Page 36 of Her Last Farewell

She made her way quietly upstairs. The bedroom was dark and peaceful, Jack's steady breathing a familiar comfort as she slipped beneath the covers beside him. He stirred slightly, unconsciously moving closer to her, and she felt the usual wave of gratitude wash over her. After losing Peter, she'd never expected to find this kind of safety and love again. Jack'spresence beside her was an anchor, especially on nights like this when her mind refused to settle.

Rachel lay there, listening to Jack's deep, steady breathing and the hum of central heat through the house. But as she tried to relax into the warmth of their bed, something nagged at the edges of her consciousness. The case had been solved, the victims rescued—she should have felt nothing but satisfaction. Instead, her thoughts kept circling back to Scarlett, to the crime scene photos she'd studied so carefully. Standing on Patterson Bridge, facing down Benson Layne, she'd felt a flicker of recognition, but the intensity of the moment had pushed it aside.

Now, in the quiet darkness, that flicker burst into sudden, terrible clarity.

Rachel sat up slowly, careful not to wake Jack. The details aligned with devastating precision in her mind: the careful staging of Scarlett's body, the complete lack of theft or typical assault, the way everything in the house had been left in perfect order except for Scarlett. She'd seen it before, years ago—a series of murders that had been written off as burglaries gone wrong, until she'd spotted the pattern. But they'd never been able to prove the full extent of the killer's crimes. He'd gone away on lesser charges, and she'd consoled herself with the knowledge that he was safely behind bars even though she had never thought he’d been charged with everything he’d been guilty of—namely several murders.

The memories surfaced with horrifying clarity: seven murders, each one made to look like a random home invasion, each victim positioned with the same terrible precision. They'd only been able to prove two of them, and even then, the evidence had been circumstantial. He'd gone away for manslaughter and breaking and entering—a fraction of what he deserved, but it was supposed to have been enough to keep him contained, to keep everyone safe.

Her heart began to race as the implications sank in. Sleep was impossible now. She slipped out of bed, grabbed her phone, and made her way down to the kitchen table. The digital clock on the microwave read 3:47 AM as she pulled up her contacts and found a number and name she hadn’t thought of in a long time.

Lamont Vic. An old friend from back in Quantico. They’d kept in touch over the years, though she wouldn’t call him a “friend.” But there was an existing understanding between them, founded many years ago. No matter the hour, no matter the circumstance…if you need help, call.

Her hands shook slightly as she pressed the call button, and she forced herself to take a deep breath to maintain her professional composure.

He answered on the third ring, his voice alert despite the hour. "Rachel Gift, as I live and breathe. What's got you burning the midnight oil?"

"Lamont, I'm so sorry to call this late." She tried to keep her voice steady, professional, though her heart was hammering against her ribs.

"For you? Any time. What can I do for the legendary Agent Gift?"

"I need you to look up a status report for me. Just one name. And again…I’m so sorry for the late hour."

“Woman, please. Just hold on, give me a second.” She listened as he moved around, likely getting out of bed. Seconds later, he said, “Okay. What’s the name?”

Rachel gave him the name of the criminal that had come to her mind—the criminal that now seemed to loom large like a comet in her brain. Her throat tightened as she spoke it aloud for the first time in years.

The sound of typing filled the silence, followed by a rustle of papers. "I'm not sure what you're looking for,” he said after afew moments. “But from what I can see here, it says that he was released about three months ago."

The words hit her like a physical blow. Rachel's free hand gripped the edge of the table as the room seemed to tilt sideways. Three months. He'd been free for three months, and now Scarlett was dead—murdered in exactly his signature style. A man she knew had killed at least seven others, though they'd never been able to prove it.

A man who had spent years behind bars with nothing to do but nurse his hatred for the FBI agent who'd put him there.

"Rachel? You still there?"

She forced herself to respond, to thank him and end the call, but her mind was already elsewhere. If she was right—if he had targeted Scarlett as a way to send her a message—then this was just the beginning. He'd had years to plan his revenge, to perfect his methodology.

She now knew without a shadow of a doubt. Scarlett's death wasn't just a murder; it was a declaration of war.

Rachel sat alone in the dark kitchen, the nightlight casting strange shadows on the walls. For the first time since beating cancer, she felt truly afraid again. Not for herself—she'd faced death before in multiple forms and come out stronger. No, she feared for the people she loved, for Jack sleeping peacefully upstairs, for Paige who had already lost so much. Because if she was right about this killer, he wouldn't be satisfied with just one victim. He would keep coming, targeting the people closest to her, until he had destroyed everything she held dear.

It was starting to feel all too familiar…too much like Alex Lynch.

Lucky for her, she supposed, there was something else that felt familiar: the determination and rage she could feel slithering around in her heart, daring this bastard to come at her.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

The evening news droned quietly from the television mounted on the wall of his sparse apartment, but the man seated at the kitchen table paid it no attention. His focus was entirely on the newspaper spread before him, his weathered hands moving with deliberate precision as he guided a pair of silver scissors along the thin black lines of newsprint.

The scissors made a satisfying whisper as they cut, like the sound of a snake sliding through dry grass. He took his time with each stroke, ensuring the lines remained perfectly straight. This wasn't just any article he was cutting out—it was Scarlett's obituary, and it deserved his complete attention. The same attention he'd given her on that final night.

The obituary itself was modest, barely a quarter of a page. But its brevity made it all the more precious to him. He set the scissors down and lifted the freshly cut piece of newsprint, holding it up to catch the warm light from the nearby table lamp.

"Scarlett Marie Denbrough, age 58, passed away unexpectedly at her home on November 12th," he read silently to himself, savoring each word like a fine wine."She is remembered as a beacon of hope and strength by all who knew her, having recently achieved remission after a lengthy battle with cancer."

A small smile played at the corners of his mouth. The writer had taken such care to dance around the circumstances of her death. No mention of the violence, the blood that had pooled beneath her body and soaked into the hardwood floor. No description of how she'd tried to fight back—oh, how she'd fought—before finally succumbing to the inevitable.

He placed the clipping carefully into a small leather-bound notebook, smoothing it flat with reverent fingers. Thenotebook contained other similar trophies: newspaper articles about seemingly random break-ins gone wrong from many years ago, police reports that concluded with frustrating dead ends, obituaries that never told the full story. Seven deaths in total, before his incarceration. Seven perfectly executed scenarios that looked like nothing more than tragic coincidences.

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