Page 17 of Her Last Promise (Rachel Gift #19)

Cody Austin drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, watching the digital display on his dashboard tick from 10:04 to 10:05. The morning sun cast long shadows across the hospice center's parking lot, the light catching on patches of early frost that hadn't yet melted. He'd chosen this time deliberately—late enough so that the early morning set-up and back-to-routine actions were out of the way, and early enough to avoid the lunch rush of visitors. Every detail had been meticulously planned, just like his previous visit…the visit to gather information about Scarlett.

He smiled. The memory of her death brought a slight warmth to his chest, like savoring a fine wine. It had been just the first step and he had executed it well.

And now it was time for the next step. The backpack waiting in the passenger seat seemed to pulse with possibility. Inside, beneath the carefully selected stack of donated books, lay everything he needed. The tools of his trade, as he'd come to think of them during the past few endless nights. It was something he'd never even dared to fathom back in his prison when he had been planning his revenge against Rachel Gift. But inspiration had struck, and who was he to push it away?

Through the windshield, he studied the building's facade. Three stories of red brick and large windows, designed to let in natural light—to give the dying their last glimpse of sunshine, he supposed. The architect had tried to make it look welcoming, with curved entranceways and decorative stonework, but Cody knew better. He knew what happened behind those walls. He'd spent weeks studying the building's plans, memorizing staff rotations, learning the rhythms of this place where hope came to die.

He allowed himself a thin smile as he recalled the countless hours he'd spent researching this place. The building's layout was etched in his mind like a tattoo: four wings radiating from a central hub, security cameras positioned at every major intersection but with significant blind spots in the auxiliary hallways. The staff schedules, the shift changes, the cleaning rotations—he knew them all.

The memory of his prison cell flickered through his mind—six by eight feet of concrete and steel, his home for a decade. But while others had withered in that confined space, he had thrived. The prison library had become his sanctuary, not for the reasons his counselors had hoped, but because every book was a potential weapon in his arsenal. Medical texts that taught him about the human body's vulnerabilities. True crime novels that showed him where others had failed. Classic literature that helped him understand the human psyche—how to manipulate it, how to break it.

Cody checked his reflection in the rearview mirror, adjusting the wire-rimmed glasses he'd chosen for this persona. They made him look scholarly, harmless—the kind of man who would donate classic literature to the dying. The irony wasn't lost on him. Prison had indeed made him a reader, though not in the way the system had intended. He'd devoured books not for rehabilitation but for technique: the precise medical terminology in thriller novels, the detailed descriptions of how bodies failed, how systems shut down.

His cellmate had once asked why he spent so much time reading. "Expanding my mind," he'd answered with a smile, never mentioning how each page was another brick in the foundation of his revenge. How every word was bringing him closer to this moment, to Rachel Gift.

He stepped out of the car, shoulders squared beneath his casual blazer. The backpack settled against his spine with familiar weight as he walked toward the entrance, his footsteps crunching on the salt-scattered pavement—just in case it sleeted, which had been in the forecast for the last twenty-four hours. The sound reminded him of breaking bones—a pleasant association that brought another smile to his lips. Through the glass doors, he could already see the reception desk. Relief loosened his shoulders slightly—a new face sat behind the counter, not the sharp-eyed woman who'd been there during his reconnaissance visit a week and a half ago, when he'd been gathering intel on Scarlett.

The automatic doors whispered open, releasing a gust of warm air scented with antiseptic and artificial pine—someone's futile attempt at festive cheer. Fifteen days until Christmas. Fifteen days until these halls would be filled with well-wishers bearing gifts and false hope…some to people they had never met. How fitting that he'd chosen this season of giving to deliver his own special package.

The lobby was quieter than he'd expected, the morning lull settling over the space like a blanket. A small Christmas tree stood in the corner, its lights twinkling feebly against the harsh fluorescent overhead lighting. An elderly man dozed in one of the waiting room chairs, a magazine forgotten in his lap. A nurse walked past, her shoes squeaking softly on the polished floor, too focused on her clipboard to give Cody a second glance.

"Good morning!" The receptionist's voice was bright, her smile genuine. Young, probably new to the job. Perfect. Her name tag read 'Bea,' and she couldn't have been more than twenty-five. The kind of person who still believed in the inherent goodness of strangers. He almost pitied her.

Cody slipped into character like putting on a comfortable coat. "Good morning," he replied, his voice warm and slightly hesitant—the tone of someone unused to but eager for good deeds. "I heard about your Christmas book project for the residents. I have some donations, if that's all right."

Her face lit up. "Oh, that's wonderful! We're always so grateful for contributions."

He swung the backpack carefully from his shoulders, setting it down with deliberate gentleness on the floor…so that Bea couldn’t see it. The zipper's rasp seemed unnaturally loud as he opened just the front pocket, where the books were stored. One by one, he placed them on the counter: Wuthering Heights , its spine carefully broken to suggest previous loving use; Of Mice and Men , pages deliberately dog-eared; The Great Gatsby , annotated in margins with a careful hand.

Each book had been chosen with purpose. He'd spent hours in secondhand bookstores, selecting volumes that looked well-loved but not decrepit. Books that suggested a thoughtful donor, someone who cared about literature and its power to comfort. Someone who could never be capable of the things he had planned. Also, it had clued him in to just how much he’d come to love books while he’d been in prison.

Bea ran her fingers over the covers. "Ooh, the classics! The residents will love them."

If they live long enough to read them, he thought, but said instead, "I hope so. Books were... something of a salvation for me during a difficult time." It wasn't even a lie. Those years in prison would have been unbearable without the library's resources. Every medical text, every thriller with a clever killer, every detailed account of famous murders—they'd all contributed to this moment.

He zipped the backpack with the same careful motion, conscious of its other contents shifting slightly. The weight felt different now, more purposeful. Everything he needed was still there, nestled in the main compartment like deadly Christmas presents waiting to be unwrapped. He thought of Rachel again, wondering if she'd appreciate the metaphor when she finally understood what he'd done.

"Thank you again," Sarah said, already turning to place the books on a shelf behind her. "It's so nice to see people getting into the holiday spirit."

“Of course. Happy to help. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas to you as well,” Bea said.

He had turned to leave but paused before reaching the door, allowing a slight grimace to cross his features. The expression was practiced, perfected in front of mirrors—just the right mix of embarrassment and urgency. "I'm so sorry to ask, but... is there a public restroom I could use? It was quite a drive here. Traffic…yikes."

"Of course!" She pointed down the hallway to his right. "Second door on the left."

The corridor stretched before him like a promise, its institutional beige walls lined with generic watercolor prints—peaceful landscapes that would be the last thing some people ever saw. His footsteps echoed slightly on the linoleum, each step bringing him closer to the next phase of his plan.

He pushed through the bathroom door, feeling the weight of the backpack like an old friend against his shoulders. The relief that flooded through him was genuine, though not for the reasons the receptionist would assume. It had been almost too easy. No one had recognized him. No one had questioned his presence. No one had looked twice at the backpack. They never did, not when you smiled and acted like you belonged. They’d been too blinded by his generosity because, as it turned out, generosity was now something people weren’t used to seeing all that often.

The bathroom was empty, as he'd known it would be at this hour. His research had shown that the cleaning staff did their rounds at 9:15, and the morning medication distribution kept most mobile residents in their rooms until 10:30. He had exactly twenty-three minutes before anyone was likely to need this facility. And the residents wouldn’t use this restroom, anyway.

The overhead lights flickered slightly as he walked past the row of empty sinks, their mirrors reflecting his composed expression back at him. He looked calm, collected—a man with nothing to hide. It was the same expression he'd worn when Rachel Gift had insisted he was guilty of four murders nearly eleven years ago, the same expression he’d worn when they'd released him from prison, when he'd told the parole board exactly what they wanted to hear. The same expression he'd worn when he'd watched Scarlett take her last breath.

Cody entered the stall furthest from the door, locked it with a quiet click, and finally allowed himself a real smile—not the benign one he'd worn for the receptionist, but the sharp, satisfied expression of a predator about to strike. He set the backpack on the closed toilet lid and reached for the zipper of the main compartment.

Everything was proceeding exactly according to plan. And soon, very soon, Rachel Gift would understand just how thoroughly he'd thought this through. How meticulously he'd planned every detail. How completely he intended to destroy everything she held dear.

How there was no way in hell she could stop him.