Page 9 of Her Last Promise (Rachel Gift #19)

When Rachel ended the call to the rehab facility, she slipped her phone into her jacket pocket and looked straight ahead. They’d just barely managed to miss the rush hour traffic along the interstate, which was a blessing in this part of the city. Through the windshield, little specks of cold, winter rain had started to fall, blurring the world beyond.

"They know we're on the way and are going to make sure Porter is ready to receive visitors when we get there," she told Novak. "They did mention that because of the sensitive nature of our visit, one of his therapists will have to be present."

She watched her partner's profile as he concentrated on the road. After months of working together, she was finally starting to read his subtle expressions – the slight tightening around his eyes that suggested he shared her frustration with their progress on the case. What had felt like it might be a quick one-and-done sort of case when it was assigned to them just seven hours ago now looked like it was going to be a maze of sorts.

Novak drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, a habit she'd noticed emerged when he was processing information. "And if Porter's been there the whole time..."

"Then we're back to square one," Rachel finished, voicing the fear that had been gnawing at her since they'd discovered Porter's whereabouts. "We'll have to dig through Smith's case files again, see what other disgruntled defendants might have had reason to want him dead." The thought settled like lead in her stomach. More files. More dead ends. More time for their killer to get away.

The silence in the car grew heavy with shared dread at the prospect of starting over. Rachel found herself thinking of Jack, probably on his way home right now—if not already there. He would have known exactly what to say to break this tension. Novak was good at his job, but he didn't yet have that intuitive understanding of when she needed a moment of levity to counter the darkness of their work.

The rehab facility materialized through the sprinkling rain like a mirage – a sprawling Tudor-style mansion set back from the road by expansive, manicured grounds. Even through the dismal weather, Rachel could see the meticulous care given to the landscaping. Japanese maples, their leaves brilliant crimson despite the gray afternoon, lined the circular drive. Carefully shaped topiary created living sculptures between beds of late-blooming chrysanthemums. Stone pathways wound through the gardens, disappearing around corners that promised peaceful meditation spots and hidden fountains.

The building itself rose before them like something from a British period drama – all steep gables and mullioned windows, with ivy climbing the aged brick in artfully controlled patterns.

"Are all rehab places this nice?” Novak asked.

“I’m not sure, actually. But I guess it makes sense to provide a peaceful, serene place if you’re trying to help people overcome their addictions.”

“Maybe. But this place makes me feel like I’m about to go have a hot stone massage or something.”

Rachel shot him a sharp look, but she had to admit the facility looked more like a luxury resort than a rehabilitation center. The entrance featured soaring stone archways and gleaming brass fixtures that someone obviously polished daily. A series of glass doors offered glimpses of the lobby beyond, where warm light spilled from ornate sconces onto rich wood paneling.

They parked in a visitor spot near the front entrance and hurried through the cold rain to the doors.

Inside, the lobby ceiling stretched two stories high, dominated by a massive crystal chandelier that cast rainbow prisms across the marble floors below. Comfortable-looking leather chairs were arranged in intimate groupings around carved wooden coffee tables, each holding fresh flower arrangements that perfumed the air. The overall effect was one of understated wealth and privilege – the kind of place where affluent families could send their troubled members without having to admit they were really sending them to rehab.

A man was already waiting for them at the reception desk – trim, well-dressed in dark pants, a button-down shirt, and a crisp tie. Rachel guessed him to be maybe forty years old with prematurely graying temples that only added to his air of authority. He stepped forward with a practiced smile as they approached, his shoes clicking quietly on the marble floor.

"Agents Gift and Novak?”

“That’s us,” Rachel said, showing her badge and ID.

“I'm Dean Haverty, one of Mr. Porter's therapists." His handshake was firm but not aggressive, his manner professional yet warmly appropriate for someone in his position. "Would you'll follow me?"

The hallway he led them down was wide and peaceful, with thick carpeting in muted earth tones that muffled their footsteps. Original artwork hung on walls painted in soothing sage green – landscapes mostly, Rachel noticed, all featuring calm waters and distant horizons. The air carried a faint scent of lavender, just enough to be calming without being cloying. Every few yards, small seating alcoves offered private spaces for quiet conversation. Rachel took note of the fact that Haverty didn’t even attempt speaking to them as they walked. She wondered if it had something to do about regulations concerning discussions about patients in open areas.

Finally, they came to one of the alcoves, just outside of an office. Haverty gestured for them to sit, and they did. Haverty remained standing, giving them a warm smile.

"Mr. Porter has made good progress since his arrival," Haverty said, his voice pitched to match the hushed atmosphere of the hallway. "But there's still quite a bit of work ahead. His addiction stems from deep-seated trauma, and we're only beginning to peel back those layers." He paused briefly, choosing his words. "The loss of his medical license hit him particularly hard. In many ways, he's still mourning the death of his former identity." He frowned and said, “Sadly, that’s all I can tell you without breaching confidentiality, as I’m sure you understand.”

“Yes, of course,” Novak said.

Rachel found herself studying their guide more carefully. There was something in his manner that suggested he truly cared about his patients' recovery, rather than just seeing them as wealthy clients to be managed. It was in the slight furrow of his brow when he spoke about Porter's struggles, the way his steps slowed almost imperceptibly as they approached their destination.

"Has he left the facility at all since checking in?" Rachel asked bluntly, earning a slight frown from Novak at her directness.

Haverty shook his head without hesitation. "No. Unless there's some sort of family emergency, our residents are not allowed to leave until each therapist working with them has signed off. Mr. Porter hasn't reached that stage yet." He gestured to a security camera mounted discreetly in a corner. "We take the safety and security of our residents very seriously. He has been here for exactly two weeks as of today and has not stepped off the grounds a single time."

“Is he in there?” Rachel asked, nodding to the door on the other side of the alcove.

Haverty nodded, his expression serious. “He is. And you can speak to him but, as you were told on the phone, I need to be there when it happens. Also, I should warn you – Gregory is in a fairly depressed state right now. We're working through some difficult memories, and it's taken a toll. He can be prone to mood swings, so please approach any sensitive topics with care." He looked directly at Rachel as he added, "Sometimes the hardest part of recovery is facing the things we've lost."

Rachel nodded, exchanging a glance with Novak. She could read the silent message in her partner's eyes: handle this carefully. Dean nodded to the door, and Rachel and Novak got to their feet as Haverty opened the door.

The room beyond was clearly designed for comfort – plush armchairs upholstered in warm browns and deep greens, soft lighting from alabaster wall sconces, windows overlooking the grounds where rain still traced patterns down the glass. A gas fireplace cast a gentle glow from one wall, its flames dancing behind crystal-clear glass. But its occupant looked anything but comfortable.

Gregory Porter sat rigid in a straight-backed chair, hands clasped so tightly in his lap that his knuckles showed white against skin that had clearly not seen sunlight in weeks. Dark circles shadowed his bloodshot eyes, making them appear sunken in his gaunt face. His rumpled clothing – expensive casual wear that somehow managed to look both too large and too constraining – hung loose on his frame, suggesting recent and rapid weight loss. His hair stuck up in uncombed tufts, as if he'd been running his fingers through it repeatedly, and a slight tremor in his hands spoke of either anxiety or withdrawal. Perhaps both.

Despite his disheveled appearance, Porter managed a wan smile as they entered. Rachel and Novak took seats on a leather couch across from him, while Dean settled into an armchair positioned slightly to the side, present but trying to be unobtrusive. Rachel noticed how Porter's eyes kept darting to his therapist, as if seeking reassurance.

"Thank you for seeing us, Dr. Porter," Novak began, his tone carefully neutral.

Porter's laugh was hollow, echoing oddly in the peaceful room. "Please. I haven't been 'Doctor' anything for months now. But I am curious why the FBI wants to talk to me." His fingers worked against each other restlessly, and Rachel noticed his nails were bitten to the quick.

She studied him carefully as she spoke, watching for any hint of deception. "Your name came up during our investigation into Judge Marcus Smith's murder."

"Ah." Porter's smile turned bitter, and something dark flickered behind his eyes. "Because of how spectacularly his decision ruined my career? My life?" His voice rose slightly, and Dean shifted in his chair, leaning forward almost imperceptibly. Rachel noticed how Porter's hands had begun to shake more visibly.

"That was one factor we needed to look into, yes," Novak said carefully, his tone deliberately soothing. "Could you tell us about your history with Judge Smith?"

Porter's shoulders slumped, and Rachel watched as the anger seemed to drain out of him, leaving only exhaustion in its wake. "It was a malpractice case. A routine procedure gone wrong – the patient had an undiagnosed condition that caused complications. I'd had a drink the night before. Just one, to help me sleep, but..." He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing in his thin neck. "Someone smelled it on my breath in the OR. Reported me. The patient's family sued. Judge Smith..." His hands clenched tighter, and Rachel could see his nails digging into his palms. "He didn't just rule against me. He made an example of me. Recommended the medical board revoke my license permanently."

"And that's what brought you here?" Rachel asked gently, noting how Dean nodded slightly in approval at her softer tone.

Porter nodded, running trembling fingers through his already-disheveled hair. "I started drinking more. A lot more. Couldn't sleep without it. Couldn't face myself in the mirror without it. My wife left, took the kids..." His voice cracked, and Rachel saw him blink rapidly. "This place was a last resort. Fifteen days sober now." He gave a shaky laugh that held no humor. "Longest fifteen days of my life."

"Fifteen days?" Rachel leaned forward, trying not to show how this detail had just shattered their theory. "You've been here continuously for the past fifteen days?"

"Yeah. Haven't set foot outside. Can't even look at the grounds without someone watching me. Right, Dean?" There was a hint of bitterness in his voice, but also something that might have been gratitude.

The therapist nodded, his expression compassionate but professional. "Mr. Porter has been under continuous supervision since his arrival on the fourth."

Rachel felt the last of her hope deflate. Porter had been safely locked away when Smith was killed. Another dead end. Another day, the killer remained free. She glanced at Novak and saw her own frustration mirrored in his eyes.

"Thank you for your time," she said, standing. "We appreciate your candor."

Porter's bitter smile returned, and Rachel caught a glimpse of the successful doctor he must have been before it all fell apart. "Honesty's part of the program. Along with accepting that some things can't be fixed, no matter how much you might want to hurt the people who broke them." Something in his tone made Rachel study him more closely, but all she saw was bone-deep weariness.

Dean escorted them back through the peaceful hallways, past more landscapes with their serene horizons. Rachel barely noticed them now, her mind already racing ahead to the next steps in their investigation. They'd have to go back through everything, looking for something they must have missed. Time they couldn't afford to waste.

Outside, the rain had stopped, but the sky remained heavy and gray, pressing down like a lid on the world. Rachel paused on the facility's front steps, looking out over the perfectly maintained grounds that suddenly felt more like prison walls than sanctuary. The Japanese maples seemed less beautiful now, their red leaves reminding her too much of other things.

"Well," Novak said beside her, his voice cutting through her dark thoughts, "that's one suspect we can cross off the list."

Rachel nodded, already dreading the mountain of case files waiting for them back at the office. Somewhere in Judge Smith's past was the key to his murder. They just had to hope they could find it before the killer struck again. Before another family got that knock on their door. Before another life was added to the toll of whatever twisted vendetta they were dealing with.

As they walked back to their vehicle, Rachel couldn't shake the feeling that they were missing something obvious. Something right in front of them. But all she could see was Porter's haunted eyes and trembling hands, the way he'd spoken about things that couldn't be fixed. She wondered how many other lives Judge Smith's decisions had shattered, and how many of those shattered people might be capable of murder.