Page 16 of Her Last Warning (Rachel Gift #21)

They’d come back to the field office after leaving Barret’s home, eager to start digging into the many support groups Rachel knew were offered throughout the city…

some by professional organizations and others just ragtag groups cobbled together by fighters and survivors of all kinds.

The early morning sun filtered through the blinds, casting striped shadows across the conference room desk.

. Having Barret eliminated as a suspect left her feeling unmoored, that familiar anxiety creeping in at the edges of her consciousness.

Somewhere out there, their killer was planning their next move, and they were back at the beginning.

"Barrett's out," she said, turning to Novak. He was hunched over his own computer, the glow of the screen highlighting the concentration in his eyes. "Full shifts at work during every murder."

"Damn." Novak leaned back, running his hands through his hair. "Back to square one?"

"Not quite." Rachel pulled up the browser window where she'd run a search for local support groups.

It was a bit overwhelming and she knew at once she was going to have to refine her search.

The list sprawled down her screen, each entry representing countless stories of pain, hope, and everything in between.

Cancer survivors. Addiction. Grief counseling.

Terminal illness support. Gambling addicts.

The names and locations blurred together, a tapestry of human suffering and resilience.

Her throat tightened as she remembered her own brief foray into support groups back when the tumor had first been diagnosed.

She'd sat in the back of church basements and community centers, listening to others share their stories while keeping her own locked away.

The fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like a large eavesdropping insect, coffee growing cold in Styrofoam cups, and voices cracking with emotion as people shared their deepest fears.

She remembered one woman in particular – Sarah, maybe?

– who'd broken down while describing how her young children asked when mommy would be well enough to play again.

Rachel had gripped the edges of her plastic chair so hard her knuckles turned white, fighting the urge to run from the room.

The vulnerability had been too much, too raw.

She'd stopped going after three sessions, throwing herself into work instead…until she’d gotten too sick to work, even from a research perspective from home.

Now, looking at these listings, she wondered if that had been a mistake.

The cursor blinked on her screen, and she found herself thinking about Scarlett, about the times they'd spent together at the hospice.

That had been different somehow – one-on-one connection rather than group sharing.

But wasn't it all part of the same human need?

The desire to be understood, to not face the darkness alone?

"It's kind of beautiful, isn't it?" Novak's voice pulled her from her thoughts. He'd rolled his chair closer, peering at her screen. "In a weird way, I mean. So many groups."

"Beautiful?"

"All these groups. All these people coming together to help each other through the worst moments of their lives." He gestured at the screen. "Drug addiction, alcoholism, terminal illness, grief... there's literally a support group for every kind of pain imaginable."

Rachel nodded slowly, surprised by the insight from her usually stoic partner. "It's like a map of human suffering, I guess. But also human connection."

"Exactly." Novak's voice softened. "My sister went to NA meetings for years.

Still does, actually. She always said the only people who truly understood what she was going through were the ones who'd been through it themselves.

" He grew solemn after saying this, as if he wondered if he’d shared too much.

Rachel turned to look at him, really look at him, for perhaps the first time since they'd been partnered.

She'd been so focused on missing Jack, on resenting this replacement, that she'd failed to see the depth behind Novak's quiet exterior.

The way his shoulders tensed slightly when he mentioned his sister, the careful way he chose his words – here was a man who understood pain, who'd watched someone he loved struggle through darkness.

"I went to a few," she found herself saying. "After my diagnosis. Couldn't stick with it though."

"Too raw?"

"Yeah." She smiled faintly. "Easier to chase down killers than face your own mortality in a room full of strangers. Weird, isn’t it?"

"But you made it through."

"I did." Rachel's fingers unconsciously traced the spot where her tumor had been, remembering the headaches, the dizziness, the terror of those early days. "Sometimes I wonder if I should have stayed. Might have helped someone else going through it."

"You help people every day," Novak pointed out. "Just in a different way."

She smiled. It was very close to the same sentiment that Grandma Tate had shared with her from time to time when leaving work had become a reality.

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the hum of the office around them fading into the background.

Through the windows, Rachel could see clouds gathering, promising afternoon rain…

that cold, bitter, January rain. She thought about all the people out there right now, sitting in circles in church basements and community centers, sharing their stories, their fears, their small victories.

How many of them were like her, holding back, afraid to be vulnerable?

How many were finding the strength to speak their truth?

She studied the list again, but this time with fresh eyes.

Each group represented not just suffering, but hope.

Community. The fundamental human need to connect, to share, to understand and be understood.

She thought about Jack, about how their partnership had grown into something deeper precisely because they'd seen each other at their most vulnerable.

About how Paige, despite her pre-teen attitude, still crawled into bed with her during thunderstorms, seeking that primal comfort of connection.

"It's fascinating, really," she mused. "How we cope with trauma. Some people need to talk it out, need that connection. Others..." She thought of their victims, each one celebrating their second chance at life. "Others just want to move forward, leave it all behind."

"Both valid approaches," Novak said. "Though I'm guessing our killer wouldn't agree."

"No, they wouldn't." Rachel frowned, something tickling at the edge of her thoughts.

The killer's methodology suddenly seemed more personal, more targeted.

This wasn't just about punishing people who'd survived – it was about something deeper, something rooted in the very nature of support and connection. "Wait a minute."

She pulled up their victims’ files, an idea taking shape. "We've been looking at this all wrong. Instead of casting such a wide net, why don't we start with the victims themselves? See if any of them attended support groups before their recoveries. Maybe that's where the killer first found them."

Novak straightened, and she could see the moment he caught her train of thought. "That could narrow things down considerably."

Rachel was already reaching for her phone, pulling up Millie Hayes's number. Her fingers trembled slightly – not from fear or anxiety, but from that familiar surge of adrenaline that came with a potential breakthrough. Millie answered on the third ring, her voice tired but composed.

"Mrs. Hayes? This is Agent Gift. I apologize for bothering you again, but I have a quick question about Robert."

"Of course." A pause, heavy with unspoken grief. "Anything I can do to help."

"I’m curious…did Robert ever attend any support groups while he was dealing with his heart condition? Before the recovery?"

"No, though he considered it." Papers rustled in the background. "He picked up some flyers from the hospital, but... well, Robert was always more comfortable handling things on his own. I nagged him about it for a bit, but it didn’t do much good."

Rachel thanked her and ended the call, already pulling up Michelle Lester's file. Her mind raced ahead, connecting dots, seeing patterns. She found the contact information for Lacey, the friend they'd interviewed at the crime scene, and dialed. No answer.

She was about to move on to Marcy Connors's file when her phone buzzed. Oddly enough, it was the number she’d just dialed…Lacey.

"This is Agent Gift," Rachel answered.

Lacey's voice was apologetic. "Sorry I didn’t pick up. I usually don't answer unknown numbers, but with everything that's happened...I figured maybe it had something to do with Michelle."

"No apology necessary. I'm glad you called back, and it does have to do with Michelle." Rachel sat up straighter. "I’m wondering if she ever attends any support groups after her initial diagnosis."

"Oh, yes." Lacey's voice brightened with the memory. "She was going to two, but one shut down because not enough people were showing up. But the other one…she really enjoyed it. I think it helped her a lot.”

“Was it a good number of people?”

“I’m not sure. I think so. I think I remember her saying there were a dozen or so.”

“Do you know where and when the meetings are held?”

“Yeah, for sure. I used to drive her sometimes. They met twice a week at the Goodwin Community Center. Wednesday and Friday mornings at ten."

Rachel's looked to her watch. 9:22 AM. Friday morning.

Her heart rate picked up, that familiar surge of anticipation coursing through her veins even stronger now.

This could be it – the break they'd been waiting for.

It was a bit of a reach, but she was willing to take anything as a positive at this point.

"Do you remember the name of the group?"

"No, I'm sorry. I just dropped her off. But it was specifically for terminal cases. People who'd been told they only had years or months to live."

Rachel was already gesturing to Novak, pointing at her watch. "Thank you, Lacey. You've been incredibly helpful."

She ended the call and quickly scanned the list on her screen. There it was: "Living with Terminal Illness Support Group - Goodwin Community Center - Wed/Fri 10:00 AM."

"We got one," she told Novak, already reaching for her jacket. "And we're in luck. It starts in half an hour."

Novak grabbed his keys, his movements precise, efficient. "One of our victims attended this meeting?”

“Yeah, Michelle Lester.”

Rachel checked her weapon out of habit as they headed for the elevator, the familiar weight reassuring against her hip.

And while this did still feel like a desperate grasp, another part of her insisted that there was a demented logic to it.

Where better to find people who've beaten terminal diagnoses than a support group for terminal patients?

As they rode the elevator down, Rachel realized that her surge of adrenaline was mixed with something else – a deep, aching empathy for the people they were about to meet.

People facing their own mortality, just as she had.

People who came together to share their fears, their hopes, their small victories and devastating setbacks.

She thought about Cody Austin, about the playing card he'd sent, about his threats against Jack.

The world suddenly seemed full of invisible connections, threads of pain and hope and fear binding them all together.

Whether they chose to acknowledge these connections or run from them – that was the choice each person had to make.

She glanced at Novak, who seemed lost in his own thoughts.

Their earlier conversation about the nature of these support groups had shifted something between them, cracked open a door that had been firmly closed.

Maybe, she reflected, that's what all human connection came down to: the willingness to be vulnerable, to share your truths and fears with another person.

The elevator doors opened to the parking garage, and Rachel pushed these thoughts aside. They had a killer to catch, one who perverted the very concept of support and understanding into something twisted and deadly. Someone who saw hope as an affront, survival as an insult.

Someone she planned to stop before they could rob someone else of their second chance.