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

The hospital parking garage seemed to amplify the winter chill, each gust of wind finding new ways to pierce through Rachel's coat. The concrete pillars cast long shadows, their edges sharp and unforgiving. As she and Novak made their way across the road that separated the garage from the primary grounds toward the hospital entrance, their footsteps echoed hollowly against the brick walls.

The looming structure of Saint Mary's Hospital rose before them, its windows glowing like countless watchful eyes in the noontime light. Rachel's stomach tightened as they approached the sliding glass doors, the mechanical whir of their opening like a whispered warning. Hospitals. She'd spent enough time in them to last several lifetimes, lying in beds while experimental treatments coursed through her veins, waiting in endless corridors for test results that might determine whether she lived or died. Now they felt like personal haunted houses, each antiseptic-scented hallway holding ghosts of her past suffering. Sure, she had spent some time in others, in other countries where the design and feel of the places were more like a spa than a hospital, but at the core, they were all the same.

The smell hit her first as they entered—that distinct blend of disinfectant, rubber gloves, and something else she could never quite identify but that screamed "hospital" to her brain. It brought back memories of her own treatment days: the constant beeping of monitors, the squeaking of nurses' shoes on linoleum floors, the metallic taste of fear in her mouth as she waited for yet another round of test results. She could almost feel the ghost of the IV needle in her arm and the confined space of a scanner as she was sent in for another CAT scan.

The thought also triggered another wave of guilt when it made her think of others fighting for their lives in similar places. She hadn't been back to volunteer at the hospice center since Scarlett's death. The brave souls there deserved better. She needed to be more present, more consistent. I need to check the volunteer calendar, she thought. Soon. I can’t just dig my head into the sand because of what happened to Scarlett.

But even that simple mental promise felt hollow, tainted by the knowledge that Scarlett's killer was still out there…and very likely in the form of Cody Austin.

"Gift?" Novak's voice pulled her from her reverie. They'd reached the check-in desk, where a tired-looking woman in purple scrubs waited expectantly. Her badge identified her as Sandra, and dark circles under her eyes suggested she was well into a long shift. She assumed this was who Novak had spoken to on the phone when she had been zoning out over Christmas decorations and how her life seemed to be unspooling far too quickly.

"We're here about Marjorie Mitchell," Rachel said, showing her credentials.

“Yes, Agent Novak told me on the phone.” Sandra's fingers moved across her keyboard, the clicking sound oddly loud in the quiet lobby. "Third floor," she said finally, glancing up with concern in her eyes. "Though you should know there's been some kind of disturbance up there in the last few minutes. I don't have all the details, but security's involved."

Rachel and Novak exchanged glances before quickening their pace to the elevators. A commotion in the same place the current suspect in their case was located? It seemed like far too much of a coincidence. The ride up felt endless, the floor numbers lighting up one by one with agonizing slowness. Rachel watched their distorted reflection in the elevator's metallic doors—she looked as tired as she felt, and Novak's usual composed expression carried an edge of tension.

When they finally reached the third floor, they found a tense tableau: roughly a quarter of the way down the hall, two security guards flanked a doorway while a cluster of nurses spoke in hushed, urgent tones nearby. One of those mobile laptop stations sat discarded to the side, its owner clearly having been interrupted.

"What's the situation?" Rachel asked, approaching the group. Her FBI badge caught the overhead light as she held it up. The security guards straightened, their hands instinctively moving closer to their belts.

One of the nurses, her gray hair pulled back in a severe bun, stepped forward. Lines of stress marked her face, and her name tag read Margaret Wilson, RN. "Mr. Mitchell refuses to leave his mother's room,” she said. “We need to perform our regular checks, but he's becoming increasingly... difficult."

"He's grieving," another nurse interjected, younger, with kind eyes and "Emily" written on her badge. Her scrubs were decorated with cartoon animals, an oddly cheerful touch in the tense atmosphere. "But we still have protocols to follow,” she admitted. “We can't properly monitor Mrs. Mitchell's condition with him interfering."

"This is her room?" Rachel asked, nodding to the door behind them and just slightly to her left.

“Yes,” Emily said.

"Has he made any threats?" Novak asked, his voice low and professional. Rachel noticed how his eyes scanned the hallway, taking in every detail.

"Not exactly," Margaret replied, smoothing her already immaculate uniform. "But he's been... volatile. Angry. He knocked over some equipment earlier when Dr. Stevens tried to examine his mother."

Rachel considered this, wondering how much the threat of a lawsuit might be playing into his behavior. Whatever the case, she understood that the entire situation was like a powder keg about to blow.

"Let me talk to him," Rachel said. "Alone."

The security guards exchanged uncertain looks. The taller one, his name tag reading "Garvey," spoke up. "Ma'am, he's been volatile—"

"I understand. But sometimes adding more people to a situation like this only makes it worse." Rachel met each of their gazes in turn. "Give me five minutes. If anything happens, I can handle myself." She didn't mention that her gun felt particularly heavy against her hip today, a weight she hoped she wouldn't need to rely on.

After a moment's hesitation, they stepped aside. Margaret Wilson looked a bit perplexed by the decision but remained quiet. Rachel entered the room, the soft beeping of monitors creating a mechanical lullaby of sorts. The lights were dimmed, creating shadows in the corners of the room. Marjorie Mitchell lay still in the hospital bed, tubes and wires creating a complex web around her body. Her skin had taken on the waxy pallor that Rachel remembered too well from her own hospital stays. A ventilator hissed rhythmically, breathing for the woman who could no longer breathe for herself.

Nathan Mitchell sat beside the bed, his shoulders hunched, one hand gripping his mother's limp fingers. His other hand absently stroked her arm, as if trying to comfort her even in her unconscious state. He looked up as Rachel entered, his face hardening. Dark circles under his bloodshot eyes spoke of sleepless nights, and his rumpled clothes suggested he'd been wearing them for days.

"Get out." His voice was rough, either from disuse or too much use—Rachel couldn't tell which. He didn’t even bother asking who she was, where she was from, or why she was there.

"Mr. Mitchell, I'm Special Agent Rachel Gift with the FBI." She kept her voice calm, neutral, though her heart was racing. Something about this room, this situation, felt wrong in a way she couldn't quite pinpoint. She shows him her badge and ID while keeping her distance.

His laugh was bitter, echoing off the sterile walls. "Of course you are. The hospital's really pulling out all the stops now, aren't they? Bringing in the feds to get rid of the problematic son?" He stood, his chair scraping against the floor with a sound that made Rachel wince. "What's next? The National Guard?"

"I'm not here about your situation with the hospital." Rachel moved closer, but maintained enough distance to give him space—and to keep herself out of immediate reach if he became violent. "It does raise some red flag for sure, but it’s not why I’m here. Though I can see why you're fighting so hard. It's not easy watching someone you love like this. Feeling helpless."

“And how would you know?” he asked aggressively.

“I’m a cancer survivor. A tumor that was supposed to be a death sentence. And while I was dealing with that, I lost a husband and then a grandmother. And I lost them in…” She stopped, shocked that she was on the verge of getting emotional. “I lost them in absolutely awful ways.”

Something flickered in his eyes – surprise at her understanding, perhaps. But his voice remained hard. "You don't know anything about this, though. You don't know what it's like to watch them keep her like this, trapped in her own body, when she'd want to be with Dad…her husband, gone for four years now."

"I know more than you might think." Rachel glanced at the monitors, their steady rhythm a counterpoint to the tension in the room. "I've spent enough time in hospitals to understand the feeling of being trapped here. The powerlessness." She paused, choosing her next words carefully. "But I'm here about something else. Judge Marcus Smith. James Harrison. Dr. Patricia Walsh. Do those names mean anything to you?"

Nathan's face paled slightly, the color draining away under the harsh hospital lights. He nodded and said, “They were involved in my mother's case. The judge, the prosecutor..." His eyes widened, filled with something almost like accusation. "What about them?"

Rachel watched his reaction carefully. "Judge Smith is dead. And James Harrison and Dr. Walsh are missing. The working assumption is that whoever killed Smith has abducted Harrison and Walsh. Given their connection to your mother's case, I need to ask where you've been the past few days."

"Dead?" Nathan's voice cracked. He ran a trembling hand through his disheveled hair. "Smith is dead and…and you think I—" He gestured wildly at the room around him. "I've been here. Ask anyone. I've barely left this room in days. I'm too exhausted fighting with these people who claim they're helping her, but they're just prolonging her suffering." His voice broke, and tears welled in his eyes. "She'd want to be with Dad now. I know she would. But they won't listen."

Rachel studied him. The dark circles under his eyes, the rumpled clothes that looked slept in – it all supported his story. But she'd learned long ago that appearances could be deceiving. Still, something about his reaction felt genuine. Raw.

"I need you to come with me and my partner, Mr. Mitchell. We need to get an official statement."

"I'm not leaving her." His jaw set stubbornly, and his hand tightened on his mother's. "I can't. What if she wakes up alone?"

“The doctors and nurses will be h—”

“Fuck the doctors and nurses.”

Rachel's heart ached at the hope in his voice, even as her professional judgment told her that Marjorie Mitchell would never wake up again. "You're not under arrest," she said carefully. "But refusing to cooperate will only make things more complicated. We can do this the easy way. The sooner we talk, the sooner you can come back. This case…it's quite serious, and right now, any defiance you toss up is going to make you look more and more like a suspect."

Nathan looked at his mother's still form, conflict clear on his face. The monitors beeped steadily, marking the seconds of his indecision. Finally, his shoulders sagged. "Fine. But I want to come back as soon as we're done. And I want updates if anything changes."

Rachel led him out into the hallway, where Novak waited. One look at her partner's face made her stomach drop. His expression was grim, and he held his phone in his hand. She knew before he spoke that something had gone terribly wrong.

"What is it?" she asked, though part of her already knew.

"The police found Dr. Walsh," Novak said quietly. "She's dead."

Nathan made a choked sound behind her, and Rachel turned to see genuine shock and horror on his face. Either he was an excellent actor, or they'd been looking at the wrong suspect all along. As that thought took root—the doubt working its way deeper into her mind--pieces began shifting in her mind, forming a new and disturbing picture.

Maybe Nathan Mitchell had nothing to do with these killings. Maybe all of the arrows pointing to guilt were indeed a coincidence. All she knew for sure was that they needed to get to Walsh’s body and get

Nathan's official statement. Rachel gestured toward the elevator, noting how the security guards visibly relaxed as Nathan moved away from his mother's room. She saw him looking back, as if he fully expected the gathered nurses to storm into the room.

“Mr. Mitchell…you’ve been here all morning?” Novak asked.

“Yes. I swear. The nurses will back that up.”

Rachel considered this. Depending on what they found on Walsh’s body or at the scene, Nathan’s morning spent in the hospital just might clear him.

But there was only one way to know for sure.