Page 6 of Her Last Warning (Rachel Gift #21)

Rachel studied her phone screen as Novak guided the car through the quiet suburban streets.

The coroner's report on Robert Hayes glowed back at her, its clinical language doing little to soften the brutality of what had happened.

But she appreciated the clinical terms, the very short and to-the-point story of what happened to him.

"Ligature marks consistent with manual strangulation," she read aloud, her voice tight.

"Significant bruising and tissue damage to the throat and larynx.

" She scrolled further, her finger trembling slightly.

"Just like Marcy Connors. The killer used their bare hands.

He was strangled." It was information they already knew, but Rachel always liked to have a refresher on the pivotal information before speaking to the next of kin.

They turned onto Maple Grove Lane, where mature oak trees lined both sides of the street, their branches creating dappled shadows across neatly maintained lawns.

The Hayes residence sat halfway down the block—a stately two-story Colonial with crisp white trim and forest green shutters.

Window boxes sat dead and barren, a fitting visual for what likely waited for them inside the house.

As they approached the front door, an unexpected sound stopped them both short: warm laughter playing out behind the door.

Rachel and Novak exchanged glances as Novak knocked on the door with a shrug.

Less than ten seconds later, the door opened to reveal a young woman with honey-blonde hair pulled back in a casual knot, her green eyes bright despite obvious fatigue around their edges.

"Can I help you?" she asked, one hand resting on the doorframe.

They displayed their ID and badges at the same time, and Rachel took the lead. "I'm Special Agent Gift, and this is Special Agent Novak. We need to speak with Millie Hayes."

"Of course, please come in," the woman said, her eyes a bit wide as she took in their credentials. The woman stepped back, gesturing them into a foyer decorated with family photos. "I'm Amy, by the way…Millie's sister."

As Amy led them deeper into the house, the sound of quiet conversation grew stronger.

"If you're here to ask about Robert, your timing is perfect," Amy continued, her voice softening to a near-whisper.

"Millie has been a bit of a mess, but we've been sharing stories about Robert for the last hour or so, and I think it's helped.

We've been making funeral arrangements—me, Millie, and our mother—and I think that helped, too. .. oddly enough."

The living room they entered was a study in a quiet sort of comfort.

Cream-colored walls provided a backdrop for carefully chosen artwork, while well-worn leather furniture invited visitors to settle in.

From hidden speakers, piano renditions of old hymns provided a gentle soundtrack to their grief and remembrances.

Two women sat on the sofa, heads bent over what appeared to be a photo album.

The younger of the two women looked up first, her face bearing the hollow-eyed exhaustion of the recently bereaved.

Rachel assumed this was Millie. But despite the obvious grief in her face, there was a quiet strength in her bearing, evident in the way she straightened her shoulders as they entered.

Her dark hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail, and she wore what appeared to be her husband's cardigan over her own clothes.

Beside her sat Millie and Amy’s mother, a striking woman whose age had done nothing to diminish her natural elegance.

Her silver hair was styled in a classic bob, and even in casual clothes, she carried herself with the kind of poise that spoke of old money and good breeding.

Yet there was warmth in her eyes as she regarded the agents, setting aside the album to give them her full attention.

After introductions were made, Rachel settled into an armchair while Novak remained standing, the notepad app on his phone at the ready. All three women gave them their undivided attention, the photo book momentarily forgotten.

"Mrs. Hayes," Rachel began, "we just need to ask some basic questions. I know you've probably been over this with the police already."

Millie nodded, her hands clasped in her lap. "Please, call me Millie. And yes, I have, but I understand you need to hear it yourself. I actually appreciate that the FBI has stepped in."

Rachel gave a small nod, choosing to keep the knowledge that there had been a second murder similar to her husband’s to herself.

For now, at least. She started with what she hoped would be easier ground, wanting to ride Millie’s pleasant mood as far as she could.

"Could you tell us about Robert's diagnosis?

We understand he'd recently received some good news about his condition. "

Millie's mother reached over to squeeze her daughter's hand as Millie drew a deep breath.

"Oh, it was very good news…miraculous news, in fact.

But if you need the whole story…it started about eight months ago," she began.

"Robert had been having some chest pain, nothing too severe at first. He blamed it on stress at work—he was an architectural engineer, always dealing with deadlines.

" A fond smile touched her lips. "But I insisted he see someone when he started getting winded just climbing the stairs. "

Amy, who had settled on the arm of the sofa next to her mother, added softly, "That wasn't like him at all. Robert used to run marathons."

Millie nodded. "The initial tests weren't good.

His heart was failing—something called dilated cardiomyopathy.

The doctors..." Her voice caught, and she paused to collect herself.

"They gave him maybe six months, and that was being optimistic.

But Robert, he wouldn't accept that. He completely changed his life—his diet, his routine, everything.

He tried experimental treatments, alternative therapies, anything that might help. "

"He was so disciplined about it," her mother interjected, pride evident in her voice. "I've never seen anyone fight so hard. I never said it to Millie…but I was afraid he was trying too hard. That it might actually make matters worse, you know?"

Rachel absorbed it all, already feeling a weird kinship to Robert Hayes. After all, she knew all about putting faith into experimental treatments.

"And then, about six weeks ago," Millie continued, "his numbers started improving.

The doctors couldn't explain it. All those months of treatment, everything he'd done to take care of himself—it was finally working.

He wasn't completely out of danger, but.

.." She pressed her lips together, fighting back tears.

"He had hope again. We all did. Even the doctors seemed sure he was on his way to a full recovery. "

Rachel let the silence settle for a moment before moving to the harder questions. "I understand that Robert was murdered here, in your home," she said gently. "Where were you when it happened?"

The shift in Millie's demeanor was immediate. The temporary peace that sharing memories had brought crumbled away, leaving raw grief in its wake. Amy moved to sit beside her sister, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

"I was asleep," Millie managed, her voice barely above a whisper. "All the changes to his routine—the medications, the strict meal times—they'd thrown off his sleep schedule. He'd been staying up late, usually until midnight or later. I'd gotten used to going to bed without him."

She twisted the wedding ring on her finger. "That night... I went to bed around ten. I remember checking on him in his study. He was working on his book, had a cup of tea beside him. He smiled at me, said he'd be up soon..." A sob escaped her, and she pressed her hand to her mouth.

"His book?" Novak prompted quietly.

Their mother answered while Millie composed herself. "One of his doctors suggested keeping a journal about his experience. Robert took it further, decided to write about everything—the diagnosis, the treatments, the whole journey. He thought it might help other patients facing similar battles."

Millie lowered her hand. "I found him the next morning. I came downstairs to make coffee, and he was... he was just..." She shuddered. "He was on the kitchen floor. There was a half-finished cup of chamomile tea on the table. And that damned note."

"The note," Novak said. "Where was it placed?"

"Right in the center of the kitchen table," Millie replied, her voice hollow. "Folded neatly in half, just as proper as you please. Like a place card at a formal dinner."

"About the doors?" Rachel asked. "We understand they were found unlocked?"

“That’s right,” Millie said. "Robert always did a final check of the doors before coming up to bed.

And since he was still awake...they would have been unlocked.

He was so careful about it usually. Ever since his diagnosis, he'd gotten almost obsessive about securing the house at night. But if he was still up..."

Rachel leaned forward slightly. "Was there anything else unusual in Robert's life recently? Besides his recovery?"

A wan smile touched Millie's lips. "Just the book, really. He threw himself into it completely. Although..." She hesitated.

"What is it?" Rachel encouraged.

"His primary cardiologist, Dr. Brian Yorke—he wasn't supportive of the project at all.

Made it very clear he didn't want his name mentioned in it.

Robert was disappointed; he'd hoped to include interviews with his medical team. But he kept writing anyway. Yorke’s dismissal sort of discouraged Robert for a while, but he eventually got over it and carried on. "

Rachel and Novak exchanged glances. "Did Dr. Yorke say why he objected?"

"He claimed it would be inappropriate," their mother answered, a note of displeasure in her voice. "Said it might give other patients false hope. But if you ask me, he was just upset that Robert had improved despite his dire predictions. And you know how much a doctor hates to be proven wrong."

They asked a few more questions—about Robert's daily routine, any unusual phone calls or visitors, whether he'd mentioned feeling watched or followed.

But nothing else of note emerged. And word by word, Rachel could see that she and Novak had managed to put a significant damper on what had, until their visit, been a joyous moment.

Finally, Rachel stood, sensing they'd gotten all they could for now. “Well, we thank you for your time. And I’m sorry for your loss.”

As they prepared to leave, Millie caught Rachel's arm. "Agent Gift? Please find whoever did this. Robert fought so hard to live. He deserved better than this."

Rachel met her eyes, seeing in them the same desperate need for answers she'd seen too many times before.

"We'll do everything we can," she promised, knowing it wasn't enough, but it was all she had to offer.

The piano hymns followed them out, their peaceful melodies a jarring counterpoint to the darkness they were chasing.

They made their way back outside, the January afternoon starting to feel almost warm.

Almost. The dour mood they’ve left back in the house seemed to cling to them as they got back into the car.

Rachel stared at the Hayes house before Novak pulled away from the curb.

Two victims now, both recently recovered from terminal conditions, both strangled in their own homes.

And now they had the name of a doctor who seemed to be at some sort of odd conflict with one of the victims. It wasn't much—maybe nothing, actually—but it was somewhere to start.

Rachel's phone buzzed as they pulled away.

She smiled wanly when she saw that it was a text from Jack, checking in.

She typed a quick response, trying to ignore the immediate image of the playing card that still sat in her computer bag, the Jack of hearts grinning up at her like it had some dark and vicious secret.