Page 9 of Her Last Warning (Rachel Gift #21)

The glass doors of Yorke and Feinman Cardiologists reflected the afternoon sun, casting prismatic shadows across Rachel's face as she and Novak stepped inside.

The lobby struck a careful balance—modern without being cold, welcoming without trying too hard.

Pale oak panels lined the curved reception desk where three receptionists worked with quiet efficiency.

The waiting area spread out before them, dotted with ergonomic chairs in muted blues and grays, arranged in small conversational clusters rather than the usual rigid rows.

Abstract art in calming shades adorned the walls.

Rachel approached the leftmost desk, her badge already palmed discretely in her hand.

A middle-aged receptionist greeted them.

"We need to speak with Dr. Yorke," she said, letting the badge catch the light just enough for the receptionist to notice.

Her stomach tightened involuntarily at the familiar scent of antiseptic that seemed to permeate all medical facilities, no matter how upscale…

no matter what sort of air freshener or plug-in was used in the lobby.

The woman—her nameplate read Angela—peered at them over rectangular frames, her carefully manicured nails pausing over her keyboard. "Do you have an appointment?"

"No appointment," Novak cut in smoothly, his tone professional but firm. "But we do need to speak with him about a potentially sensitive and timely matter."

Rachel caught the flicker of doubt crossing Angela's face and added, "And we're not leaving here until we can speak with him. If he's currently with a patient, we can wait." She maintained steady eye contact, letting Angela see the determination behind her words.

"One second." Irritation crept into Angela's voice as she lifted her phone, her free hand adjusting her headset with practiced precision.

Rachel tuned out the quiet conversation behind the desk, her attention drawn to the waiting room despite herself.

Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, warming the space in a way that should have been comforting.

Instead, it stirred something deep within her—memories she thought she'd buried.

Rachel remembered countless hours spent in chairs just like these, pretending to read magazines while her head throbbed and her vision sometimes doubled.

The way time seemed to stretch and compress, each tick of the wall clock a reminder that her tumor was growing, spreading, stealing precious moments.

She remembered the faces of other patients—some hopeful, some resigned, all carrying their own private battles behind carefully maintained expressions.

A particular memory surfaced: the day she'd nearly collapsed in a waiting room much like this one, her determination to keep working finally betrayed by her failing body.

The concerned looks, the whispers, the humiliation of weakness when she'd spent her whole career projecting strength.

The way her hands had trembled as she tried to fill out yet another medical form, her vision blurring until the letters swam before her eyes.

The kind nurse who'd noticed her struggle and quietly helped her complete the paperwork, preserving what dignity she could.

The soft music playing overhead—the same bland, inoffensive instrumental pieces that seemed to play in every medical facility—triggered another flash: the moment she'd received her first piece of good news after months of deterioration.

The same generic music had been playing then, and now she couldn't hear similar tunes without being transported back to that moment of desperate hope.

"Agents?" The receptionist’s voice cut through the memories. "Dr. Yorke is with a patient right now, but you can wait in his office. Second floor, Room 225. He should be with you in about ten or fifteen minutes."

Rachel nodded, grateful for the interruption of her darkening thoughts.

She and Novak made their way to the elevator.

It was located to the right, away from the sunlight and windows; it instantly felt colder but the soft chime was a welcome return to the present.

As they rode up, she noticed Novak watching her with barely concealed concern.

"You okay?" he asked quietly.

"Fine," she replied, perhaps too quickly. "Just... memories."

He nodded, understanding enough not to press further. The elevator doors opened to a hallway lined with identical doors, each bearing nameplates in brushed silver. They found 225 easily enough, and Rachel was surprised to find it unlocked even though they’d been invited to enter.

Dr. Yorke's office defied expectations. Rather than the austere space Rachel had anticipated, the room felt almost whimsical.

Light blue walls hosted the expected medical degrees and certifications, but they shared space with vintage Lord of the Rings movie posters.

The expected medical texts occupied only half of the built-in bookshelf; the rest contained what appeared to be a carefully curated collection of fantasy novels and science fiction, their spines well-worn from repeated reading.

Several featured elaborate bookmarks, suggesting current reading projects.

Family photos lined one shelf—Yorke with what appeared to be his wife and two teenage children, all of them grinning in hiking gear against a backdrop of mountain peaks.

In another photo, the same family posed on a beach, their faces sun-kissed and happy.

A detailed model of the Enterprise-D hung from nearly invisible fishing line in one corner, casting intricate shadows on the wall.

On his desk, a Gandalf bobblehead nodded sagely beside a stack of medical journals and what appeared to be a half-completed New York Times crossword puzzle.

"Well," Novak said as they settled into the chairs facing the desk, "I guess even cardiologists need their escapes."

Rachel ran her fingers along the arm of her chair, noting the quality of the leather. "He's done well for himself, considering his history. Co-partner in his own practice—that's quite a comeback from his earlier reputation issues."

"Those misdiagnosis allegations?" Novak leaned back, the chair creaking slightly. "Must have been, what, eight years ago?"

"Seven. Three patients claimed he'd given them terminal diagnoses that proved incorrect. Nearly lost his license over it." Rachel's eyes traced the degrees on the wall. "He's either exceptionally good at damage control, or he learned from his mistakes."

"Or both," Novak suggested, his attention caught by a framed photograph of what appeared to be Yorke receiving some kind of medical award. "Sometimes a wake-up call like that can make or break a career."

The door opened before Rachel could respond.

Dr. Brian Yorke entered with the confident stride of a man comfortable in his domain.

He was younger than Rachel had expected, perhaps early forties, with prematurely silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses that gave him a scholarly air.

His white coat was crisp, but his sleeves were rolled up, suggesting a man who balanced professionalism with practicality.

"My apologies for keeping you waiting," he said, settling behind his desk. His tone was perfectly pleasant, betraying no anxiety at finding FBI agents in his office. "I do have to say, though, that it’s not every day that I have federal agents come by for a visit. What can I do for you?"

Rachel met his steady gaze. "We’re currently working a case that involves the death of one of your recent patients. Robert Hayes."

The change was instant. Color drained from Yorke's face, his professional demeanor cracking. "My God. How?"

"Murdered," Novak said bluntly. "In his home. Four days later, the same thing happened to a woman named Marcy Connors. The only connection we've found is that both had recently received unexpectedly positive medical news. What Millie Hayes, Robert’s wife, was referring to as a miraculous recovery."

Yorke's hand trembled slightly as he reached for his Gandalf bobblehead, seemingly seeking comfort in its familiar weight.

"Robert was... his recovery was remarkable.

Unprecedented, really. I'd never seen anything like it.

The kind of improvement he showed... it just doesn't happen.

Not with that condition. Not that quickly. "

"We understand you were quite vocal about doubting his initial positive diagnosis," Rachel said. "That you refused to assist with the book he was writing. We'd like to know why."

Yorke was silent for a long moment, his fingers still worrying at the bobblehead. Finally, he set it down with deliberate care. "I made a mistake," he said quietly. "Not a medical one—at least, not this time. But I let my... personal issues... cloud my judgment."

He stood, pacing to the whimsical bookshelf.

He let out a deep sigh and said: "You have to understand.

After those allegations years ago, I became perhaps overly cautious.

When Hayes first showed signs of improvement, I couldn't believe it.

Wouldn't believe it. The type of heart condition he had.

.. spontaneous improvement just doesn't happen. Or so I thought."

"And the book?" Novak prompted.

"That's... complicated." Yorke turned back to face them, leaning against the wall near the movie poster.

"I'm part of a research group, you see. Led by Dr. Katherine Walsh.

We've been documenting medical anomalies for the past year.

Cases that defy conventional explanation.

I was worried that being associated with Hayes's book might compromise the scientific integrity of our work. "

Rachel leaned forward. "These anomalies—you're talking about miracle recoveries?"

"Yes, but I am very careful not to use the word 'miracles,'" Yorke said quickly, pushing off from the wall to pace the length of his office.

"From time to time, doctors do see things that defy logic and can't be explained, but.

.. you understand that the word 'miracle' could be damning to a doctor, right?

We need to maintain scientific credibility, especially with cases like these. "

"What sort of things are you talking about?" Novak asked. "Are they all like Hayes?"

"Some are even more remarkable." Yorke's eyes lit up with genuine enthusiasm, his earlier nervousness temporarily forgotten.

"Just last month, we documented a case in Salt Lake City—a woman with advanced multiple sclerosis.

Complete neural degradation, wheelchair-bound, cognitive decline.

Her family had already begun making arrangements for long-term care.

Then one morning, she simply... got up and walked.

All symptoms gone, as if they'd never existed.

Our tests showed complete neural regeneration, something that's supposed to be impossible. "

He moved to his bookshelf, pulling out a thick folder, its edges worn from frequent handling.

"And there was a case in Miami—a six-year-old boy with an inoperable brain tumor. The size of a golf ball, pressing against his brain stem.” Rachel felt a sting of tears touch her eyes right away and did her best to push them away.

She could not get emotional at a time like this.

“The family had already begun palliative care, were making their final memories together,” Yorke went on.

“During a routine scan, the tumor was just..

. gone . No trace of it had ever existed.

No scar tissue, no evidence of surgical intervention. Simply vanished."

His voice took on an almost reverent quality.

"We've documented dozens of cases like these. People walking away from conditions that should have been terminal. Diseases vanishing without treatment. The human body doing things that medical science says are impossible. And we’re trying to understand it.

Trying to make the impossible make at least some sort of sense. "

Rachel watched him carefully, noting the way his hands moved as he spoke, the passion evident in his voice.

"These cases sound remarkable,” she said.

“But I have to ask—how many of these 'anomalies' turn out to be misdiagnoses that doctors want to quickly categorize as unexplainable? Has Dr. Walsh ever had such a case?"

The change in Yorke was immediate and dramatic.

He shoved the folder back onto the shelf with enough force to make the Enterprise model sway on its string, its shadows dancing erratically across the wall.

"I'm sorry, but... this conversation is over for right now.

" He nodded toward the door, his earlier enthusiasm replaced by barely concealed anxiety.

His hand shook slightly as he adjusted his glasses.

Rachel saw Novak tense, ready to press further, but she touched his arm lightly and shook her head. Whatever they'd stumbled onto, this wasn't the moment to push. Besides…they now had. Name to pursue a bit further up the chain: Dr. Katherine Walsh.

“Thank you, Dr. Yorke,” Rachel said. “We’ll leave you to your work now.”

He nodded briskly as she and Novak left his office. As soon as they’d stepped away from his door, Novak looked over to Rachel and said, “So, you think it’s a dead end?”

"I don't know yet. But he did give us name a bit higher on the ladder than he is. I'd like to talk to Dr. Walsh…see if she can maybe point us toward some people who might feel threatened by these miraculous recoveries."

"You think he's hiding something?" Novak asked as they stepped into the elevator.

Rachel looked back down the hallway and caught a final glimpse of Yorke’s door—now closed. "I don’t think so. A man who worked so hard to rebuild his reputation…to murder people wouldn’t make sense.”

As they waited for the elevator, something in her gut told her that Dr. Walsh's research might be more significant to their case than Yorke's nervous reaction suggested.

She'd seen enough miracles—and enough tragedies—in her own medical journey to know that the line between unexplainable recovery and false hope was often razor-thin.

And she knew the devastation and loss of family members who stood on it for so long, only to fall off.