Page 10 of Her Last Promise (Rachel Gift #19)

James Harrison's office occupied the corner suite on first floor of the Mitchell he still felt like he was playing catch up.

A series of framed diplomas lined one wall—Yale undergraduate, Harvard Law—while the opposing wall displayed carefully chosen artwork: abstract pieces in muted colors that suggested sophistication without ostentation. His desk, massive and gleaming, had been positioned to face the door rather than the windows, a conscious choice that allowed him to maintain eye contact with anyone who entered. Also, he thought it was more professional to sit facing the door, ready to meet anyone who entered eye to eye—a psychological advantage he'd learned early in his career as a prosecutor.

The leather-bound law books lining the built-in shelves were not mere decoration; their well-worn spines and occasionally jutting bookmarks testified to regular use. A collection of small mementos on the credenza behind his desk told the story of a twenty-five-year career: photographs with three different governors, a plaque from the DA's office commemorating his hundredth successful prosecution, and—somewhat incongruously—a child's craft project, painstakingly spelling out "World's Best Dad" in macaroni and glitter.

Harrison leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly as he loosened his tie. The office felt eerily quiet without the usual bustle of his staff outside. He'd sent everyone home early after they'd received word about Judge Marcus Smith. The news had hit particularly hard; Smith had been a fixture in some of their professional lives for over fifteen years. Harrison could still picture him on the bench, those wire-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose, that particular way he had of tilting his head when he was skeptical of an argument.

Their paths had crossed countless times over the years. Harrison recalled the Rodriguez case from '18—a particularly nasty double homicide where Smith's careful jury instructions had been crucial to securing a conviction. Then there was the Thompson trial last spring, where Smith had masterfully managed a courtroom full of hostile witnesses and aggressive defense attorneys. They weren't friends, exactly, but there was a mutual respect built over hundreds of hours in that courtroom.

Seth Matthews, one of his senior paralegals, had actually clerked for Smith right out of law school. And Tammy, Harrison's assistant for the past eight years, had worked as Smith's stenographer early in her career. The judge had written her letter of recommendation when she'd applied for her current position.

Harrison reached for his phone, thinking to call Tammy about organizing some kind of memorial contribution. The staff would want to do something, and it would be better to coordinate their efforts. His fingers hovered over her contact information when a sound from the hallway made him pause.

A soft thud, like a door closing.

He frowned, glancing at his watch. 5:15. The cleaning crew wasn't due for another three hours, and he was certain everyone else had left. He'd watched them file out, offering subdued goodbyes, some with reddened eyes after hearing about Smith.

Harrison pushed back from his desk and walked to his office door. The overhead lights in the outer office were dimmed to their evening setting, casting strange shadows across the empty cubicles. "Tammy?" he called out, though he knew she'd left hours ago to pick up her son from soccer practice.

His footsteps seemed unnaturally loud on the polished floor as he made his way past the reception area. Everything looked normal: files neatly stacked, computers sleeping, coffee cups washed and put away. A half-empty water bottle sat on Carol's desk, condensation still beading on its surface.

The break room door was ajar, spilling a wedge of fluorescent light into the hallway. Harrison pushed it open wider, taking in the immaculate counters and the fresh coffee filter Tammy always set up for the next morning. The room smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and coffee grounds.

Nothing out of place. Nothing to explain the sound that had drawn him out here.

Harrison shook his head, feeling slightly foolish. The new construction meant that there were, on occasion, settling noises. Surely, that’s all it had been. He was letting Smith's death make him jumpy. He turned to head back to his office, already thinking about what he'd say when he called Tammy, trying to come up with an amount that would be generous but not too showy.

As he turned back around, someone was behind him. The man seemed to materialize from the shadows.

Harrison registered several details in rapid succession: medium height, unremarkable features, clothes that could have been worn by any office worker in the building. But it was the eyes that stopped him cold—flat and empty as shark eyes, watching him with clinical detachment.

Before Harrison could speak, before he could even draw breath to shout, the man's fist drove into his solar plexus with devastating precision. All the air left Harrison's lungs in a whoosh as he doubled over. His knees buckled and he went down hard, catching a glimpse of the man's shoes—ordinary brown oxfords, the kind you'd see in any department store—before a vicious kick to his ribs sent him sprawling.

Pain exploded through his side as he hit the floor. His temple hit it hard, and a blast of pain roared through his head. Through the roaring in his ears, he heard the soft scuff of those ordinary shoes moving closer. Harrison tried to push himself up, to crawl away, but another kick caught him in the same spot. Something cracked. The pain was astronomical now, radiating through his chest with every desperate attempt to breathe. Blood from his head dripped to the floor; it looked much brighter than he might have imagined.

Lying there on the polished floor he'd walked across thousands of times, James Harrison had a moment of perfect clarity: he was going to die here, killed by this stranger. The thought struck him with the same cold certainty he'd felt when delivering closing arguments in his most airtight cases. The evidence was overwhelming. The verdict is inevitable.

The shoes stopped beside his head. Harrison forced his eyes open, looking up past the shoes, the ordinary slacks, the ordinary jacket, to that unremarkable face with its dead eyes. The man was holding something—a syringe, its contents catching the dim light like liquid amber.

"Who—" Harrison managed to gasp, but the man was already kneeling beside him, and the needle was descending toward his neck with the same methodical precision as everything else.

The last thing James Harrison saw was his own reflection in those empty eyes, and he understood with sudden, horrifying clarity exactly why no one had noticed this man, why no one had stopped him, why he had been able to walk right into this building and up to this floor.

He looked like he belonged here. He looked like he belonged anywhere.

He looked like no one at all.

The needle slid home, and darkness followed.