Page 12 of Her Last Warning (Rachel Gift #21)

The row of townhouses sat flat against the darkening sky, their identical shapes and features creating a stark geometry of shadows and angles in the fading light.

Rachel pulled the car into a vacant spot in front of the unit in question—the home belonging to Michelle Lester.

Two patrol cars were already positioned at awkward angles near the entrance, their presence marking this ordinary home as something else entirely.

A uniformed officer was stretching yellow crime scene tape across the concrete stairs as Rachel and Novak approached.

His movements were mechanical and practiced as he secured it to the thin black railings.

The metal posts seemed to almost glisten in the dark, their paint chipped and weathered from years of hands sliding across their surface.

Rachel flashed her badge without breaking stride, ducking under the tape as Sergeant Lane appeared in the doorway ahead of her.

She didn't waste time with greetings. "Where's the body?"

Lane gestured for them to follow, leading them through a living room that immediately caught Rachel's attention.

Unlike the previous scenes, this one spoke of resistance, of desperate moments that had turned violent.

A leather armchair sat crooked and pushed back from its usual position, marked by the deep indentations in the carpet.

A single framed portrait had fallen from a shelf against the wall to the right.

The space was small to the point of being nearly cramped, a lot of it taken up by the TV and bookcase.

The kitchen told an even more chaotic story.

Papers and mail lay strewn across the linoleum as if caught in a windstorm, their edges curled and bent where feet had trampled them.

A wooden chair lay on its side, though was somehow still partially tucked beneath the table.

The overhead lights cast harsh shadows across the disorder, creating dark pockets in corners where secrets might hide.

And there, in the threshold between kitchen and a small hallway that led to the laundry room and powder room, lay Michelle Lester.

Rachel crouched beside the body, her eyes drawn to the victim's neck.

The bruising told its own story – fresh, purple-black marks that hadn't had time to fade or settle.

The skin around them still held a pinkish hue that spoke of very recent death, perhaps only hours old.

These weren't the marks of rope or wire, but of carefully gloved hands…

just like the other scenes. The placement suggested someone strong, someone who knew exactly how much pressure to apply.

"What do we know about her?" Rachel asked, not taking her eyes off the victim.

Lane shifted his weight, the floorboards creaking beneath him.

"A friend of hers found her like this. Confirmed Michelle had recently beaten some kind of serious neurological condition.

Doctors had written her off, apparently, but she recovered with pretty much no reasonable explanation a month or so ago.

The friend's pretty shaken up, but she's outside in one of the patrol cars if you want to talk to her. "

Rachel nodded, then asked the question she already knew the answer to. "Was there another note?"

"On the fridge," Lane replied, gesturing toward the stainless-steel surface. The killer had used a magnet of a kitten wearing a sombrero to hold up his latest letter. Thick black letters spelled out their message in marker: FATE CHOOSES WHO DESERVES TO LIVE.

The words hung in the air like a challenge. Rachel stood slowly, her knees protesting the movement. "We need to talk to the friend."

“Follow me,” Lane said, his voice tired and a bit haggard.

Outside, the evening had settled fully around them, street lights casting orange pools across the pavement. Lane led them to the nearest patrol car and opened the passenger door. A young woman sat inside, her makeup streaked with tears, hands clutching a crumpled tissue.

"This is Lacey," Lane said quietly. "Lacey, these are Agents Gift and Novak, with the FBI."

Rachel leaned down slightly, keeping her voice gentle but firm. "Lacey, I know this is difficult, but we need to ask you some questions. It could help us find who did this to Michelle. Would that be okay?"

Lacey nodded, sniffling. Her fingers worked the tissue into smaller and smaller pieces.

"How well did you know Michelle?" Rachel asked.

"She was my best…best friend." Lacey's voice was barely above a whisper. "We’ve known each other since college. We went to VCU together. Were roommates for a while after graduation too."

"Does she have any family in the area?"

"Not in the area, no. In terms of family, there’s just her mom, but they don't really talk. She's in Ohio anyway. Her dad…he died when she was young. Car accident, I think." Lacey's eyes darted between Rachel and Novak, as if searching for something in their expressions.

Novak stepped forward slightly. "How long ago did you find her?"

"About an hour and a half." Fresh tears welled up in Lacey's eyes. "We spent the whole afternoon together, shopping, snacking…celebrating her recovery. Not that it matters now. She beat these impossible odds and then…now she's dead anyway and—" Her voice broke, dissolving into quiet sobs.

Rachel waited a moment before pressing on, doing her best to be both respectful and professional at the same time. "When you were out today, did you notice anyone following you? Anyone who seemed particularly interested in Michelle, or maybe tried to talk to her?"

Lacey shook her head, wiping at her eyes. "No, nothing like that. It was just a normal day. We were having fun, you know? Making plans... I don’t remember anything weird or…no, nothing like that.”

"What brought you back to her house tonight?" Novak asked.

"We were supposed to go out." Lacey's voice grew stronger for a moment, anger threading through the grief. "Dancing, maybe hit a few bars, chat up some guys. Just be normal people for once. After everything she'd been through with her condition... she deserved that much."

"Was anyone else here when you arrived?" Rachel watched Lacey's face carefully.

"No. Nobody."

"Was the door was unlocked?"

"Yeah, but that wasn't weird,” she answered, wiping a few tears away. We'd texted earlier, and she said she'd leave it open since she'd be getting ready in the bathroom." Lacey's composure crumbled again. "If I'd just gotten here sooner..."

Rachel placed a gentle hand on the car door. "You couldn't have known, Lacey. You've been very helpful. If you think of anything else, even something that seems small, please call us." She handed Lacey her card, knowing the younger woman probably wouldn't even look at it until tomorrow.

As they walked back toward the house, Rachel's mind returned to the scene inside.

The scattered papers, the overturned furniture, the broken picture frame – Michelle had fought back.

Unlike the other victims, she'd sensed the danger and tried to survive.

That could mean mistakes on the killer's part.

Evidence left behind in the struggle. Maybe he was getting sloppy.

Rachel ducked under the crime scene tape again, her eyes already adjusting to find new angles, new shadows to explore. Michelle Lester had fought for her life. Maybe in doing so, she'd left them a breadcrumb trail to follow.

The kitchen looked different now, knowing what had happened here.

Rachel could almost see the sequence of events – Michelle, probably getting ready upstairs when someone arrived.

The killer must have seemed harmless enough for her to let them in, or maybe they had simply taken advantage of the unlocked front door.

She would have tried to run first. The overturned chair suggested she'd pushed it behind her, trying to create an obstacle.

The scattered papers might have been grabbed and thrown as a distraction.

The path of destruction led toward the front door – she'd almost made it.

The broken picture frame in the living room marked where she'd been caught, probably thrown against the wall.

And then the final moments, there between kitchen and bathroom. Had she been trying to barricade herself in the powder room? Or had she simply run out of places to run?

Rachel moved through the space slowly, cataloging every detail. The killer was escalating, getting bolder or maybe more desperate. Michelle's resistance might have pushed them off script, forced them to improvise. And people made mistakes when they improvised.

She stepped closer to the refrigerator, studying the note again. The same thick black marker, the same forceful strokes. But something about the placement felt different this time. Less ceremonial, more rushed. Like an afterthought rather than a ritual. It was almost casual.

The killer seemed to be changing their pattern in small ways. Rachel wasn't sure if that made them more or less dangerous, but she knew one thing for certain – change meant vulnerability. And vulnerability was exactly what they needed to catch this monster before they struck again.

As she stood there in Michelle Lester's kitchen, Sergeant Lane came up to her. Behind them, Novak was canvassing the living room.

“Anything I can do for you, agent?” Lane asked her.

"Yes, actually. Can you get someone to make sure Agent Novak and I get everything on Michelle Lester's recovery? Medical records, doctors, support groups – anything that might connect her to our other victims. Someone chose her for a reason, and I want to know why."

The sergeant nodded, already pulling out his phone to make the necessary calls. Rachel turned back to the crime scene, letting the details wash over her again. Somewhere in this chaos of overturned furniture and scattered papers lay the truth they needed. She just had to find it.

The sound of cameras clicking behind her told her the crime scene unit had arrived.

Soon, this place would be crawling with technicians, each one hunting for their own piece of the puzzle.

Rachel took one last look around, committing every detail to memory.

For now, it was back to the painstaking work of connecting dots, following leads, hunting down every possible connection between Michelle and the other victims.

And they had to do it all while also knowing full well that the killer remained at large.