Page 11 of Her Last Warning (Rachel Gift #21)

The business park where Walsh’s office was located was sprawled across six acres of prime real estate, its modern glass buildings reflecting the late afternoon sun. Rachel and Novak approached the front doors, and Rachel tugged at the door handle. Locked.

"Primary physician's usually the last one out," Rachel said, rapping her knuckles against the glass, undeterred. This was a bit of information she’d picked up not just from years with the bureau, but during her long fight in buildings and facilities just like this one.

The sound of her knocking echoed through what appeared to be an empty lobby and rang out musically around them in a faint echo.

She paused for a few moments and then knocked again, a bit harder this time.

Novak shifted his weight, hands in his pockets. "Maybe we should come back tomorrow morning."

Rachel was about to agree when movement caught her eye.

A woman appeared in the lobby, her heels clicking against the polished floor as she approached.

She wore a fitted charcoal blazer over a cream silk blouse, her dark hair pulled back in a neat chignon.

Her expression was guarded as she called through the glass: "We're closed for the day!

If you need to make an appointment, you can—"

Rachel held up her credentials, pressing them against the glass. "Special Agents Gift and Novak, FBI. We need to speak with Dr. Katherine Walsh."

The woman's professional demeanor cracked for just a moment, surprise flickering across her features before she recovered. She produced a key card from her pocket, approached the other side of the door, and swiped the card through an unseen digital reader. The lock disengaged with a soft click.

"I'm Dr. Walsh," she said, holding the door open. "Please, come in. Though I must say, I don't understand why the FBI is here."

The empty lobby greeted them, all clean lines and muted colors.

What remained of the late afternoon sun slanted through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across the grey carpet.

Modern art pieces hung on the walls – abstract shapes in cool blues and greens that seemed chosen specifically to put patients at ease.

A curved reception desk dominated one wall, its surface cleared for the day except for a sleek computer monitor and a small potted orchid.

Walsh gestured to a seating area where four leather armchairs were arranged around a glass coffee table.

"Please, make yourselves comfortable." The chairs creaked softly as they settled in.

In the after-hours quiet, Rachel could hear the gentle hum of the building's heating and even the muffled sound of traffic from just a street over.

"I appreciate you taking the time to speak with us," Rachel began, studying Walsh's face.

The doctor sat with perfect posture, her hands folded in her lap.

Despite the unexpected nature of their visit, she projected an air of complete composure.

"We're investigating a series of murders that we believe may have a connection to the medical community…

more specifically, your area of expertise. "

Walsh's eyebrows drew together slightly. "Murders? I don't understand what that could have to do with my practice."

"The victims," Novak said, leaning forward slightly, "had something specific in common. They'd all recently experienced what could be called miraculous medical recoveries."

Something shifted in Walsh's expression – not quite anger, but a sharp intensity that hadn't been there before. "I see," she said, her voice taking on an edge. "And you're here because...?"

"We spoke with Dr. Yorke earlier today," Rachel explained. "We understand the two of you have worked together in some capacity or another. One of the victims was a patient of Dr. Yorke’s. He mentioned your name, given your expertise with unusual recovery cases."

Walsh's shoulders relaxed marginally. "Ah, Brian sent you." Rachel didn’t bother correcting her; Brian Yorke hadn’t actually sent them at all, but simply mentioned her name.

Walsh uncrossed and recrossed her legs, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from her tailored slacks.

"While I'm certainly disturbed by what you're telling me, I'm still not clear how I can help.

These murders – I assume you're investigating them as being potentially connected? "

Rachel nodded. "The similarities are too specific to ignore."

"Am I allowed to know who the victims were?"

"Marcy Connors and Robert Hayes," Rachel said, watching Walsh's face carefully. "Would you happen to know either of those names?"

After a few seconds of consideration, Dr. Walsh shook her head slowly. "I'm sorry, but neither name is familiar to me." She paused, considering. "They experienced unexpected recoveries? Both of them?"

"Complete reversals of terminal diagnoses," Novak confirmed. "The kind of cases that make medical journals. And they were all quite recent…just in the past few months."

Walsh's lips pressed into a thin line. The setting sun caught the silver threading through her dark hair, creating a momentary halo effect.

"While such cases are rare, they're not unheard of.

I've documented several myself over the years.

" She gestured to a wall of framed certificates and awards—nice space fillers for a lobby where it was important to quickly establish your credentials.

. "It's actually become something of a specialty of mine, studying these outlier cases. "

"Yes, we know…and that's partly why we're here," Rachel said.

"Given your experience in this field, we were hoping you might be able to point us toward individuals or groups who might have strong negative reactions to these types of recoveries.

Perhaps medical professionals whose reputations or positions might be threatened by having their terminal diagnoses proved wrong? "

Even as the words left her mouth, Rachel felt the theory growing weaker. Walsh seemed to share her skepticism before she even answered.

"I understand the logic," Walsh said, "but I don't think you'll find what you're looking for there.

" She stood and walked to the window, her silhouette stark against the deepening sunset.

"In my experience, most medical professionals are overjoyed when a terminal patient defies the odds.

It validates everything we work for." She turned back to face them.

"Yes, I occasionally receive angry correspondence about some of the experimental treatments I've advocated for, but that's more about methodology than results. "

“Have you ever been seriously threatened in any way?” Novak asked.

“No, but there was a moment about a year or so ago when I sent an email I’d received to the police. It was threatening in nature…spewing out threats of sexual abuse. And the sender indicated they knew where I lived.”

“Did anything come of that?” Rachel asked.

“Yes, actually. The police contacted me several days later to let me know they’d linked that email to emails and texts sent to other medical facilities that leaned toward experimental measures. Two men were arrested for it.”

“Do you know if they’re still in jail?”

“I believe they were given three years each. So by that timeline, yes. I’d assume so.”

“Can we get their names?” Novak asked.

“I don’t have them,” Walsh said apologetically.

“That’s fine,” Novak said. “We can reach out to the police and ask for them.”

Rachel was about to pivot the conversation toward another angle – perhaps exploring cases where families had their hopes raised only to be devastated – when her phone vibrated. The screen displayed a number she didn't recognize.

"Excuse me," she said, standing and moving a few steps away. "This is Special Agent Gift."

"Agent Gift, this is Sergeant Lane." The voice on the other end was tight with tension. She recalled Lane from the scene at Marcy Connors’s house. "I wish I was calling with better news, but it looks like we've got a third victim."

“Clearly linked?” she asked.

“Looks that way.”

Rachel's free hand clenched involuntarily.

Behind her, she could hear Walsh speaking quietly to Novak about recent developments in terminal care research, her voice carrying the same measured calm it had maintained throughout their conversation.

The sun had finally dipped below the horizon, leaving the lobby in twilight shadows.

One by one, automatic sensors began switching on the office's overhead lights, creating pools of brightness that seemed to emphasize the growing darkness outside.

"Give me the address," Rachel said, already reaching for her notebook. "We'll head there now."

“I’ll text it to you after this call.”

“Thank you,” she said. With the call over, Rachel glanced back at Walsh, who was now standing near her wall of credentials, pointing out a particular certificate to Novak.

Something about the doctor's perfectly maintained composure needled at Rachel.

It wasn't unusual for medical professionals to develop a certain emotional distance, but Walsh's reaction to news of the murders had been almost too controlled. Not quite right.

Or maybe, Rachel thought, she was seeing shadows where there were none. The case was getting to her, making her question every interaction, every reaction that didn't fit her expectations perfectly. She'd have to be careful not to let that instinct lead her down unproductive paths.

"Dr. Walsh," Rachel said, returning to the seating area. "Thank you for your time. We may need to follow up with you if anything else comes to light."

Walsh nodded, professional mask firmly in place. "Of course. Though I hope you understand that I'll need to see proper documentation before discussing any patient information, should it come to that."

"Naturally," Rachel said. As they made their way to the exit, Walsh's heels clicking softly behind them, Rachel noticed a small plaque partially hidden behind the reception desk.

It was older than the other awards, its brass slightly tarnished.

The inscription mentioned Walsh's groundbreaking work with terminal patients in the early days of her career.

"One last question," Rachel said, pausing at the door. "In your experience with terminal cases that reversed – was there ever any pattern to who recovered and who didn't? Any commonality among the survivors?"

Walsh's hand hesitated on the door handle.

For the first time, her composure wavered slightly.

"That's the cruelest part of it all, isn't it?

" she said softly. "There is no pattern.

No rhyme or reason to who lives and who dies.

Sometimes..." She trailed off, then seemed to catch herself.

Her professional demeanor snapped back into place.

"Sometimes the randomness of it all is the hardest thing for people to accept. "

Rachel nodded, said “thank you” once again, and then stepped out into the gathering night.

The door clicked shut behind them with a finality that seemed too loud in the darkness.

"A third victim?" Novak asked quietly, having put the pieces together.

Rachel nodded. "Yeah. A third victim.." She ran a hand through her hair, frustration evident in the gesture. "But something about this isn't adding up. Walsh's reaction was..."

"Too perfect?" Novak suggested as they approached their car.

"Maybe." Rachel watched the floor numbers tick down. "Or maybe I’m looking so hard for connections that we're starting to see them everywhere. I know why Anderson wanted me on this…because he knew the connection to what I’ve been through would make me more determined. But I…”

“What? You can tell me, Gift.”

“But I wonder if that connection has me jumping at every possible shadow." She sighed as she got into the passenger seat and said, "Either way, we've got another crime scene to process. And I have a feeling it's going to be a long night."