Page 1 of Her Last Promise

PROLOGUE

The first thing Judge Marcus Smith became aware of was the throbbing.A deep, insistent pulse that seemed to emanate from the base of his skull, spreading tendrils of pain through his head.He tried to lift his hand to massage his temple, but his arm wouldn't move.

His eyes flew open, panic cutting through the haze.The ceiling above him was unfamiliar—cheap wood paneling that belonged in a basement rec room, not a bedroom.Not his bedroom.Where the hell was he?The grain of the wood seemed to swim before his eyes, patterns shifting and morphing as his drugged mind struggled to focus.

No…he hadn’t been asleep.Where had he been before this?It was maddening that he couldn’t remember.

He attempted to sit up, but the rest of his body was just as restrained as his arm.He craned his neck to see what the hell was going on.He was just barely able to see the thick restraints that were holding him firmly against what appeared to be a small bed...maybe even a gurney.The bed's surface was firm and uncomfortable beneath him, the thin mattress doing little to cushion his body.His heart began to race as he tested each limb, finding them all secured.The restraints were professional-grade, the kind often used in hospitals—thick, padded cuffs that held his wrists and ankles immobile without cutting off circulation.

"Hello?"His voice came out as a dry croak, barely recognizable as his own."Is anyone there?"

Only silence answered him, broken by the soft hum of what might have been a heating system somewhere in the building…wherever he might be.

Fighting against rising terror, Marcus forced himself to study his surroundings methodically, the way he'd analyze evidence in his courtroom.The room was small, maybe twelve by fourteen feet.Wood paneling covered every wall, the dark finish absorbing what little light came from a small lamp perched on a battered dresser.The panels were old, probably dating back to the seventies, with a few water stains visible in the corners where the ceiling met the walls.There were no pictures or decorations of any kind.

Next to the lamp sat an old tube television, its blank screen reflecting his own imprisoned form like a dark mirror.The reflection horrified him—he barely recognized himself.His normally well-groomed silver hair was disheveled, his face pale and drawn.The gray reflection made him look like a specter or zombie.

A chemical smell hung in the air—astringent and medical, reminding him of his wife's recent hospital stay as she’d had her appendix removed.The thought of Carol sent a fresh wave of fear through him.Did she know he was missing?Was she looking for him?He could picture her face, lined with worry, as she talked to the police.Carol had always warned him about making enemies in his line of work, about the risks of being a judge in high-profile cases.Had one of those enemies finally come for him?

Marcus tried to piece together his last memories.He remembered leaving the courthouse, walking to his car in the parking garage.The click of his shoes on concrete, the echo of a car door slamming somewhere in the distance.After that...nothing.Just fragments of sensation—a sharp pain in his neck, the sensation of falling, hands grabbing him before he hit the ground.

He could remember small fragments of it…and that somehow made it so much worse.

It hurt his neck to turn his head too far because of the restraints.But when he looked to the right, something caught his eye.There was an IV stand sitting about two feet away from that side of the bed., Its clear tubing snaked down to disappear beneath a piece of tape on his left arm.His gaze followed the line up to a bag of clear fluid, dripping steadily into his veins.The sight of it made his stomach lurch.There were no markings of any kind on the bag, so he had no idea what was being pumped into his body.

"Oh God."The words escaped in a whisper."Please, somebody help me!"

His voice sounded pathetic even to his own ears.How many times had he heard similar pleas in his courtroom?How many defendants had begged for mercy before he handed down their sentences?Now he was the one pleading, and there was no one to hear him.

A sound from beyond the closed door made him freeze.Footsteps, slow and deliberate, approaching the room.His mouth went dry, his pulse thundering in his ears.The footsteps stopped outside his door.A moment passed—interminable seconds during which he could barely breathe.

The door handle turned with agonizing slowness, the mechanism's click impossibly loud in the quiet room.A man entered, head bowed, dressed in dark clothing.He moved with quiet confidence, like someone completely at home in this nightmarish scenario.Something about him tickled the edges of Marcus’s memory.Had he seen him in his courtroom?There was a familiarity to his bearing, the way he carried himself, but the drugs being pumped into him made it impossible to focus, to place the memory.

The figure moved to the IV stand, adjusting something on the drip line with great concentration.Marcus could not be sure, but he didn’t think the man knew what he was doing…or had just learned how to interact with the IV.

"Wait," Marcus croaked, his tongue feeling thick in his mouth."I know you, don't I?From where?Please, just tell me what's happening."

The man finally raised his head, meeting the judge’s gaze.His eyes were startlingly pale, almost colorless in the dim light, and completely devoid of emotion.Recognition flickered in his mind, but before he could grasp it, a familiar heaviness began creeping through his limbs.

"No," he slurred, fighting against the encroaching darkness."Please don't..."

The man watched impassively as the drugs took hold, those pale eyes the last thing Marcus saw before consciousness slipped away.But in that final moment, a terrible understanding bloomed in his failing mind—he wasn't here by accident.This wasn't a random act of violence.

This was punishment.

As blackness claimed him, Judge Marcus Smith realized he was paying for a decision he'd made, a judgment he'd handed down.But which one?He'd sentenced so many over the years, ruined so many lives in the name of justice.Cases flashed through his mind—murderers, rapists, thieves, all facing him from the defendant's chair.Which one had come back?Which one had—

The thought dissolved into nothingness as the drugs pulled him under completely.

CHAPTER ONE

Rachel stared at her laptop screen, her eyes dancing across information that was both familiar and somehow foreign at the same time.It was all data she'd internalized nearly a decade ago, and now that she was studying it afresh, it almost seemed new to her.Behind her, the FBI's Richmond field office was almost alarmingly quiet.It was a slow day so far; in fact, there had been several slow days in a row as of late.

It was why she was allowing herself a moment to satisfy her own curiosity… to look into something that had nothing to do with any active cases.Prison records filled her display—records belonging to a man named Cody Austin.Her jaw clenched as she scrolled through page after page of perfect behavior reports, glowing reviews from prison staff, and participation certificates from various rehabilitation programs.

One term kept coming up over and over again, and it made Rachel feel both angry and sick to her stomach.

Model prisoner.

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