Page 17 of Her Last Warning (Rachel Gift #21)

Rachel pulled her coat tighter as she stepped out of the car, her breath visible in the morning air.

The gathering clouds in the sky still threatened rain later in the day, and this cold was going to make it miserable.

Beside her, Novak tightened his coat as well.

Rachel wondered if they were truly so cold or if they were chilled by what they were about to walk into.

Though it was a mostly unremarkable building, something about its weathered dignity struck a chord in Rachel.

As they approached the double doors, she noted the careful maintenance that spoke of pride rather than prosperity: recently swept steps, gleaming door handles, windows that caught the morning light despite their age.

The kind of place where middle-class dreams were both nurtured and mourned.

A blast of warm air hit them as they entered the lobby, carrying the lingering scent of industrial cleaner and coffee.

The floor's linoleum tiles, though worn, had been freshly waxed, reflecting the lights overhead.

Cork bulletin boards lined both walls, their surfaces a patchwork of community life.

January had brought its usual crop of weight loss programs and financial planning seminars, feeding off of New Years resolutions.

Their printed flyers competed for space with hand-drawn advertisements for senior bingo nights and teen art classes.

A construction paper snowman, clearly the work of the daycare program, reminded visitors that winter was far from over.

Rachel's stomach tightened at the sight of the careful penmanship.

The loops and curves of the letters bore an unsettling resemblance to the killer's notes—that same deliberate precision, as if each stroke carried weight beyond mere communication.

She pushed the thought aside, but it lingered like a shadow at the edge of her vision.

"You okay?" Novak asked, catching her hesitation.

"Fine," she replied, perhaps too quickly. "Just... the sign. Reminds me a bit too much of the letters the killer is leaving behind."

Novak studied the sign for a moment, then nodded in understanding. "Similar style. But these letters are rounder, more relaxed. Our guy's writing has more... tension in it."

They followed the arrow's direction down a corridor where fluorescent lights hummed overhead.

A water fountain gurgled as they passed, its basin stained with mineral deposits.

The sound of voices grew stronger as they approached a room at the far end, where double doors stood propped open with rubber wedges.

Through the doorway, Rachel caught glimpses of movement—people setting up chairs, arranging refreshments.

A woman's laugh, quickly stifled, echoed from within.

The meeting space was larger than Rachel had expected, with high windows that let in strips of winter sunlight.

Metal folding chairs had been arranged in a circle, their scratched surfaces telling stories of countless gatherings.

A folding table against one wall held a coffee urn, Styrofoam cups, and plates of store-bought cookies arranged with careful attention.

The room smelled of coffee and dust, with an underlying hint of the cleaning products used on the institutional carpet. Exposed pipes ran across the ceiling, painted the same off-white as the walls, and a stack of plastic storage bins lined one corner, labeled for various community programs.

In the center of the chair circle sat a woman who held the kind of presence that anchored a room—not through force of personality, but through a quiet steadiness that drew people in.

Her silver hair was cut in a practical bob, and reading glasses hung from a beaded chain around her neck.

She wore a cream-colored sweater over black slacks, and a wedding ring glinted on her finger as she studied a sheet of paper in her lap with such concentration that she didn't notice their approach.

Rachel assumed this was the leader of the group, preparing for the meeting.

At the back of the room, several people were clustered near the snack table, their conversations a low murmur.

Rachel recognized the particular cadence of grief support groups—the gentle pauses, the knowing nods, the careful navigation around raw wounds.

A young woman in a red scarf dabbed at her eyes while an older man patted her shoulder.

Near the windows, two middle-aged women spoke in hushed tones over untouched cookies.

Novak took the lead as they approached the woman at the center of the room, in the middle of the circle of chairs. He kept his voice low as he reached for his badge, shielding it from the others in the room with his body. "Ma’am, are you leading this group?” he asked.

“I am,” she said, giving the badge a worrying look. “Madeline Hudson.”

“Mrs. Hudson, I'm Agent Novak, and this is Special Agent Gift. We're hoping you might be able to help us with something."

Madeline looked up, her eyes sharpening with understanding behind her reading glasses.

When she spoke, her voice carried the weight of too many stories like this one.

"I heard about Michelle this morning." She removed her glasses, letting them settle against her sweater.

"Michelle Lester. So awful. So unfair. Is that what this is about? "

Rachel nodded, settling into a chair beside her while Novak remained standing. "We're just here to observe if that's alright. To see if anything or anyone stands out."

"Of course." Madeline's hands worried at the paper in her lap.

"Though I find it hard to imagine... The people who come here, they're carrying so much pain already.

To think one of them could..." She trailed off, then squared her shoulders.

"But I suppose pain makes people do unthinkable things sometimes. "

Rachel watched as Madeline's gaze drifted to the group by the snack table. "Michelle was making such progress. She…I think she felt guilty for still showing up even after her good news. I think she felt like she was rubbing people’s faces in it."

"How long had she been coming to the meetings?" Rachel asked gently.

Madeline consulted her papers. "Just over four months.

But she took a break for a few weeks and then joined us right after her final test results came back clear.

Said she needed help processing the good news, if you can believe that.

" A sad smile crossed her face. "Sometimes survival comes with its own kind of survivor's guilt. "

With a few minutes remaining before the meeting's start, Rachel and Novak thanked her and made their way to the back of the room.

The windows here were smaller, and the morning light didn't quite reach.

A man stood alone at the edge of the snack table, stirring his coffee with mechanical precision.

He looked up as they approached, offering a smile that looked more like a restrained grimace.

"Haven't seen you here before," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm Michael... or Mike. Mike Reynolds."

Rachel manufactured a smile, guilt twisting in her stomach when she knew she was going to have to lie to this man.

No one would want to know FBI agents were in the room; it would almost certainly put a damper on anything they shared and would cause many to not share at all or to put up walls.

So she delivered a cover story she’d used several times before when she’d needed to discreetly survey a space.

She was from city council, surveying support groups to see which kinds might benefit from financial grants from the city.

Mike seemed to buy it, not really even caring.

She knew how these groups worked. He was likely just excited to see new faces.

"How long have you been attending?" Novak asked, his tone casual but alert.

Michael's stirring slowed, then stopped.

He stared into his coffee as if reading tea leaves.

"Three months, two weeks, and four days.

" The precision of his count hung in the air between them.

"We lost our Emma. She was eighteen." His voice cracked on the number.

"Truncus arteriosus—a congenital heart defect where the pulmonary artery and aorta are fused into a single vessel.

We thought... we really thought we were past the worst of it.

The doctors said the surgery had worked, that her heart was finally strong enough. "

He set his coffee down, untasted. "My wife Linda usually comes too, but today's... today's not a good day. Some days, the grief is a weight you can carry, you know? Other days, it's a riptide." His fingers drummed against the table's edge, a nervous rhythm that seemed unconscious.

“I’m so very sorry for your loss,” Rachel said.

“Thanks. We’re doing better, I suppose. The hardest part was how sudden it was. One minute we're celebrating her recovery, planning her college visits, and the next..." He swallowed hard. "Sorry, that's probably more than you needed for your survey."

"Not at all," Rachel said softly, fighting the urge to reach out and touch his arm. "We're here to listen."

A movement caught Michael’s attention—the meeting was about to begin.

As people moved toward the circle of chairs, Rachel found herself studying their faces, looking for signs of the particular kind of damage that might turn grief into violence.

But all she saw was pain—pain and the fierce determination to survive it.

The young woman with the red scarf took a seat directly across from them, her eyes still red-rimmed.

The two women by the window separated reluctantly, as if their conversation had been a lifeline.

Madeline Hudson cleared her throat gently, and the room settled into attention.

Rachel watched as Michael Reynolds took his seat, noting how he left the chair beside him empty—waiting, perhaps, for a wife who couldn't face the world today.

Or wouldn't. The thought nagged at her as Madeline began to speak, welcoming them all to another morning of sharing, of remembering, of trying to find their way forward through the dark.

As Madeline started the meeting, another brief movement caught Rachel’s eye on the left side of the room, all the way to the back.

She turned to see this late attendee and was momentarily shocked.

It was a woman…slipping in as quietly as possible.

Notebook in hand, she took a seat in the corner.

Her dark hair pulled back in a severe bun, revealing the fullness of her face.

Even if Rachel hadn't been expecting to see her, she would have noticed the careful way the woman observed the room, her pen poised over her paper.

She nudged Novak and tilted her head in the woman's direction. Novak looked to the woman, and a curious, concerned look came across his face. "I'll be damned," he whispered as they both watched Dr. Katherine Walsh take her notes.