Page 4 of Her Last Warning (Rachel Gift #21)
The morning was rather cloudy, looking like snow even though there was none in the forecast, and it cast a grey pallor over Marcy Connors' front lawn as Rachel and Novak pulled up to the crime scene.
The house was a modest single-story ranch with cream-colored siding and dark green shutters—the kind of home that usually blended into the peaceful suburban landscape.
Today, it stood out starkly, marked by yellow crime scene tape and two patrol cars parked at awkward angles in the driveway.
Rachel studied the dead flower bed, the small porch, the little flowerpot at the top of the short set of stairs.
The house was quaint and small, the sort of place that blended in with all of the other homes around it.
The sort of place someone could live and not really need to be seen at all.
She knew it was the sort of neighborhood where each of the neighbors would hear the news about Marcy Connors and say they never expected something like this to happen here.
As they approached the house and ducked under the crime scene tape, she could already hear cops speaking quietly inside.
Novak opened the door and they saw a uniformed officer standing guard at the entrance, nodding as he checked their badges.
The door opened into a foyer that still held the lingering scent of vanilla from a wall plug-in air freshener—a jarringly domestic detail in what was now a crime scene.
"Agents." A tall, unformed cop with salt-and-pepper hair approached them, extending his hand. "Sergeant Lane. Thanks for coming out so quickly." His wedding ring caught the light as he shook their hands—old and worn, probably twenty years or more of marriage.
Rachel shook his hand, noting his firm grip and the shadows under his eyes. "What can you tell us about the victim?" she asked, following him deeper into the house. The hardwood floors creaked slightly under their feet, the sound somehow emphasizing the emptiness of the home.
Lane consulted his notepad, the pages already dog-eared from frequent reference. "Marcy Connors, fifty-two. Lived alone after her divorce eight years ago. Elementary school teacher until her cancer diagnosis two years ago—stage four pancreatic. Then something of a medical miracle happened."
They passed through a living room that spoke of a life interrupted. A half-drunk glass of water on the coffee table, a paperback novel on the couch. A picture book of Paris sat on the coffee table as well. A phone charger dangling from the wall outlet, its cord coiled like a snake.
As she stepped further into the house, she noticed a high-pitched whining coming from the back of the house. Almost like something the crying. “What’s that?” she asked.
"Ms. Connors had a dog," Lane said. "We weren't sure what to do with him, so he's currently in the laundry room. Don't worry…we gave him food and water. I'm hoping a friend will take him."
“Back to this miracle,” Novak said. "The cancer went into remission?" Even as he spoke, his eyes were scanning the room methodically. He'd developed a good eye for detail in their short time working together, Rachel had to admit.
"Complete remission," Lane confirmed, flipping a page in his notepad. "Her latest scans showed no trace of the disease. Her doctors called it unprecedented. And I know that because we literally got the update from her specialist about three minutes before you came in."
Rachel's attention was drawn to a collection of framed photos on the mantel.
Marcy with groups of smiling children in a classroom, her face animated as she pointed to something off-camera.
Marcy in a hospital bed, thin but grinning, holding up a thumb's up.
Marcy more recently, looking healthy, surrounded by friends holding champagne glasses.
The progression told a story of someone who'd fought hard for their second chance.
Marcy’s body lay in the threshold between the living room and kitchen, sprawled at an unnatural angle.
Rachel simply looked at the woman for a moment, as if a sign of respect, before pulling on latex gloves.
The snap of rubber made a familiar sound that still made her pause sometimes.
She crouched beside the body, studying the victim's face.
Marcy's eyes were open, frozen in what might have been surprise or terror.
Lividity patterns suggested she hadn't been moved since death.
The bruising around her neck told a violent story.
Deep purple marks wrapped around like a macabre necklace, with distinct patterns that suggested strong hands.
Rachel had seen enough of these scenarios to be able to tell the killer had been wearing gloves, which meant they were being careful.
She also saw petechial hemorrhaging in her eyes.
Swollen tongue slightly protruding. The killer had been face-to-face with her, watching as the life drained away.
"Time of death?" Rachel asked, gently turning the victim's head to examine the bruising pattern. She noticed a small silver necklace with a medical caduceus charm—probably a gift celebrating her recovery.
"ME's preliminary estimate puts it between two and four AM," Lane replied, his voice taking on the detached tone cops used when discussing details that would horrify civilians.
"We know she was alive at midnight. She'd been out celebrating with friends—a 'second chance' party, they called it. As far as I know, we’ve only been able to locate one of the friends.”
Rachel stood, her knees cracking slightly.
The sound reminded her of her own recent recovery, how her body still betrayed her sometimes with these small signs of weakness.
She pushed the thought away, focusing instead on Novak, who was examining the kitchen with careful attention to detail.
From what she could see, there were no signs of a struggle.
The killer had surprised and then overpowered Marcy quickly, suggesting either significant physical strength or training.
"The friends who were with her last night—we'll need their names and contact information," Rachel said, already thinking about the interviews ahead. Would any of them have noticed someone watching them at the restaurant? Following them, maybe?
"Already working on it," Lane assured her. "Five people total. They had dinner and drinks at Castello's downtown, then a few more drinks at a martini bar….all that according to the one friend we’ve been able to speak to.” He shrugged and added, “But hey, it’s still early.”
Rachel's eyes swept the crime scene again, taking in details she might have missed.
Nothing appeared to be stolen. No signs of forced entry.
The killer had either been invited in or known how to gain access.
On the kitchen counter, a small pill organizer sat next to a water filter pitcher—maintenance medications, probably, to prevent the cancer from returning. Medications she wouldn't need anymore.
"There was a note, right?” she asked, pushing back the wave of anger that threatened to break her professional demeanor.
Lane snapped his fingers at a younger officer who hurried over with an evidence bag containing a single sheet of paper. Rachel held it up to the light, studying the message written in neat black ink: Fate cannot be cheated.
The words sent a chill down her spine that she refused to show.
The handwriting was controlled, deliberate.
No angry slashing of the pen, no signs of hesitation.
This wasn't written in the heat of the moment—it was planned, considered.
Rachel thought of her own brush with death, how surviving had felt like both a miracle and a responsibility.
Who was this killer to decide that survival was an offense worthy of punishment?
Rachel pulled out her phone, quickly navigating to the case files Anderson had sent.
It took of a few seconds of navigating, but she finally found what she needed.
A note left on the scene of the Hayes murder appeared on her screen: Fate does not make mistakes.
She held the two messages side by side. The similarities were undeniable—same precise handwriting, same ink, same quality of paper.
The killer was building a philosophy, one victim at a time.
Rachel felt anger building in her chest, hot and familiar.
Two people who'd fought their way back from death sentences, only to be murdered in their own homes.
The killer was targeting survivors, people who'd already faced their mortality and won—only to have that victory stolen from them.
It struck too close to home, reminding her of her own battle, her own second chance.
"Sergeant Lane," she said, her voice tight with controlled fury, "I need you to notify us immediately if you find any prints, fibers, or DNA. Anything that might give us a lead." She handed the evidence bag back to him carefully, consciously relaxing her grip to avoid damaging potential evidence.
She turned to Novak. "We should check out the Hayes scene."
"I was thinking the same thing," he nodded, already moving toward the door. Their rhythms were starting to align, she noticed. Another few months and they’d be able to read just about every facial expression of the other—moods based on posture, feelings based on the downturn of a bottom lip.
Rachel took one last look at Marcy Connors' body.
The victim's left hand was curled slightly, as if reaching for something—or someone.
A silver medical alert bracelet encircled her wrist, now unnecessary.
She'd beaten cancer only to die at a stranger's hands.
The injustice of it made Rachel's chest tight.
As they exited her home and walked back to their car, Rachel's mind was already thinking over what she’d read about the Hayes scene, looking for connections, patterns, anything that might help them get ahead of this killer before they struck again.
Because there would be another victim—the notes made that clear.
Someone else who'd defied death would be targeted.
Novak started the engine. "You think we're looking at someone from the medical community?” he theorized. “Someone who had access to information about patients in remission?"
"Or someone who recently lost a loved one," Rachel replied, staring out the window at Marcy's house as they pulled away.
"Someone who couldn't accept that their loved one died while others survived.
" She thought of her own time in the hospital, the people she'd met there.
And also of some of the residents of the hospice center…
particularly those who had not gotten quite as lucky as Scarlett. Not everyone got their miracle.
Two murders, two notes, one message: some people weren't meant to survive. She and Novak had to prove that message wrong before anyone else paid the price for their recovery.
The car turned onto the main road, leaving Marcy Connors' house behind. But the image of that neat, precise handwriting stayed with Rachel, along with the question that would drive their investigation: what kind of person murders someone for surviving?