Page 15 of Her Last Warning (Rachel Gift #21)
The city was just beginning to shake off its slumber as Rachel and Novak's sedan rolled through the streets of East Hill.
The neighborhood bore the hallmarks of a community in transition—fresh paint on some facades contrasting sharply with the weathered exteriors of others, newly planted saplings standing guard over cracked sidewalks.
The morning light caught glimpses of potential in the worn buildings, like hope trying to peek through years of neglect.
James Barret's house sat halfway down Cedar Street, a modest two-story that seemed to embody the neighborhood's struggle between decay and renewal.
The white paint was peeling in patches, revealing graying wood underneath, but the porch looked to have recently been stained.
The front porch light fixture hung slightly askew, its glass clouded with dead insects.
Rachel heard the distant rumble of a garbage truck making its rounds, accompanied by the starting of car engines as people prepared to head out for work.
As she and Novak made their way up the concrete path to James Barret’s porch, the morning air carried the aroma of someone's breakfast—bacon and coffee mixing with the lingering dampness of dawn.
They reached the front door, its forest green paint bubbling in spots from age and weather.
Rachel's knuckles had barely left the door when she caught the unmistakable sounds of life within—the gentle clink of silverware against ceramic, the soft thud of cabinet doors, the domestic percussion of someone going about their morning routine.
When no response came, she knocked again, harder this time.
The interior sounds ceased, replaced by the hollow echo of footsteps approaching across what she guessed was hardwood flooring.
The door creaked open, revealing a man who wore his grief like an ill-fitting garment.
It was apparent right away, the moment he answered the door—a man running on little sleep and far too much heartbreak.
James Barret stood before them in a white t-shirt and loose-fitting plaid pajama pants hanging low on his hips.
His salt-and-pepper beard showed no evidence of recent grooming, and his hair stuck out at odd angles, as if he'd been running his fingers through it repeatedly. Dark circles beneath his eyes made his face looked slightly sunken in. In his right hand, he clutched a small kitchen knife, its blade smeared with what appeared to be strawberry jam. Seeing the knife sent small alarms sounding in Rachel’s head as she recalled his one criminal note—attacking someone with a knife at a baseball game.
"Yeah, can I help you?" The words came out sharp, edged with irritation at the early morning intrusion. His eyes, bloodshot and weary, darted between them with the wariness of someone who'd grown accustomed to expecting the worst.
Novak took point, his badge catching the morning light as he held it up. "Mr. Barret? I'm Agent Novak, and this is Agent Gift. We're with the FBI."
"Yeah, I’m James," Barret confirmed, his posture stiffening slightly. "But why's the FBI knocking on my door? And why so early?" Rachel didn’t pick up the slightest bit of guilt or fear. He was genuinely peeved that he’d been interrupted so early. Or at all.
Rachel stepped forward, her trained eye taking in every detail of the man before them.
"We're investigating a series of murders," she explained, watching his face carefully.
"During our investigation, we've been analyzing social media activity, and your name appeared in connection with certain hospitals and therapists we’re looking into. "
Understanding washed over Barret's features, followed quickly by something that looked like shame.
He nodded slowly, shoulders slumping, and stepped back from the doorway.
He looked even more worn down as he went through these motions.
"Come in," he croaked, gesturing with the knife still in his hand.
"Sorry about the mess. I just... I don't give a damn enough to clean anymore. "
The interior of the house told a story of gradual surrender.
It wasn't the disaster Rachel had half-expected—no mountains of takeout containers or scattered clothes—but rather the slow accumulation of neglect.
Dust had settled on picture frames and windowsills, mail had piled up on a small table by the door, and the carpet showed paths of wear without recent vacuuming.
A faint but distinct smell of body odor hung in the air, not overwhelming but noticeable enough to suggest someone who had lost interest in daily routines.
Barret led them through the living room and into the kitchen, where a half-prepared breakfast sat on the counter: a plain biscuit, a jar of strawberry jam, and a mug of what looked like black coffee.
The kitchen itself was clean enough, just tired—dishes in the sink, but not overflowing; counters that needed wiping, but weren't filthy.
It was the home of someone going through the motions without really living.
As Barret returned to his breakfast preparation, mechanically spreading jam on his biscuit, Rachel noticed his hands trembling slightly. "Am I in trouble?" he asked, not looking up from his task. "For going off on those Facebook pages?"
"Not exactly," Rachel replied, watching as he abandoned his attempt at breakfast, pushing the plate aside.
But he still held the knife; Rachel wondered if he was aware of it.
"However, one of the facilities you commented on was tagged in a post by a patient who had recently recovered.
And that patient was subsequently murdered. "
The jam knife clattered against the counter as Barret's face crumpled. "So I'm a suspect in that murder?" His voice cracked on the last word. “It was Michelle Lester, right?”
Novak leaned against the counter, his posture deliberately casual. "It was. Did you know her?"
“No. Not personally.”
“Then why go on such a tirade?” Rachel asked.
“My venom…it had nothing to do with her personally. I was just...I was so fucking mad. I was grieving in the worst possible way.”
"And that was because of your wife?"
He nodded, and she could see the muscles in his face trying to land on an expression somewhere between grief and anger.
The question broke something in Barret. Tears welled up in his eyes, spilling over before he could wipe them away.
"Three months," he choked out. "It's been three months, and I still can't... I just can't handle it, you know?
" His shoulders began to shake with suppressed sobs, and he finally released his grip on the jam-smeared knife.
"Someone has to be responsible. Someone needs to explain to me why my Jacqueline suffered and died while others are being miraculously healed. Like that Lester woman."
Rachel felt her heart constrict at the raw pain in his voice.
This wasn't the calculated anger of a killer—this was the unprocessed grief of a man who had watched his world crumble and couldn't understand why.
She recognized the look in his eyes, the same desperate search for meaning she'd seen in her own mirror during her battle with cancer.
"Mr. Barret," she said gently, "we'll need to verify your whereabouts for the past four days. You have to understand how this looks, right? We’re looking for people who may have held grudges against these victims and everything you’ve just said…it paints a big neon sign over your head."
He nodded, wiping his face with the heel of his hand.
"I’m not a killer,” he said with a bit of a snarl, but it didn’t seem to be directed at either of them.
“I've been working nights at the paper factory," he said, his voice thick.
"Just started back on night shift a few weeks ago.
Thought maybe if I got back to a normal routine.
..try to pick my life back up." He trailed off, staring at his abandoned breakfast. "During the day, I come home, watch whatever's on TV for a while, cry my eyes out, and try to sleep. That's my life now."
“What are the hours?” Novak asked.
“Twelve-hour swing shifts. Seven to seven.”
Rachel exchanged a glance with Novak. If Barret was telling the truth about his work schedule, the timeline would eliminate him as a suspect for all three murders, as they had been committed at night. "We'll need to confirm this with your employer," she said.
"That's fine." Barret's voice was hollow. "I don't have anything to hide. I just... I wish I hadn't been so damned mean in those posts. But when you're hurting this bad..." He pressed his palms against his eyes, his whole body trembling with the effort of containing his emotions.
Novak's voice softened with compassion. "Mr. Barret, have you considered seeking help? A support group, perhaps?"
Barret's laugh was bitter, tinged with fresh tears.
"No, no…I’m done with support groups," he said, dropping his hands to reveal reddened eyes.
"Jacqueline and I, we went to them while she was fighting for her life.
Groups for terminal illness, for families dealing with loss.
None of it helped. She still died, and all we got out of it was a ton of sad stories. "
Rachel's investigator's instincts perked up at the mention of support groups, even as her heart ached for the broken man before them. Could their killer be finding victims through these gatherings? Places where people shared their stories of recovery and survival?
“Mr. Barret, I wonder…during these groups, did you ever come across anyone by the name of Marcy Connors or Robert Hayes?”
He thought about it for a moment but in the end could only offer a frown and a shrug. “I don’t know. I don’t remember the names. Jacqueline was the one who made a point to talk to some of the others after the meetings. I just…I couldn’t do it. Sorry.”
"Thank you for your time, Mr. Barret," she said softly, standing to leave. He barely seemed to notice their departure, already lost again in his private ocean of grief. “What’s the name of the plant where you work, and your manager?”
“Tubman Paper. My manager is Derrick Flowers.”
“Thank you,” Rachel said. “And really…maybe you should consider trying to find some help.”
Barret tilted his head and shrugged again. He didn’t even walk them back to the door, simply giving a little wave goodbye as they headed back through the living room.
Outside, the morning had fully arrived, the street now alive with the sounds of cars and children heading to school. Novak shook his head as they walked back to their vehicle. "There's no way he's our killer. Not in that state."
Rachel nodded, already pulling out her phone to look up the paper plant's number.
"I agree, but we still need to verify his alibi.
" She knew what they would find—Barret would have been at work during the murders, and they would be back at square one.
But something nagged at her mind, a possibility taking shape around what Barret had said about support groups.
As they pulled away from the curb, Rachel found herself glancing back at the house in her side mirror as the front office phone for Tubman Paper started ringing in her ear.
The house’s state of not-quite deteriorating but not-yet rescued was a pretty stark picture of the man inside.
She thought about her own brush with mortality, about the unfairness of who lives and who dies, about the mysterious ways fate seemed to choose its victims.
The support groups Barret mentioned tugged at her thoughts. Places where people gathered to share their darkest fears and brightest hopes, where miraculous recoveries were celebrated and devastating losses mourned.
Perfect hunting grounds for someone with a twisted sense of justice about who deserved to live and who deserved to die.