Page 18 of Her Last Promise (Rachel Gift #19)

The address Novak had gotten from the database for Nathan Miller took them to the western rim of the city. Novak guided them through neighborhoods that seemed to grow more worn with each passing block. The late morning sun cast long shadows across yards dotted with Christmas decorations – inflatable snowmen listing slightly in the winter wind, unlit strings of icicle lights drooping from rain gutters, and the occasional nativity scene with plastic figures and glo-molds dulled by years of exposure. Each turn brought them deeper into a part of town that seemed frozen in time, where chain-link fences enclosed patchy yards and out-of-date cars lined the streets.

The sight of a particularly elaborate display – complete with animatronic reindeer and a massive Star of Bethlehem mounted on a roof – sent a jolt of anxiety through Rachel's stomach. Christmas was barely two weeks away, and she had yet to buy a single gift. The thought had been poking at her for days now, creeping into her consciousness during quiet moments in the investigation. Paige would be easy enough; her daughter had left a meticulously detailed list on the refrigerator, complete with links to specific items on Amazon. But Jack... Rachel sighed. How did you shop for someone who seemed to need nothing? Her new husband was frustratingly practical, the type who bought what he needed when he needed it, leaving no room for surprise gifts or thoughtful discoveries. She felt she knew him exceptionally well but could not think of a single gift he would like.

"You okay?" Novak asked from behind the wheel.

"Just thinking about Christmas shopping," Rachel said, turning onto Cedar Street. The houses here were smaller, closer together, their weathered siding and sagging porches telling stories of decades of deferred maintenance. "Your kiddo is still young, so there’s some of that Christmas magic still left. It starts to disappear as they get older.”

Novak smiled, the expression softening his usually serious features. "Yeah, I’ve heard that. Do you miss it, or does it get easier?”

“A bit of both, I guess.” She shook her head. "Sometimes I miss the days of assembly-required toys and batteries not included. I won’t lie about it."

Her throat tightened slightly at the memory of Christmas mornings past. "Just two years ago, she still wanted to leave cookies for Santa. But almost right after Christmas that year, she informed me that the math doesn't work out – that it would be physically impossible for one person to deliver presents to every house in one night. And because we don’t have a chimney…"

She sighed as Novak pulled up to the curb in front of a small ranch-style house with peeling mint-green paint.

“When I was nine, I caught my dad changing into the suit on Christmas Eve,” Novak said. “But I never said a thing. It would have destroyed him. He was a bigger kid at Christmas than I ever was.”

“I don’t think I ever really believed after the age of five,” Rachel said. “I was that kid.”

Novak chuckled and said, “You know…I have no problem believing that.”

The yard in front of the house was bare except for a few patches of yellowed grass and a single plastic candy cane stuck crookedly into the ground near the front door. The solitary decoration seemed more depressing than festive, like a half-hearted nod to normalcy in the midst of crisis. The windows were dark despite the growing dusk, but a battered Honda Civic sat in the driveway, its silver paint oxidized to a dull gray.

A cold wind whipped down the street, rattling the bare branches of a maple tree and sending an empty Amazon box tumbling across a nearby lawn. Rachel zipped her coat higher and checked her weapon out of habit before stepping out of the car. The wind had picked up, carrying the scent of woodsmoke from a nearby chimney mixed with the metallic tang of the sleet she’d seen in the forecast yesterday.

When they came to the door, Novak knocked, the sound sharp in the winter quiet. For a long moment, there was nothing. Then came the shuffle of feet, and the door opened to reveal an older woman with silver-streaked hair pulled back in a loose bun. She wore a cardigan that had seen better days, its elbows worn thin, and reading glasses hung from a chain around her neck. The scent of chamomile tea and something baking – cookies, maybe – wafted out from behind her.

"Yes?" she asked, eyes darting between them. Her fingers clutched the edge of the door, knuckles white.

Rachel held up her credentials, the gold badge catching the last rays of sunlight. "I'm Special Agent Gift with the FBI, and this is Special Agent Novak. We're looking for Nathan Mitchell."

The woman's expression shifted from wariness to confusion, then to something approaching fear. Her grip on the door loosened slightly, and she took a small step back. "The FBI? I...well, Nathan isn't here right now. I'm his aunt, Tanya Beswick." She hesitated, then added, "Marjorie's sister." Her voice caught slightly on the name.

"May we come in, Ms. Beswick?" Rachel asked. "We have some questions about Nathan." She kept her tone gentle, professional, though her instincts were already cataloging Tanya's reactions, filing away the slight tremor in her hands, the way her eyes kept darting past them to the street.

Tanya's fingers worried at the hem of her cardigan, a nervous gesture that reminded Rachel painfully of her own grandmother. "I suppose... though I don't understand what the FBI would want with Nathan. He's done nothing wrong." She stepped back, allowing them into a living room that smelled of tea and what Rachel was now certain was cookies. A gingerbread-scented candle also burned on the small coffee table in the living room.

Family photos crowded the walls – many featuring a woman Rachel assumed was Marjorie Mitchell in healthier days. The images tracked a life in reverse: a smiling woman in a garden, arms full of flowers; the same woman at what appeared to be someone’s college graduation—perhaps Nathan’s; a younger version teaching a small boy to ride a bike. A half-finished puzzle occupied the coffee table, its edge pieces carefully sorted, and a medical journal lay open on the arm of a well-worn recliner, its pages marked with colored sticky notes.

“So, where is Nathan?” Novak asked.

"Nathan's been at the hospital," Tanya said, perching on the edge of the sofa. A throw blanket was folded neatly over its back, the kind of homey touch that spoke of someone trying to make a space more comfortable during a long vigil. "He practically lives there now, wanting to always be with his mother. He only comes home to sleep, and sometimes not even then. I have to remind him to eat most days."

"How has he been handling the situation with the hospital?" Rachel asked, noting the slight tremor in Tanya's hands as she adjusted her glasses. A teacup sat cooling on the side table, a lipstick stain marking its rim.

"As well as can be expected, I suppose. He's... beaten down. Sad." Tanya's voice wavered, and she clasped her hands tightly in her lap. "They're trying to sue him, you know. His own mother's hospital, suing him for trying to keep her alive. It's unconscionable." Anger flashed briefly across her features, surprising in its intensity.

Rachel didn't say as much, but Tanya was conveniently leaving out some of the details she and Novak had seen in James Harrison's case files…about how Nathan was doing everything he could to drag the hospital's name and reputation through the mud.

“Can you explain the disagreement he’s been having with the hospital?” Rachel asked.

“Well, the doctors are sure that they can bring her out of her coma…that she’ll be fine with some recovery. But Nathan is trying to tell them that she would never want to be hooked up to machines and life support. I agree with him, of course…but there is no official documentation to actually tell is what Marjorie’s wishes are.”

It was basically what the statements back at Harrison’s office had spelled out…just a much cleaner and slightly biased version of it.

"Do you know where Nathan was last night?" Novak asked, his pen poised over his notepad. “I assume he has to abide by the hospital’s visiting hours, right?”

Tanya frowned, her fingers now plucking at an invisible thread on her sleeve. "That’s right. I assume he was here. He usually comes home after visiting hours." She glanced between them again, anxiety creeping into her features. "Though I... I go to bed early. The days are long, you understand, and at my age..." She trailed off, then added quickly, "I've been staying here these past six weeks – came for tea one afternoon and never really left. Nathan needed the help, you see. He's dealing with so much because of this hospital ordeal."

“Have you seen any changes in him?” Rachel asked. “Any mood swings or maybe uncharacteristic behaviors?”

She shrugged and said, “He’s been tired a lot lately. Quiet…which was never really like him. But this hospital and his mother…it’s drained him.”

“Would you happen to know if he has reached out to either Judge Smith or an attorney by the name of James Harrison in the past few weeks?”

"Oh, I have no idea. I'm so sorry. But I…can I ask what it is you think he's done? Did the damned hospital get the federal government involved in this?"

“No, ma’am,” Novak assured her. “Nothing like that.”

Rachel exchanged a look with Novak, seeing her own thoughts reflected in his expression. "Thank you for your time, Ms. Beswick. We'll head to the hospital to speak with Nathan."

Tanya nodded and got up to usher them to the front door. She looked nervous now, almost sad. “Is he…is Nathan going to be okay?” she asked. “Is he in some sort of trouble?”

“We don’t know just yet,” Rachel said, even though she was starting to feel like Nathan Marshall might indeed be in quite a bit of trouble. “But for right now, there’s nothing to worry about. Thanks again.”

They stepped back out into the chill less than five minutes after Tanya had invited them inside. Back in the car, Rachel turned the key but didn't put the vehicle in drive. The engine's rumble seemed too loud in the quiet street. "She can't confirm his whereabouts last night. That puts him in play for Harrison's abduction."

Novak was already pulling out his phone, his fingers moving quickly over the screen. "I'll call ahead, have security make sure he doesn't leave before we get there." He paused, then added, "You really think he could be our guy?"

Rachel watched as Tanya's silhouette appeared in the front window, pushing aside a lace curtain to peer out at them. The older woman's anxiety was palpable even from this distance. "Right now, everyone's our guy as far as I’m concerned."

As they pulled away from the curb, they passed another house with an elaborate Christmas display. A little girl, no more than seven, stood in the yard watching her father arrange a light-up penguin family. Her pink coat glowed in the multicolored lights even in the daylight, and her delighted laugh carried through the car's closed windows. The scene tugged at Rachel's heart, reminding her of winters past when Paige would press her face against the car window, counting Christmas lights and making up stories about the families inside the decorated homes.

Those days felt impossibly distant now. Paige was growing up, trading wonder for logic, magic for reason. It was natural, Rachel knew, but something in her ached for those simpler times – before cancer and Alex Lynch, before her daughter learned that monsters were real and sometimes wore friendly faces. Before she learned that even mothers could be broken, could fail to protect their children from the darkness in the world.

Novak's voice pulled her from her thoughts. "Security's on alert. They'll keep eyes on Mitchell until we get there." He was studying her with the kind of careful attention that told her some of her thoughts must have shown on her face. She had been so zoned out in her own thoughts that she had barely even been aware that he had placed a call to the hospital while driving away from Nathan’s home.

Rachel nodded as Novak merged onto the highway. The sun had nearly set now, and Christmas lights were beginning to twinkle to life across the city, creating rivers of color along the streets below. In her mind, she could hear Paige's voice from years ago: Mommy, look at all the stars that fell into people's yards!

Now, her daughter would probably launch into an explanation of LED technology and energy efficiency. Rachel smiled despite herself. Maybe some of the magic remained after all, just in a different form. Paige's wonder hadn't disappeared; it had simply matured, transformed into a curiosity about how things worked rather than why they sparkled.

She pushed those melancholy thoughts away and found it harder than she expected. They had a suspect to interview—after dragging him away from his hospitalized mother. And if Nathan Mitchell turned out not to be their killer, Rachel feared they may be even farther behind than she feared.