Page 8 of Her Last Warning (Rachel Gift #21)

The cotton of his hood brushed against his ear as he adjusted it, maintaining the delicate balance between concealment and suspicion.

Too far forward, and he'd look like someone with something to hide.

Too far back and his face would be exposed.

The gray fabric blended seamlessly with the overcast sky, making him just another shape in the urban landscape.

He'd chosen this particular sweatshirt carefully—a popular brand, but last season's model.

Nothing remarkable, nothing memorable. It blended into the moderate amount of foot traffic on the street quite well.

Michelle Lester walked ahead of him, about half a block ahead.

Her honey-blonde hair caught occasional glimpses of wan sunlight.

Her laughter carried back to him on the autumn breeze, mingling with that of her friend who walked along beside her.

Their joy felt like needles under his skin, each peal of happiness driving deeper into his flesh.

He wondered if she knew how precious these moments were, how easily they could be snatched away.

Probably not. People like her never did, not until it was too late.

Thirty-three years old. That's what his research had told him.

Thirty-three years old and granted a miracle she didn't deserve.

The doctors had been certain—absolute in their diagnosis of an irreversible neurological condition.

Yet here she was, striding down the sidewalk as if she'd never spent months unable to control her own muscles, as if she'd never faced the certainty of progressive deterioration.

Her medical files had told the story in clinical terms: degradation of motor function, progressive nerve damage, inevitable decline.

Until suddenly, inexplicably, there was improvement. Recovery. A miracle, they called it.

He kept his pace measured, maintaining exactly half a block between them.

Close enough to track, far enough to avoid notice.

His footfalls matched the rhythm of other pedestrians, his posture carefully calibrated to project casual purpose rather than predatory intent.

The art of invisibility wasn't in hiding—it was in being so ordinary that people's eyes simply slid past you.

He'd learned this rather easily the deeper into this little voyage he became.

A gust of wind carried the scent of coffee from a nearby café, reminding him of where he'd first spotted them today.

He'd been waiting, knowing Michelle's patterns, knowing she and her friend were meeting at that particular coffee shop.

The friend was new in her life, part of her "support system," someone who'd helped her through the darkest times.

He'd learned all this from careful observation, from piecing together fragments of overheard conversations and social media posts.

Every detail was a thread in the tapestry of her life—a life that had been marked for ending, then inexplicably spared.

His jaw clenched as he watched them pause at a boutique window.

Their reflections overlapped with the mannequins, all of them dressed in celebration of life.

Michelle pressed her palm against the glass, pointing at something, and her friend nodded enthusiastically.

He could read their body language like a book: the easy companionship, the shared joy of simple pleasures.

The sort of moments far too many would never have again.

They disappeared inside. Even from across the distance between them, he thought he could hear the little electronic bell above the door chiming cheerfully. The sound rang in his ears like a mockery of church bells, celebrating false resurrection while true saints lay buried.

The universe had made a mistake. It was the only logical explanation for these... anomalies. These people who slipped through death's fingers while others, more deserving, were crushed in its grip.

Hi own daughter had been pure light, a force of goodness in the world. Her recovery had been a promise, a covenant with fate—and then that promise had been shattered by random violence, while others like Michelle Lester were granted second chances they hadn't earned.

He thought about Emma's last morning, how she'd danced in the kitchen, weak but jubilant after receiving her clean bill of health.

She'd made plans for the future, talking about college and travel and all the things she'd do now that she had her life back.

The universe had played a cruel joke, dangling hope before snatching it away.

He shifted his weight, conscious of how long he'd been standing still.

A man in athletic wear lingering outside a boutique would draw attention.

Amateur mistakes like that could unravel everything.

His muscles coiled with suppressed rage as he forced himself to move, to cross the street with unhurried steps.

Each footfall felt like an affront. How dare she celebrate?

How dare she shop for new dresses while his daughter's clothes gathered dust in a closet he couldn't bear to empty?

He quickly took in his surroundings, selecting the small deli across the street.

It offered a place to hide while also watching the door of the boutique.

He waited for traffic to pass and then crossed the street.

The very first step into the deli pushed the chill of the day away; its warm air carried the scent of fresh-baked bread and sliced meat.

Modern industrial lighting hung from exposed beams, illuminating polished concrete floors and reclaimed wood tables.

It was the kind of place that straddled the line between trendy and traditional, with its hand-lettered menu boards and carefully curated vintage photographs.

The kind of place Emma would have loved.

"What can I get you?" The young man behind the counter wore a neatly trimmed beard and an apron that looked artisanally distressed. His friendly smile received a carefully measured response—pleasant but forgettable.

"Roast beef on rye." His voice emerged perfectly modulated, rehearsed to hit that sweet spot between friendly and forgettable. He'd practiced this, the art of being unmemorable. It was a skill he'd refined long before it became necessary for his mission. "Light mayo, no tomato."

He paid in cash—exact change, nothing memorable there—and took his place at the window bar.

The stool's metal legs scraped slightly against the floor as he settled in, positioning himself for optimal surveillance while appearing to be absorbed in his phone.

Through the smudged window, he could see the boutique entrance perfectly.

The universe might be random, but his actions would not be.

The sandwich arrived, constructed with Instagram-worthy precision.

He took mechanical bites, tasting nothing, his attention fixed on the boutique entrance across the street.

Each person who passed by was categorized and dismissed: wrong height, wrong hair color, wrong gender.

His peripheral vision tracked movement inside the deli, noting without appearing to notice.

Two businesswomen discussing quarterly reports.

A college student with headphones and a laptop.

A young family struggling with a stroller.

None of them paid him any attention. And why would they?

This was how the universe worked now, he'd come to understand.

It was broken, fundamentally flawed, dealing out miracles and tragedies with cruel randomness.

But he could impose order on the chaos. He could correct the mistakes, restore balance to a system that had failed its most basic function.

Every life he took was an adjustment, a calibration of cosmic scales.

It wasn't about revenge—revenge was petty, personal.

This was about restoration, about fixing what was broken in the fabric of reality itself.

The memory of his daughter's smile flickered through his mind.

Emma had been so strong through her illness, never complaining, always believing.

The day they'd received news of her remission had felt like resurrection.

And then, mere hours later, it had all been torn away.

The universe had played a cosmic joke, and he was left to make sense of the punchline.

He'd spent months trying to understand it, to find meaning in the meaningless, until finally he'd realized: the system itself was broken, and he had been chosen to fix it.

Michelle's recovery mocked everything he'd lost. Her neurological condition had been just as terminal, just as certain.

Yet here she was, whole and healthy, while his daughter's ashes sat in an urn on his mantel.

The unfairness of it burned in his chest, a constant ember of rage that only cooled when he was planning his next correction.

He'd studied her case extensively—the puzzled doctors, the inexplicable improvement, the gradual return to normal function.

A miracle, they called it. He called it an aberration.

He took another bite of his sandwich, chewing methodically.

Across the street, a flash of honey-blonde hair caught his attention.

Michelle and her friend emerged from the boutique, each carrying a bag, their faces bright with the simple joy of a shopping trip.

His fingers tightened imperceptibly on his sandwich as he watched them continue down the street, their path taking them past cafés and boutiques, past all the mundane pleasures his daughter would never experience again.

He would follow them until they parted ways.

He would note which direction Michelle took home, add it to his mental file of her patterns and habits.

Soon, he would correct the universe's mistake.

It wasn't personal, not really. Michelle seemed like a nice enough person.

But the balance had to be restored, and she was part of the equation that needed solving.

He finished his sandwich, wiped his mouth with mechanical precision, and disposed of his trash.

As he stepped back onto the street, he became just another figure in the urban landscape, unremarkable and unseen.

The hood of his sweatshirt caught another breeze, and he adjusted it with practiced casualness as he hurried forward to once again walk in Michelle’s wake.

The universe might be broken, but he would fix it one correction at a time. And Rachel Gift being erased from it would be the first step.