Page 8 of Her Last Promise (Rachel Gift #19)

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across Maple Grove, a middle-class neighborhood that had seen better days. Rachel sat in the passenger seat while Novak guided the Bureau sedan past rows of 1970s ranches and split-levels, their aging facades telling stories of deferred maintenance and underwater mortgages. Dead leaves skittered across browning lawns, dancing in the chill October breeze that carried winter's first whispers. It seemed like an odd neighborhood for a former doctor to live in, though it made a bit more sense as they actually arrived at Porter’s home.

"Number 2347," Novak said, checking his phone. "Should be coming up on the right."

Rachel slowed as they approached the Porter residence. Like its neighbors, the house bore an ancient look but his, at least, has been well-tended to. It was obviously one of the nicer homes in the neighborhood. A bare wrap-around porch seemed to make it stand out more than the other homes surrounding it. A few patches of determined chrysanthemums fought for survival in the flowerbed by the porch stairs, their purple and bronze blooms nodding in the cold wind.

Novak parked the car along the curb even though there was a driveway that led to a single-car garage. When he parked, they both looked to the house expectantly. "Maybe this will be it," Novak said hopefully.

“It?” Rachel asked.

“This visit that wraps this case up.”

Rachel shrugged, but she was already starting to doubt it.

They made their way up the walkway, a few fallen leaves crunching beneath their feet. The wind picked up, carrying with it the sharp bite of approaching evening. Rachel pulled her jacket tighter and pressed the doorbell. Through the frosted glass panels flanking the door, she caught movement—a shadow approaching with measured steps.

The door opened with a protesting creak, revealing a woman in her early fifties. Her ash-blonde hair was pulled back in a severe bun, and despite the casual sweater and jeans she wore, something in her bearing suggested country club membership and charity galas.

"Can I help you?" Her voice carried the clipped precision of someone accustomed to being listened to.

Rachel displayed her credentials. "I'm Special Agent Rachel Gift with the FBI, and this is Special Agent Novak. We're looking for Dr. Gregory Porter."

"I'm Madeline Porter." She stepped onto the porch, pulling the door firmly closed behind her. In doing so, she made it quite clear that she would not be inviting them inside, despite the cold weather. "Gregory isn't home."

The woman's posture was a study in defensive body language—arms crossed, weight shifted away from them, chin slightly elevated. Rachel had interviewed enough reluctant witnesses to recognize the signs of someone preparing to stonewall.

"When do you expect him back?" Novak asked.

Madeline's perfectly manicured fingers drummed against her arm. "I'm not entirely sure. His schedule has been... irregular lately."

It was apparent to Rachel that the woman was lying. The question, of course, was what was she lying about?

"Mrs. Porter," Rachel said, noting how the woman's jaw tightened at the formal address, "it's quite chilly out here. Perhaps we could continue this conversation inside?"

"I prefer not to have visitors in the house right now." Madeline's smile was brittle as old china. "I'm in the middle of some cleaning."

Through the window beside the door, Rachel caught glimpses of an immaculate living room. No cleaning supplies in sight, no vacuum cleaner, not even a duster. The lie was as transparent as the glass she was peering through.

A gust of wind rattled the dying leaves of a nearby maple, sending a shower of orange and red spiraling down around them. Madeline shivered but made no move to invite them in.

Rachel decided to change tactics. "Mrs. Porter, I'll be direct with you. We're investigating a murder, and your husband's name has come up in connection with the case."

The color drained from Madeline's face. For a moment, her carefully maintained facade cracked, revealing something raw and frightened underneath. She swayed slightly, one hand reaching out to steady herself against the door frame.

"A murder?" The word came out as barely more than a whisper. "That's impossible. Gregory couldn't—" She stopped, drew a deep breath, and seemed to come to a decision. She stood straight, going for a look of defiance that, instead, came off as sheer confusion. “Fine…” she hissed.

“What is it, Mrs. Porter?” Novak asked.

"Gregory has been in rehab for the past two weeks. Following a suicide attempt." She still tried to look as if she was mad and in charge, but the pain and shame in her eyes was too plain to see. The admission hung in the air between them, heavy as the approaching storm clouds. Rachel exchanged a quick glance with Novak before turning back to Madeline.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Rachel said softly. "Would you mind telling us what led to this?"

Madeline laughed, a harsh, bitter sound that seemed to surprise even her. She looked back to the door as if she may have changed her mind about allowing them in but seemed to decide against it. "What led to it? Everything. Nothing." She wrapped her arms tighter around herself, as if trying to hold something in. "Do you know what it's like to watch someone you love destroy themselves piece by piece?"

She didn't wait for an answer. "Gregory was brilliant. One of the best anesthesiologists in the state. We had everything—the practice, the house in the Hamptons, private schools for the kids.” She frowned and lightly stamped her foot on the porch. “That’s why we stayed in this house. It’s nice enough, sure, but Gregory always preferred to spend his money elsewhere. We had a good life, a fun and exciting life. Then came the mistakes. Small ones at first, barely noticeable. He'd forget to document a dosage on his forms at work, show up late for procedures, snap at the nurses."

“Was he drinking then, as well?” Rachel asked.

“Yes, but not in a…not excessively. The heavy drinking started after he lost his license. Just a glass of wine with dinner, then a bottle, then whatever he could get his hands on. When that wasn't enough, he…he got stupid. Almost overnight, it’s as if he decided to just throw everything away. Getting drunk off his ass wasn’t good enough anymore… he turned to cocaine." She spat the word like poison. "Said it helped him focus, and that it would him figure out how to get his license back. Instead, it took everything we had left."

Rachel thought of the neighborhood around them, the aging houses and tired dreams. How many similar stories played out behind those windows?

"A little more than two weeks ago, I found him in his study." Madeline's voice had gone flat, emotionless. "He'd taken a mixture of alcohol and pills. If I'd been ten minutes later..." She shook her head. "The next morning, he admitted that he’d tried to kill himself. So I gave him no choice…I drove him to Riverside Recovery Center. He's been there ever since."

"We'll need to verify his presence there," Novak said, his tone professional but gentle. "For the timeframe of our investigation."

Something flickered across Madeline's face—annoyance, perhaps, or fear. But she nodded. "Riverside is about fifteen minutes north of the city, just off Highway 23. They can confirm he hasn't left the grounds since his admission. If there’s a murder or some other sort of sordid activity you’re trying to pin on him, that should be more than enough to prove his innocence."

The true, unblemished anger was back in her voice now and when she reached back for the doorknob, Rachel knew the conversation was over.

"Thank you, Mrs. Porter," Rachel said. "We appreciate your candor."

Madeline's mask of polite distance slipped back into place. "If that's all?"

They thanked her and turned to leave. As they reached the car, the porch light clicked on, casting their shadows long across the driveway. Rachel glanced back to see Madeline still standing in the doorway, a lonely figure framed by warm light, watching them with unreadable eyes.

The car doors shut with hollow thuds. Rachel sat for a moment as Novak slid behind the steering wheel, processing what they'd learned.

"Well," Novak said as he started the engine. "That gives Porter a pretty solid alibi, assuming it checks out."

Rachel nodded slowly. "Maybe too solid."

"You think she's lying?"

"I think she's terrified," Rachel replied, starting the engine. "The question is: of what?"

“Well, her husband did try to kill himself after they essentially lost everything she thought of as good in her life. Maybe she’s wondering what else might be coming. Maybe she thinks he might have done some other awful thing."

They backed out of the driveway and pulled away from the curb, the Porter house growing smaller in the rearview mirror. The neighborhood felt different as they drove away, its quiet streets and modest homes holding secrets that seemed darker than they had just an hour before. And as Rachel now understood that she would absolutely miss dinner with her family, she also felt the tug of this case, growing larger ahead of her and demanding her full attention.

It felt too much like the past, reminding her of promises she’d broken time and time again. But this was yet another thought she had to tuck away for later consideration. Right now, they had a killer to find.