the field office, but it had mostly healed.

Alternating between ice and heat and a good amount of rest had done the job, and now, nearly three weeks later, it was little more than a reminder of the explosion that had nearly taken her life.

She exited the restroom and headed back to her desk. When she sat down, her eyes instantly went back to the crime scene photos spread across her desk.

Four faces stared back at her from the manila folder.

Barry Easton, the bomb tech who had been trying to diffuse it.

Sharon Martinez, night nurse. Devon Cooper, maintenance supervisor.

Eleanor Webb was a terminal cancer patient who'd finally found peace in her last weeks, only to have it violently stripped away by a chunk of flying debris that struck her in the back of the head.

Rachel knew their faces better than her own Christmas tree this year - the one that had stood in her living room like an accusation while she'd tried to manufacture holiday cheer through gritted teeth.

All around her, the field office hummed with the usual January energy, agents shuffling between desks with coffee cups and case files, still sharing stories about the holidays even though they were now one week into the new year.

But Rachel barely noticed. Her focus remained locked on the explosion analysis report, though she'd memorized every detail weeks ago.

The bomb had been crude but effective. Some of the pros on the bomb squad had seemed perplexed that such a bomb had been able to cause so much destruction.

It had been professional enough to cause significant damage, amateur enough to leave no signature.

Her computer screen showed the caller ID log from that day, pinpointing the time of the call.

And the only listing they had was UNKNOWN.

The voice on the recording was digitally altered, clinical in its warning.

Forty-five minutes later, the hospice center's east wing had become a tangle of concrete, rendered brick, and steel.

"Still at it?"

Rachel looked up to find Novak leaning against her cubicle wall, his suit jacket draped over one arm.

"Someone has to be." She gestured at the files. "The surveillance team's been through two months of footage with nothing to show for it. No suspicious vehicles, no unfamiliar faces. Nothing."

“Nothing yet ,” he pointed out. “It’s been less than three weeks. You know how this stuff works.”

Yes, she did know how this stuff worked. Which was one of the reasons she’d not yet told Novak or Director Anderson about her suspicions about Cody Austin.

"No breakthroughs at all?" he asked, as if wishing he could have said something a bit more profound or hopeful the first time. After six months as partners, he was still trying to find his footing, trying to learn the ins and outs of his partner.

"None,” she said. She couldn't tell him about her suspicions about Cody Austin. Couldn't risk having them dismissed or, worse, reported up the chain. And she certainly couldn’t tell him that she had Cody Austin’s current address.

She’d received it through the proper channels—a simple call to the prison that had released him.

Still, she felt that it was something to keep hidden… for now.

Rachel's jaw tightened. If only Novak knew. If only she could explain about Cody Austin, about his patterns, about the way he could blend into any environment like smoke. But she'd learned her lessons about obsession the hard way. She had the old mental scars from Alex and Alice to remind her.

“Anything I can do to help?” he asked.

“I don’t think so. Hell…I don’t feel like there’s much I can do at this point. Honestly, I’m waiting for Anderson to reprimand me for still looking into it. He made it pretty clear it wasn’t my case to look into.”

“Well, you know where I am if you change your mind.”

With that, he gave her a polite nod and headed back down the hallway.

She watched him go, recalling the touching moment he had called her home the day after Christmas just to check in on her.

Following the blast, Rachel had spent half a day in the hospital, undergoing concussion protocols and having her leg tended to.

She’s also spent about an hour in her hospital room after Jack had already come to visit, crying her eyes out.

Crying for the deaths, crying for the destruction of the hospice center…

crying because she felt helpless to do anything about it.

Novak seemed to have sensed this and call on the 26 th just to make sure the holidays hadn’t steamrolled her.

And really, it had. Sitting there in her cubicle, the memory hit her like a physical blow - Christmas morning, trying to smile through the pain in her leg while Paige opened presents.

Thinking of the three lives lost in the explosion and all the times she had walked through those doors to spend time with the ailing and desperate.

"I need some air," she muttered, standing abruptly. Her thigh protested the movement, but she didn't care. All of a sudden, the field office felt too small. The walls were closing in on her.

She spoke to no one as she made her way out of the building, keeping her head low, her eyes to the floor.

Outside, the January wind cut through her coat as Rachel walked to her car.

She pulled out of the garage and began driving through the city, barely even registering traffic or the streets.

She felt as if she were on some automated line, being pulled by a magnet.

And then, fifteen minutes later, there she was…

parked in the hospice center parking lot.

The cleanup crews had done their job well - most of the debris was gone, and the damaged section was cordoned off with temporary fencing.

But she could still see the scars: the blackened walls, the shattered windows, the place where Eleanor Webb had been struck by flying debris.

Yellow tape blocked it all off, as well as two basic concrete barriers.

The yellow crime scene tape fluttered in the wind, creating a rhythm that matched the pounding in her head.

Rachel could at least rest easy in knowing that those who had survived—all but one which, she had to admit to herself, was a blessing when the totality of the event was considered—had been relocated to the secondary wing at Riverside Retirement Home.

Even Rachel had to admit to herself that it was a better environment than Goodrich Hospice, but it wasn't the same.

That sense of peace, of dignity in life's final chapter - the bomb had shattered more than just walls.

Rachel's phone buzzed. A text from Director Anderson: Team meeting tomorrow, 9AM. Updates on surveillance review.

She knew what they'd say. Nothing suspicious. No leads. But Anderson didn’t know about the address in her desk drawer—a thread she couldn't pull yet, but couldn't ignore either.

Her fingers traced the outline of her FBI badge, a reminder of everything she'd worked for, everything she'd nearly lost before.

She'd promised herself she wouldn't go down that path again.

The last time she'd let personal vengeance drive an investigation, it had cost her grandmother her life. And it had put Paige in grave danger.

But as she stood there, watching the wind whip debris across the parking lot, Rachel couldn't shake the feeling that somewhere Cody Austin was watching, too.

Waiting. Planning his next move while she stood here, bound by rules and procedures and the weight of past mistakes.

Or maybe he was just proud of what he had done, knowing that he was putting her through this sort of torment.

The sun was setting behind the damaged building, casting long shadows across the ground.

Rachel remembered other shadows - the Christmas tree's lights reflecting off her living room wall while she sat with ice on her thigh, pretending to enjoy the holiday for Paige's sake.

The darkness that crept into her dreams, where the faces of Sharon, Devon, and Eleanor merged with older ghosts - her first husband Peter, Grandma Tate, Scarlett.

Her phone buzzed again. An addendum to the text about the meeting .

Work went on. It had to. Rachel took one last look at the hospice center, committing every detail to memory.

The twisted metal, the broken glass, the empty chairs visible through shattered windows.

Three lives ended here, and somewhere out there was a man who knew why.

She got back in her car, her thigh aching as she settled into the seat. The knowledge of Austin's address weighed on her like a stone. Not today, she told herself. Not yet. But soon, if the surveillance footage yielded nothing, if the evidence continued to dead-end...what choice would she have?

Rachel started the engine, letting its rumble drown out the whispers of temptation.

As she pulled away from the hospice center, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the rearview mirror.

The determination in her eyes reminded her of other times, other cases where she'd crossed lines to keep her loved ones safe and to bring killers to justice.

But this time would be different. This time she'd play it smart, play it by the book - right up until the moment the book failed her. Because if Cody Austin was behind this, if he was truly back to finish what he'd started, then following the rules might not be enough to stop him.

The Christmas decorations were coming down across the city, twinkling lights giving way to the stark reality of January.

Rachel drove home through the gathering darkness, her mind already mapping out contingencies, backup plans, ways to work within the system while keeping one eye on that address she couldn't forget.

Rachel knew that justice sometimes needed a nudge. Sometimes the rules needed bending. But not today. Today she'd go home, take her pain medication, review the case file on the bombing for the fiftieth time, and pretend she wasn't counting the hours until tomorrow's surveillance update.