Page 28 of Her Last Warning (Rachel Gift #21)

Rachel's key slid into the lock with a whisper.

The house beyond the door held its breath in darkness, the kind of absolute stillness that made even the gentlest movements feel like intrusions.

She stepped inside, her shoes barely making contact with the hardwood floor, and eased the door closed behind her.

The lock's mechanism engaged with a soft click that seemed to echo through the empty foyer.

She was home. It was dark and it was quiet, but it was warm and familiar. Her heart sagged with relief at the feel of the familiar space around her.

Linda’s words held a terrible logic that Rachel couldn't shake, the desperate reasoning of parents who'd lost everything.

She understood loss—had faced it herself more times than she cared to count.

Peter's death still visited her in dreams sometimes, and the phantom pain of her cancer lingered in quiet moments like this one.

But she'd never let grief twist her into something unrecognizable, the way it had transformed the Reynolds.

The house felt different at night, larger somehow, as if the darkness had expanded its dimensions.

Rachel had walked these halls countless times, in every possible state—exhausted after cases, sick from chemo, terrified during Alex Lynch's rampage.

Tonight, fatigue draped over her shoulders like a heavy coat, but underneath lay something else: a bone-deep weariness that came from looking into the eyes of killers and seeing only broken people staring back.

She moved through the house like a ghost, each step carefully placed.

The stairs posed their usual challenge—third step from the top creaked if you stepped on the left side, second from the bottom groaned no matter where you placed your foot.

She made her way down the hall, pausing long enough to simply reach out and touch Paige’s bedroom door.

She then made her way down to the end of the hall and opened the bedroom door.

Jack's steady breathing filled the room, a reassuring rhythm that made the house feel less empty.

His presence reminded her of how far she'd come since Peter's death, how love had found her again when she least expected it.

As she gathered her pajamas to take into the bathroom for her shower, the bed sheets rustled.

"Welcome home," Jack's voice was thick with sleep. "You okay?"

"Yes," she whispered, pausing in the bathroom doorway.

"Case closed?"

"Yes. I'll tell you everything in the morning. Now go back to sleep."

He groaned and nodded, laying back down. She smiled and entered the bathroom. It felt good to strip out of her clothes—as if this little act would also somehow shed the memories of the past forty-eight hours or so.

The shower's spray hit her shoulders with welcome warmth, and Rachel closed her eyes, letting the water cascade over her face.

Steam rose around her as she tried to wash away the Reynolds case—the crime scenes, the victims' faces, the thought of Emma Reynolds, a girl she had never met, shot in the head for her purse less than three weeks after beating a life-threatening condition. It was all hard to fathom as she stood in the hot water. It was hard because there was a part of her that almost sided with the reasoning Linda Reynolds had given. Sometimes, things just didn’t seem fair, especially when it came to the unexpected loss of loved ones.

And what was the harm of thinking you could somehow change it all?

The water couldn't wash away the weight of it all, but it helped, if only a little.

Rachel thought of her own time in hospitals, the way hope and fear had played their endless tug-of-war in her heart.

She remembered the faces of other patients, some who made it, some who didn't. She thought of Scarlett, whose victory had been so cruelly snatched away.

The memory of her friend's murder sent a familiar chill down her spine despite the hot water.

And finally, Rachel gave herself permission to cry. Her tears were washed away, down the drain with the water, as she started to think once again about the many ways she could start taking advantage of the second chance at life she had been given.

* * *

Sunlight filtered through the bedroom curtains when Rachel finally opened her eyes the next morning.

Her phone showed 9:07 AM—a luxury she rarely afforded herself.

The extra sleep had helped, though remnants of the case still clung to her consciousness like cobwebs.

They were there waiting for her right away, parading in front of all other memories.

She sat up and found the other side of the bed empty. But that made sense. Jack had that meeting this morning. She saw that he had left a note resting on his pillow, the paper slightly crumpled where he'd written it.

Gone to my morning meeting. Should be back by noon. Decide what you and Paige want to do this weekend. Something in Williamsburg? Maybe DC?

The prospect of a weekend away sent a flutter of excitement through her chest, pushing aside the lingering heaviness of the Reynolds case.

Two whole days with her family, no cases, no death, no grieving parents trying to correct the universe's mistakes. Just time—precious, uninterrupted time with the people she loved most. She’d almost forgot he had mentioned it two nights ago but in that moment, it seemed like the most important thing in her world.

Rachel let herself imagine it: walking the historic streets of Williamsburg with Paige, watching the colonial reenactments.

Or maybe DC, where they could visit the museums Paige had been begging to see.

Jack would be there, not buried in paperwork or stuck behind a desk at the FBI office, but present and engaged—and likely nerding out over all of the history in the museums. They needed this, all of them.

They needed to remember what normal felt like as a family.

The house felt different in daylight, warm and lived-in rather than the hollow shell it became at night.

The smell of banana muffins drifted up the stairs, store-bought but somehow still comforting.

Rachel followed the scent to the kitchen, where she found Paige hunched over the table, surrounded by craft supplies and completely absorbed in her work.

A shoebox-sized diorama dominated her workspace, half-finished but already showing promise.

Tiny paper trees lined the background, and what looked like a carefully constructed cabin sat in the center.

Bits of cotton pulled into wispy clouds dotted the blue construction paper sky.

The sight of her daughter so focused, so innocent in her concentration, made Rachel's heart squeeze with a familiar mixture of love and protectiveness.

"Morning, sweetie," Rachel said, selecting a muffin from the package on the counter. "That's looking really good."

Paige's response came without her looking up from her work, her fingers carefully positioning a miniature fence post. "Sorry, Mom. Can't talk right now. I'm in the zone."

Rachel couldn't help but smile. She remembered being that focused at Paige's age, though her projects had usually involved solving mock crime scenes she'd set up in the backyard.

She poured herself a cup of coffee and settled at the other end of the table, content to watch her daughter work while she scrolled through her messages.

Anderson's post-case texts could wait until Monday, though she appreciated his consistent support.

After everything—the cancer, the losses, her gradual return to work—he'd remained a steady presence, never doubting her abilities even when she doubted herself.

She sorted through yesterday's mail instead: a glossy flyer advertising after-school science programs, the monthly reminder that electricity wasn't free, something for Jack from his alma mater.

At the bottom of the pile sat a plain cardboard envelope, unremarkable except for the printed label bearing her name and address.

No return address.

The package felt light in her hands, its contents cushioned in bubble wrap. Rachel's fingers worked at the seal, muscle memory taking over before her instincts could sound their warning bells. The bubble wrap parted easily, revealing its contents, and the world seemed to tilt on its axis.

A silver charm bracelet caught the morning light, the same one Paige had tearfully reported missing two nights ago.

Dad gave it to me for Christmas , she'd said, voice trembling.

I looked everywhere. The memory of her daughter's distress took on a horrifying new dimension as Rachel realized what this meant.

Her eyes darted to her daughter's wrist, bare except for the friendship bracelets she'd made at summer camp. The silver bracelet lay innocent in her palm, but there was nothing innocent about its return. Beneath it, stark against the white bubble wrap, lay a playing card.

The Queen of Hearts stared up at her with painted eyes, and Rachel felt ice spread through her veins.

Cody Austin's signature, his way of saying I was here, I was close enough to touch.

Her mind raced through all the possibilities—had he been watching Paige at school?

Following her to friends' houses? The thought of him anywhere near her daughter made her stomach turn.

The morning's warmth evaporated. Rachel stood frozen in her kitchen, coffee growing cold, watching Paige work on her diorama.

Her daughter remained blissfully unaware, humming softly as she arranged tiny paper flowers around her miniature cabin.

The scene before her—so normal, so precious—suddenly felt fragile as spun glass.

The Queen of Hearts seemed to mock her from the table.

Rachel wanted to tear it to pieces, to burn it, to erase any evidence that Cody Austin had come so close to her family.

Instead, she forced herself to breathe, to keep her face neutral as Paige looked up briefly to gauge her progress on the fence.

Rachel thought of all the threats they'd faced before—Alex Lynch, Alice, her own cancer—and how they'd survived each one.

But this felt different, more insidious.

Austin wasn't just threatening violence; he was promising to destroy their peace first.

The weekend plans that had brought her such joy minutes ago now felt like a liability.

How could she relax in Williamsburg or DC, knowing he was out there?

Knowing he could get this close? The protective instincts that had served her well as both an agent and a mother warred with her desire to give Paige a normal life, to not let fear rule their every moment.

But as she watched her daughter work, sunshine streaming through the kitchen windows and the scent of banana muffins still hanging in the air, Rachel knew with crushing certainty that normal was a luxury they could no longer afford.

The Queen of Hearts had seen to that. Cody Austin had already taken Scarlett from her, had nearly destroyed the hospice center where she'd found purpose after her illness.

Now, he was showing her just how vulnerable her family truly was.

She picked up her phone, fingers hovering over Jack's number.

But what would she say? That their weekend plans were canceled because of a playing card?

That their daughter's returned bracelet felt more like a threat than a kindness?

That once again, just when they'd found their footing, someone from her past had emerged to tear their world apart?

The morning ticked on, deceptively peaceful. Paige added another paper tree to her diorama. The coffee maker gurgled as it kept the remaining coffee warm. And Rachel stood in her sun-filled kitchen, feeling the walls of her safe world contract, wondering if they would ever expand again.