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

Novak shifted in the passenger seat beside her, checking his phone for what must have been the hundredth time in the past hour.

The silence between them had grown comfortable over their partnership, but there was still an underlying tension—the ghost of her former partnership with Jack that neither of them acknowledged.

Twenty minutes crawled by before an unmarked black sedan appeared at the end of the street, moving with the deliberate slowness that only law enforcement could manage without looking suspicious.

As it approached their position, Rachel recognized the government-issue vehicle, noting how it perfectly straddled the line between inconspicuous and authoritative.

She and Jack had always joked how undercover cars really needed to be more undercover.

It was especially true of federal vehicles; criminals with a keen eye could spot a bureau-issued sedan a mile away.

This particular undercover police sedan pulled alongside their parking spot, nearly coming to a complete stop in the street.

The passenger—a plainclothes officer—flashed his badge through the window with practiced efficiency.

Rachel and Novak exchanged quick nods with their replacements, the universal language of law enforcement surveillance trading hands.

"Okay, so what now?" Novak asked, his hand already on the gearshift and ready to pull away from the curb. "I hate to sound defeatist, but I'm not sure we have any other moves for right now."

Rachel kept her eyes on the road ahead, but her mind was already several steps forward.

"I've been thinking about our approach," she said. "It’s not the most exciting work, but maybe there’s more we could be doing.

We've checked their social media feeds, but we're missing something bigger.

These victims—they're all people who've beaten impossible odds.

Where do people like that go to share their stories? "

"You mean besides Facebook?"

"Exactly. Think about it—if you've just received a so-called miracle, you might hesitate to post about it on your main social media. You don't want to seem insensitive to others still fighting their battles. And you'd maybe even avoid the support groups that have been such a huge blessing for you. You don’t want to come off like you’re rubbing it in everyone’s face.

But there must be communities out there, support groups, specialized forums where people can celebrate without feeling guilty.

" She sighed and added, “I feel sort of dumb for not thinking of it earlier.”

Novak's eyes lit up with understanding. "And if someone had a grudge against these survivors..."

"Those groups would be the perfect hunting ground," Rachel finished. "They're actively advertising their recoveries, sharing personal details, probably even meeting information."

"The killer wouldn't even need to work hard to find targets," Novak mused, nodding along. "They'd be self-selecting. Each post would be like raising their hand, saying 'Here I am.'"

"And think about the psychology of it," Rachel continued, warming to the theory. "If our killer is motivated by anger at these survivors he thinks might be undeserving, these groups would be like a catalog of targets. Each success story might feel like a personal affront."

Rachel was already reaching for the iPad—not quite sure of how to get started but now more than familiar with the user interfaces of nearly every social media platform due to research just like this.

She wasn’t all that surprised when it only took a few different search terms to get her to where she needed to be.

"I'm finding dozens of these groups already,” she said as she looked over the search results.

“There’s a Miracle Survivors Network, and another one called Life Beyond the Diagnosis.

And it looks like some of these things have thousands of members…

online, anyway. It would be hard to get an accurate number for local groups. "

Novak removed his phone from the center console to help in the search. As he typed in the names of one of the groups, he said, "Maybe we can run some sort of search to see if any of our victims were members of these groups." He then chuckled, shaking his head.

“What?” Rachel asked. “What’s funny?”

"You know," he said, regaining his balance with a slight smile, "if I'd known the vast majority of my FBI caseload would involve scrolling through social media, I might have stuck with my dream of being a comic book artist."

Rachel was about to respond when her phone rang. It startled her a bit, and then sent a small spike of excitement through her when she saw Dr. Walsh's number filling the space along the caller display. She answered immediately, putting the call on speaker so Novak could also listen in.

“This is Special Agent Gift,” she answered.

"Agent Gift, I apologize for the delay," Walsh began, her voice carrying the slight fatigue of someone coming off a long day of appointments. "I had two clients back-to-back. Fridays tend to be a little crazy in my office.”

“I completely understand. Did you get my message?”

“I did. And unfortunately, I can only recall one full name from those three references you asked about. It was Claire…one of the first names I’d jotted down."

Rachel's pulse quickened. "You have a full name?"

"Claire—Claire Dyson. She's an older woman, probably in her seventies now. And I remember her quite well because she was something of a hoot. Very entertaining and vibrant."

“Please…tell me everything you remember about her story." She knew it was all in the notes, but she figured that with Walsh on the phone, hearing it directly from the source would be better…and faster.

"It was remarkable, really," Walsh continued, her professional demeanor giving way to genuine amazement.

"Diagnosed with an extremely aggressive form of thyroid cancer.

The initial prognosis gave her three months at most. But Claire.

.." Walsh paused, and Rachel could hear papers shuffling in the background.

"She had this extraordinary spirit about her.

Refused to accept the timeline. She didn't even seem all that upset about it; she was that sure she was going to beat it. "

"What happened?" Rachel prompted, reaching for the printouts of Walsh's notes.

"She fought for five months, which was already beating the odds.

But then, in the seventh month, something unprecedented happened.

The basic treatment protocol—medications that were only meant to make her comfortable, to ease the symptoms—they started working.

Not just managing pain, but actually fighting the cancer. "

"Complete remission?" Novak asked.

"Yes, against all medical expectations. The doctors still can't fully explain it.

They prescribed those drugs as palliative care, never expecting improvement.

Claire called it her 'quiet miracle'—said she didn't want to make a big fuss about it because she knew how many others were still suffering. "

Rachel exchanged a significant look with Novak. "Did she ever mention participating in any support groups or online communities?"

“Just the in-person ones. A few different ones, I think. Claire…well, she didn’t strike me as the type of older lady who spent much time on the internet.”

“Do you know if she might have had any sort of arguments or disagreements with anyone at these support groups she attended?”

"Why do you—" Walsh started, then stopped abruptly. "Oh God. You think the killer is finding victims through support groups?"

"It's a theory we're exploring," Rachel said carefully. "Did Claire ever mention anything like that?"

"She was private about her recovery, but she did mention finding comfort in hearing the stories of other people. I think the stories of people who were winning their fights made her feel less alone…that she had a few people she could go to and take encouragement from. But I don’t know that she had anyone angry at her.

I never saw anything like that.” Walsh's voice hardened.

"The idea that someone would use those safe spaces as hunting grounds. .. it's reprehensible."

“I agree,” Rachel said. “And thank you, Dr. Walsh. This is extremely helpful."

After ending the call, Rachel grabbed the iPad from Novak and accessed the mobile bureau database.

"Looks like we've got one more to look into," she said, fingers flying across the screen as she searched for Claire Dyson's address.

"Claire Dyson, miraculously recovered from an aggressive thyroid cancer about four months ago… "

Novak nodded, shifting into Drive as he nodded toward the iPad. "Well, just lead the way."

As Rachel input the address into their GPS, her mind raced through the implications.

Each new survivor they identified was another potential target, another life they needed to protect.

The Richmond PD might not be thrilled about adding more locations to their surveillance roster, but Rachel felt it was really the only solution that would ensure any future targets remained safe.

"Turn left at the next light," she instructed, then added more quietly, "You know what bothers me most about this case?"

Novak glanced at her, waiting.

"These support groups—they're supposed to be sanctuaries.

Places where people can finally breathe, finally celebrate without feeling like they're rubbing their good fortune in anyone's face.

" Rachel watched the streets scroll by, remembering her own battle with cancer, the complex emotions that came with survival.

"And now they're being turned into killing grounds. "

"We'll find him," Novak said with quiet certainty. "This guy…it seems like he’s angry at fate, at the randomness of who lives and who dies. And if it’s some sense of weird control he’s after…he’s going to soon realize he won’t ever have as much as he wants. He’ll get desperate and make a mistake.”

Rachel nodded, thinking of the growing web of connections they were uncovering.

Each victim's story, each online post, each support group meeting, was another thread leading them closer to their target. The killer might be using these communities, or he might not. But he was locating his targets somehow and Novak was right…if he moved around enough, whether physically or digitally, he was bound to leave breadcrumbs. Of course, she’d rather just catch the bastard before he had the chance to slip up and cause more pain.

As they drove toward Claire Dyson's address, Rachel pulled up one of the support group websites on her tablet.

The homepage was filled with stories of hope, of defied odds, of second chances granted against all medical expectations.

In another context, it would have been inspiring.

Now, scanning through the posts, Rachel felt a creeping dread.

How many of these celebration posts had caught the killer's eye? How many more names were on their list?

Or are you just grasping at every desperate idea you come up with because you’re way too close to this one? she asked herself.

She knew this was a possibility. But she also knew that it felt as if time was slipping through their fingers, and somewhere in this city, a killer was probably already selecting their next target and taking steps to eliminate them.

The rain continued to fall, darkening the day even further, though dusk was still a few hours away.

Something about the rain and the day cast in a perpetual shade of gray made Rachel feel as if they were working against a countdown clock…

and neither of them had any idea when the final second would tick away.