Page 13 of Her Last Warning (Rachel Gift #21)

Her fingers brushed against her temple, where a dull ache had taken residence.

The day's frustrations weighed on her like a physical thing, pressing down on her shoulders as she gathered her computer bag from the passenger seat.

But as she pushed open the front door, the sight before her washed away the exhaustion: Jack and Paige sprawled on the couch, illuminated by the TV's blue glow, sharing a large bowl of ice cream between them.

The domesticity of the moment tightened her chest a bit as it warmed her heart.

"Well, look who finally made it home," Jack said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He was still in his work clothes, tie loosened and sleeves rolled up, looking as tired as she felt but smiling nonetheless.

Rachel dropped her computer bag by the door and collapsed onto the couch beside them, letting herself sink into the worn cushions.

The case files could wait fifteen minutes.

Just fifteen minutes to be present with her family, to breathe in the simple routines of family life.

She hated that moments like these were becoming less and less common.

"Want some?" Paige held out a spoonful of ice cream, the chocolate sauce dripping precariously over the edge.

"What kind is it?"

"Rocky Road," Paige announced proudly, digging her spoon in for another bite. "Jack got it on his way home. We've been waiting for you to join us." It was said in jest, though; they both knew Rachel hated everything about Rocky Road.

Rachel's nose wrinkled. "No thanks. Gross."

"Gross?" Jack's eyebrows shot up. "That's fighting words in this house. Rocky Road is a classic."

"Please," Rachel scoffed, tucking her feet under her on the couch. "Everyone knows mint chocolate chip is superior. It's refreshing, sophisticated—"

"It tastes like toothpaste," Paige cut in, making an exaggerated gagging sound. "Mom, I love you, but that's like eating frozen Colgate."

"Take that back!" Rachel grabbed a throw pillow and hugged it to her chest. "At least I'm not the one eating rocks."

"They're marshmallows!" Paige protested, brandishing her spoon like a sword. "Perfectly soft, wonderful marshmallows."

"Rocks," Rachel insisted. "Little chocolate-covered rocks. And don't even get me started on the nuts. Disgusting." She felt that warm surge in her heart again, amazed at just how easily it was for her to make this transition.

Jack shook his head solemnly, reaching over to pat Rachel's knee. "I can't believe I married someone with such terrible taste in ice cream. Maybe we should get divorced."

"Oh yeah?" Rachel challenged, fighting back a smile. "What's your perfect flavor then, Mr. Ice Cream Expert?"

"Cookie dough," Jack said without hesitation, sitting up straighter. "The perfect balance of vanilla and—"

"Raw eggs," Rachel cut in, dodging the playful swat he aimed at her.

"Chunks of heaven," Jack corrected, his voice taking on a dreamy quality. "The exact right ratio of cookie dough to ice cream, with those little chocolate chips mixed in..."

Paige rolled her eyes so hard that Rachel worried they might get stuck. "You're both wrong. Rocky Road is clearly the best because it has everything. Chocolate, nuts, marshmallows—"

"Rocks," Rachel coughed into her hand.

The debate spiraled, each of them defending their choices with increasingly ridiculous arguments.

Jack launched into a detailed history of cookie dough ice cream's invention, while Paige insisted that Rocky Road had actually been created by ancient civilizations who discovered frozen chocolate in mountain caves.

Rachel felt the tension in her shoulders loosening with each laugh, each playful jab.

These were the moments she'd missed during her illness, the simple joy of being together, being alive.

And now she knew that her job might also be in the process of stealing it again.

That, or Cody Austin.

At nine-thirty, Jack clicked off the TV. "Time for bed, kiddo."

"Heeey!" Paige groaned, drawing out the word. "None of my friends have bedtimes anymore. Sarah stays up until midnight, and Jessica—"

"Well, it's a good thing they're not my kids then," Rachel said, standing and stretching. "Come on, I'll walk you up."

As they climbed the stairs, Paige launched into a detailed account of her day, her voice echoing off the walls.

Rachel listened intently, drinking in the normalcy of it all—the drama of sixth-grade lunch tables, where Cameron had maybe-sort-of asked out Lily but then denied it completely, the upcoming science project on plate tectonics that Paige was partnering with her best friend Emma for, the way her history teacher Mr. Peterson had accidentally written on the SmartBoard with a regular marker and spent ten minutes trying to erase it while the class watched in horror.

In the bathroom, Paige scrubbed her face while Rachel leaned against the doorframe, asking questions about her classes, her friends, the upcoming weekend.

It struck Rachel how grown-up her daughter looked now, caught in that delicate space between child and teenager.

The time she'd lost to work, to illness, pressed against her heart.

"So Emma thinks we should do our project on earthquakes," Paige said, patting her face dry with a towel. "But I think volcanoes would be cooler. What do you think?"

"Definitely volcanoes," Rachel agreed. "You could do a model with real eruptions."

Paige's eyes lit up. "That's what I said! We could use baking soda and vinegar and food coloring."

As they walked to Paige's bedroom, her daughter spun around suddenly, as if struck by a sudden idea. "Oh! I almost forgot—you know that bracelet Jack got me for Christmas? I think I lost it."

"You think ?"

"Well, it might be in my homeroom class," Paige said, chewing her lower lip. "I'll check tomorrow. I can't actually remember putting it on recently, but it's not in my jewelry box or on my wrist. I looked everywhere in my room."

Rachel's heart squeezed. Besides the necklace from Grandma Tate, the bracelet had been Paige's first piece of real jewelry. The delicate silver chain with its tiny heart charm had been Jack's way of welcoming her in a way…of taking the step of being her father-figure.

"We'll all look for it this weekend, okay?” Rachel said. “It has to be somewhere in the house."

"I feel terrible," Paige admitted, her voice small.

"Hey," Rachel pulled her daughter into a hug. "These things happen. We'll find it."

As they entered her bedroom, the routine of it all came back easily enough—Rachel tucking Paige into bed, smoothing the covers around her shoulders.

She kissed her cheek and breathed in the familiar scent of her strawberry shampoo.

She wondered how many more years she had of this.

Or were they maybe already down to months?

"Sweet dreams, baby."

"You, too?" Paige said as Rachel reached the door. "I’m glad I got to see you for a while tonight.”

Rachel cut off the light, closed the door, and headed for the stairs with her heart feeling full and energized. Downstairs, she found that Jack had already set up her laptop on the kitchen table, the screen casting a blue glow across the wooden surface.

"Is it that obvious?" she asked, settling into a chair.

He shrugged, moving to stand behind her. "You only bring your computer bag home if you have work to do. How's the case going?"

Rachel filled him in on the three victims, their miraculous recoveries turned tragic endings.

She told him about the footprint, about the hours spent combing through evidence that seemed to lead nowhere.

Jack listened intently, his hands resting on her shoulders, thumbs working at the knots of tension there.

"I'll leave you to it then," he said finally, but paused.

"Tomorrow's Friday, and except for a small meeting Saturday morning, I have the whole weekend free.

If this case wraps up by then, maybe we could do something as a family.

I think Paige is starting to miss having you around all the time, even if she won't admit it. "

"That sounds wonderful," Rachel said, meaning it. "But this case..."

"I know." He kissed the top of her head. "I'm heading up to read. Don't stay up too late?"

"I'll be there soon," she promised, though uncertainty tugged at the words.

Alone in the kitchen, Rachel stared at the computer screen for a moment, thinking.

Dr. Walsh's social media posts about her research sparked a thought. Social media. Wouldn’t the victims have shared their good news online?

With the popularity of social media as a means of communication, it would make sense.

Working on that hunch, her fingers flew across the keyboard as she searched for their accounts, the ticking of the kitchen clock marking time as she dove deeper into their digital lives. And just as she’d suspected, there was plenty of public confirmation of the recoveries.

Michelle Lester's celebration appeared in a TikTok video, her face tear-streaked as she thanked her doctors, her voice breaking with joy as she announced her clean bill of health.

The camera shook slightly as she spoke, making the moment feel raw, real.

The comments overflowed with hearts and celebration emojis, friends and strangers alike sharing in her miracle.

"God is good!" one commenter wrote. "You deserve this second chance," said another.

Millie Connors had chosen Facebook, her post a lengthy tribute to her medical team and the power of prayer.

She'd included photos from her last day of treatment, her smile radiant despite the obvious toll the illness had taken. She’d spent several paragraphs detailing her journey from diagnosis to recovery.

The thread beneath stretched long with well-wishes and praise for her strength, her courage, her determination.

Rachel noticed how Millie had taken time to respond to each comment, her gratitude palpable in every word.

Robert Hayes's announcement was briefer—a simple Facebook status thanking friends and family for their support during his recovery.

Even in its simplicity, the post had garnered dozens of responses, each celebrating his second chance at life.

His wife had commented with a string of heart emojis, followed by "So blessed to have more time with you." Rachel smiled, though she’d always found it very odd when married couples commented on one another’s social media posts.

Rachel sat back, her mind churning. Three victims, three social media announcements.

Could this be how the killer found them?

She dove into the comments, scanning for anything unusual, any name that appeared across multiple posts, any hint of bitterness or resentment hidden among the celebrations.

Her eyes burned as she scrolled through hundreds of responses, looking for the needle in this digital haystack.

The clock on her laptop blinked to 11:57 before she noticed the lateness of the hour.

Stifling a yawn, she fired off a quick text to Novak, filling him in on her social media theory before shutting down the computer.

As she climbed the stairs, her mind refused to quiet, turning over this new connection between the victims. Was it meaningful, or just another dead end in a case that hit too close to home?

In the darkness of the hallway, she paused outside Paige's room, listening to her daughter's steady breathing.

The sound anchored her, as it had during her illness, during the nights when pain kept her awake and fear threatened to overwhelm her.

She thought of the victims, of their joy at being given second chances, only to have them violently stripped away.

Of Michelle Lester's tearful TikTok, Millie Connors's grateful posts, Robert Hayes's simple thanks.

All of them celebrating life, unaware that death was still watching, waiting.