Page 43 of Her Last Confession

Rachel. Scarlett smiled, thinking of the FBI agent who'd become so much more than just another volunteer at the hospice. There was something about Rachel that put everyone at ease, probably because she'd walked this road herself. She'd beaten her cancer, though, and sometimes when Scarlett looked at her friend's healthy glow, she could almost believe in miracles.

She could picture it perfectly. Her roses in bloom next spring, two comfortable chairs and a small round table, just right for afternoon conversations. Her and Rachel could sit out here with tea…or mimosas. She damn well though they’d both earned a mimosa or two."

The autumn breeze picked up, sending a few errant leaves skittering across her lawn. A wind chime she'd hung from the maple's lowest branch tinkled softly, its gentle notes carrying across the yard. Scarlett gathered her gardening tools, knowing she should head inside before she tired herself out. That was one lesson she'd learned the hard way: pace yourself. There would be other days for gardening.

She took one last look at her handiwork before heading in. Beyond the rose bushes, she'd started planning a small herb garden—nothing too ambitious, just some basics like basil and mint. Maybe even some lavender. The fence would need repainting come spring, and she thought a soft sage green would look lovely against the yellow roses. So many plans, so much to look forward to.

As she walked back to the house, she found herself thinking about what else she could do to fill the winter months ahead. The roses wouldn't need much attention until spring, and sheneeded something to occupy her mind. An idea that had been percolating for years bubbled up again—that romance novel she'd always wanted to write. Not the trashy kind, but something with heart and depth about second chances and finding love when you least expect it.

And why not? She’d decided that she was done “waiting for someday.” She'd seen too many somedays slip away in hospital rooms, watching other patients whose time had run out before they could chase their dreams.

Her stomach rumbled again, and Scarlett headed for the pantry, wondering if she had any of those wheat crackers left. She'd just reached for the handle when a knock at the front door made her jump.

She wasn't expecting anyone. Rachel always texted first, and her sister, Jenny, wasn't due until tomorrow. Scarlett hesitated, suddenly aware of how quiet the house was. She really should get one of those video doorbells—Jenny had been nagging her about it ever since she’d been released from hospice.

Another knock, polite but firm.

"Coming!" she called, smoothing her gardening clothes and hoping she hadn't tracked dirt through the house. She glanced down—her jeans were muddy at the knees, and her old blue t-shirt had seen better days. Not exactly proper for receiving visitors, but whoever it was would have to understand.

When she opened the door, she found a man standing on her porch, holding what looked like a catalog or order form. He was unremarkable in the most pleasant way—the kind of face you'd trust immediately, like a favorite uncle or a longtime neighbor. His smile was apologetic, almost shy. He wore khakis and a light blue button-down shirt, pressed and neat. Everything about him seemed designed to put people at ease.

"Can I help you?" Scarlett asked, finding herself smiling back.

"I'm so sorry to bother you," he said, his voice carrying just the right note of embarrassment. "This is a bit awkward, actually. I'm selling cookies for my daughter's Girl Scout troop. She's home with the flu, but she's only twenty boxes away from third place in the troop sales competition. I promised her I'd help out. So…here’s the humbled dad, going door to door…”

Scarlett's smile widened. "Cookies? Well, as it happens, I'm actually hungry right now." It felt good to say that—to be hungry, to want food again. She thought of all the months when even the thought of eating had made her stomach turn.

“I hate to say you’ll have to wait two or three weeks for delivery,” the man said with that same apologetic smile.

“Oh, that’s fine. Future cookies are almost as good as cookies you can eat right now.”

The man chuckled as she opened the door wider, intending to ask about the different varieties on the papers. That's when she saw it—the subtle shift in his expression. His smile didn't move, exactly, but something behind it changed, like a shadow passing behind a window. For a fraction of a second, Scarlett felt a chill.

The man held up his form. "Can I get your name, ma'am? For the order?" His pen hovered over the paper, waiting.

"Scarlett Kline," she said, her voice suddenly feeling too loud in her own ears. A voice in the back of her mind was whispering that something wasn't right, but that was silly. He was just a father helping his daughter. Still, she found herself gripping the doorframe a little tighter. “And what’s your name?”

"I'm David," he said, writing on his form. "David Morton."

There it was again—that change in his smile. This time, she was sure of it. The pleasantness was still there, but now it reminded her of a mask, something worn rather than felt. Her heart began to pound, and she started to step back to close the door. Through the window beside her door, she could see Mrs.Henderson's house across the street, but the older woman's car was gone. The street was empty.

And then, out of nowhere, the man was moving. He was moving lightning fast and coming right at her into her house. Scarlett tried to react, but she wasn't fast enough.

David Morton’s hand shot out, catching the edge of the door before she could shut it. The order form fluttered to the ground, forgotten. The force of his push sent her stumbling backward, and she lost her balance, falling hard onto the entryway floor. Her elbow struck the hardwood with a crack that sent pain shooting up her arm.

"What—" she began, but he was already inside, closing the door behind him with a gentle click that seemed obscene in its quietness. The pleasant smile was gone now, replaced by something that made her blood run cold.

"Scarlett Kline…" he said, as if tasting the name. "Rachel's favorite, right?"

She tried to scramble backward, but her body—her treacherous body that had finally started to feel better—betrayed her again. Her arms shook with sudden weakness. The morning's energy drained away, leaving her as helpless as she'd been in her worst days of treatment.

"Rachel?" she managed to gasp.

He nodded, taking a step closer. "Oh yes. We're old friends, Rachel and I.”

Scarlett's gaze darted to the front window, where the morning sun still streamed in cheerfully.

"Please," she whispered, though she could tell from his eyes that pleading would make no difference. "Please don't—"

"Shhh," he said softly, moving toward her with the same gentle smile he'd worn on her doorstep.

The last thing Scarlett saw was a ray of sunlight spilling through the window. And in that moment, she realized that shewould never share that spring morning tea with Rachel, and she would never see her roses bloom.

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