Page 7 of Her Last Warning (Rachel Gift #21)
The afternoon sun slanted through conference room B's single window, catching dust motes in its soft, yellow beam.
Rachel shifted in her chair, the cheap fabric upholstery scratching against her blazer.
The room was barely large enough for the oval table that dominated it, leaving just enough space for their two chairs and the whiteboard mounted on the far wall.
Coffee cups—Rachel's third of the day—dotted the surface between manila folders and hastily scribbled notes.
Her eyes burned from staring at her laptop screen, and she fought the urge to get up and pace.
This was the part of the job she'd always struggled with: the endless hours of research, of piecing together digital breadcrumbs when her body screamed to be in motion, to be out there where the action was.
Where she could read faces instead of files, interpret body language instead of browser histories.
Across the table, Novak's fingers clacked steadily against his own keyboard as he dug through social media connections, looking for links between Marcy Connors's celebration attendees and Robert Hayes.
Rachel's own search had led her down a rabbit hole of medical journals and news articles about Dr. Brian Yorke.
The more she read, the more complex a picture emerged of a man whose career had weathered a devastating storm—and somehow come out stronger for it.
Under any other circumstances, she might have found it a rather entertaining read.
Seven years ago, Dr. Yorke had been at the height of his career.
Chief of Cardiology at Boston Memorial, published in pretty much every major medical journal, and the go-to expert for local news stations whenever they needed a sound bite about heart health.
Then came the case that nearly destroyed everything: seven-year-old Sophie Martinez.
Sophie had come in with symptoms that mimicked a common kidney infection.
Yorke, consulted on the case due to some cardiac involvement, had insisted her heart symptoms were psychosomatic, a stress response to the kidney issues.
He'd been so convinced of his diagnosis that he'd prevented other doctors from pursuing alternative theories.
By the time another physician finally ordered the correct tests—against Yorke's explicit directions—Sophie's kidneys were shutting down. She'd barely survived.
The resulting investigation uncovered two other cases where Yorke's misdiagnoses had led to serious complications.
In one, an elderly man had suffered a minor stroke that could have been prevented.
In another, a woman in her thirties had undergone unnecessary cardiac procedures based on Yorke's incorrect interpretation of her test results.
Rachel leaned back, rubbing her temples.
The articles from that period painted a picture of a man whose certainty in his own judgment had nearly cost lives.
The medical board review had been scathing, citing "dangerous overconfidence" and "reluctance to consider alternative diagnoses.
" Yorke had been suspended for six months and ordered to complete additional training in diagnostic procedures.
But what happened next was remarkable. Instead of retreating into bitter defensiveness or leaving medicine altogether, Yorke had transformed himself.
He'd taken his suspension time to volunteer at free clinics in underserved areas—including a month-long trip to Sierra Leone.
He'd published a surprisingly candid article in the New England Journal of Medicine about the dangers of diagnostic momentum and cognitive bias in medicine.
He'd established a foundation that provided second opinion consultations to low-income patients.
The medical community had watched, skeptical at first, then increasingly impressed as Yorke demonstrated genuine change.
He became known for his caution, his willingness to admit uncertainty, his insistence on thorough testing before making definitive pronouncements.
The same traits that had once made him dangerous—his stubbornness, his intensity—were channeled into advocating for patient safety and diagnostic accuracy.
Rachel scrolled through more recent articles.
Yorke's rehabilitation wasn't just professional window-dressing.
It seemed that he'd truly rebuilt himself, but at a cost: his reputation was now incredibly fragile—and he seemed to know it.
One wrong move, one mistaken endorsement, and everything he'd rebuilt could crumble.
She thought about Robert Hayes, about Yorke's refusal to contribute to the book.
It made perfect sense now. Hayes's recovery had defied medical explanation—exactly the kind of case that someone in Yorke's position would be wary of touching.
One wrong word, one misinterpreted quote, and his carefully reconstructed credibility could be questioned all over again.
The sound of Novak's frustrated sigh drew her attention.
He was rubbing his eyes, looking as drained as she felt.
The conference room felt smaller by the minute, the walls seeming to press in with each passing hour.
Rachel's legs twitched with the need to move, to chase, to do anything but sit and stare at another screen.
"Any luck on your end?" she asked, already knowing the answer from his expression.
Novak shook his head, pushing back from his laptop.
"Nothing concrete. I've gone through every social media post, every tagged photo from Marcy's celebration.
Cross-referenced them against Hayes's known associates and medical support groups.
If there's a connection, it's buried deeper than I can dig. "
Rachel stood, needing to move, and began to pace the small space behind her chair.
"It's not technically true though, is it?
" she said, thoughts crystallizing as she moved.
"We do have a connection. Both victims made recoveries that defied medical expectations.
Both were given death sentences that turned out to be wrong. "
Novak straightened, interest flickering across his face. “You find anything on him?”
“Let’s just say he has a reputation that could be blown over by a slight wind. And we know from Millie Hayes that he was vocally skeptical about at least one of those recoveries."
"Sounds like it’s worth looking into.”
Rachel stopped pacing, bracing her hands on the back of her chair. "Yorke was the only physician who didn't join the celebration when Hayes started improving. He maintained it was likely temporary, that the apparent recovery could be misleading."
"And we know how that turned out," Novak said, already reaching for his coat.
"He didn’t want to be wrong…if when being wrong meant good news."
Rachel gathered her own coat, energy surging through her at the prospect of finally leaving the confines of the conference room.
"I’d be very surprised if he’s our killer," she said, shrugging into the jacket.
"But his whole life now is built around being careful, conservative in his judgments.
But he might have insights we're missing.
He's seen how these kinds of cases can go wrong—and right. "
"And he might know of others," Novak added, holding the door for her. "Other patients who've beaten the odds, other doctors who might have struggled with being proven wrong."
As they headed for the elevator, Rachel felt her earlier restlessness transform into focused anticipation.
The research phase had served its purpose, giving them a direction, a thread to pull.
Now they could do what she did best: get out there, ask the right questions, read the subtle tells that no amount of digital digging could reveal.
"You know," Novak said as they waited for the elevator, "most agents I've worked with love the research days. Chance to catch up on paperwork, make phone calls in comfort, maybe even grab lunch at a normal hour."
Rachel smiled slightly, checking her phone for the time. "I've never been much good at desk work. Give me a door to knock on, a witness to interview, a suspect to chase—anything but another hour of staring at a screen."
The elevator arrived with a soft chime. As they stepped in, Rachel thought about Yorke, about how people could change—or appear to change—when their backs were against the wall.
She wondered what they'd find when they met him face to face, what subtle tells might reveal themselves in person that no amount of online research could uncover.
Whether Yorke turned out to be a useful source or another dead end, at least they were finally in motion, following the trail wherever it might lead.