Page 27 of Her Last Promise

The back lot of Neurology Associates was the kind of place people hurried through, keys gripped between white knuckles.The buildings that surrounded most of it were quite impressive, but the lot itself gave off some very unpleasant vibes.Rachel studied the crumbling asphalt as she ducked under the crime scene tape, noting the faded yellow lines of parking spaces that hadn't seen fresh paint in at least a decade.The lot was hemmed in by brick walls on three sides, creating a shadowy canyon even at mid-morning.A single security light hung above the rear entrance, its protective cage filled with dead insects and wisps of old cobwebs that swayed in the bitter winter breeze.

The sound of distant traffic echoed off the walls, creating an unsettling acoustic chamber that made Rachel feel like she was underwater.She caught the acrid scent of cigarette smoke—probably from the hospital workers who snuck out here for breaks, judging by the scatter of butts near the building's service entrance.

The dumpster squatted against the back wall like a chunk of forgotten metal, its dark green paint peeling to reveal patches of rust underneath.The stench of old food and assorted medical waste made Rachel's nose twitch.Given the nature of the crime scene where Dr.Walsh’s body had been found, she was quite happy she and Novak had insisted they drop Nathan Mitchell at the precinct first.Something about his anxious energy had set her on edge.His fingers had tapped incessantly against his thigh during the ride, and he'd kept nodding off in a way that made him look like he might never wake up again.Now, she wondered if they'd lost precious time catering to her instincts about him.

As she approached the dumpster and the single detective who was currently looking it over while two cops looked on, she spotted a familiar face from earlier in the case.Officer Jennings's familiar bulk drew her attention.He stood at the edge of the tape, his usual easy smile absent, replaced by a grimness that seemed to age him.Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cold air.

"Garbage crew found her," Jennings said, jerking his thumb toward the dumpster.His voice was rougher than Rachel remembered it, emotion bleeding through his professional detachment."Almost dumped the whole thing before one of the guys riding the back for the controls spotted her arm."He shook his head, the badge on his chest catching the weak sunlight."The manager ID'd her right away.Dr.Walsh had been here fifteen years.Said she rarely missed a day of work and was always eager to help the up-and-comers."

Rachel's gaze drifted to the detective by the dumpster.He was older, maybe mid-fifties, scribbling in a small leather-bound notebook with careful precision.The sight tugged at something in her chest—it reminded her of her first days with the bureau, before everything went digital.When details were captured in ink and instinct, not algorithms and databases.She thought of her own notes from the Judge Smith scene, stored safely in her phone, and felt a sudden, irrational longing for paper and pen.

She and Novak approached, showing their IDs and badges.“Detective…” Novak said.

"Detective Foster," he said, eyeing their badges.Rachel saw that he gave her a surprised look when he saw her ID.She still had to remind herself that everything she’d been through over the past three years or so had made her something of a celebrity—even more so than after she’d managed to capture Alex Lynch the first time all those years ago.As they greeted one another, a piece of newspaper skittered past, caught in a swirl of wind that seemed trapped in the lot's confines.

“What’s it look like so far?”Rachel asked him.

“Nasty business, that’s how it looks."His accent carried traces of Boston, softened by years in the South.

"What can you tell me about the scene itself?"Rachel asked.

Foster gestured to the six-story parking structure visible beyond the lot's eastern wall, its concrete facades stained with decades of exhaust and rain."Her car's still up there.Fourth floor, according to security.Been there since she disappeared three days ago."He paused, consulting his notebook."Blue Honda Civic, tags match the missing persons report.Everything inside undisturbed, including her purse and phone."

The implications made Rachel's stomach tighten.Their killer was organized, methodical.He hadn't taken Walsh in the parking garage—too exposed, too many variables.No, he'd waited until she was somewhere more controlled, more isolated.Like her office, probably.And like Judge Smith and, so far as they knew, Harrison, nothing had been stolen.

Rachel reached into her coat, withdrawing latex gloves that crinkled in the morning air.The sound reminded her of hospital rooms, of her own time as a patient.She pushed the memory away, focusing on the task at hand.The metal of the dumpster was cool against her palms as she hoisted herself up, the edge digging into her stomach through her coat.

Novak's hands steadied her legs—firm but professional—as she leaned over the edge.The position was awkward, precarious, and she had to fight against the instinct to pull back from the nauseating smell that wafted up from below.It wasn’t too bad, but she found herself suddenly thankful it was the middle of December rather than the middle of June.

Dr.Patricia Walsh lay crumpled among bags of medical waste and discarded office papers, like a mannequin in a sea of garbage.She wore a charcoal pencil skirt and cream blouse, now stained with coffee grounds and unidentifiable fluids.Her silver hair was still perfectly coiffed, incongruously pristine among the garbage.A strand of pearls circled her neck—real ones, Rachel noted, not costume jewelry.She noted that she was on top of the garbage—that only a few things had been placed on top of her.She assumed this meant her body had been dumped her within the past few hours.

Rachel's throat tightened at the thought of such dignity discarded like trash.She remembered Walsh's credentials from the case file—top of her class at Johns Hopkins, pioneering research in neurology, hundreds of lives improved or saved through her work.All of it ended here, in a dumpster behind her own office.

Thinking of what they knew about Judge Smith, Rachel leaned in a bit more.She felt slightly silly, but looked beyond the embarrassment.Half-in and half-out of the dumpster, Rachel carefully examined Walsh's arms, rolling up the sleeves of her blouse.The bruising at the crook of her elbow told the same story as Judge Smith's body—needle marks from an IV line, surrounded by mottled purple-yellow bruising.But there was something else, something that made Rachel lean in closer despite the nauseating smell.Tiny puncture marks dotted the inside of Walsh's wrist, as if someone had been checking her blood sugar or running other regular tests.They were very small; if she’d not been expressly looking for such a thing, she would have missed them.

The implications clicked into place like tumblers in a lock.The killer wasn't just subduing these people—they were monitoring them, maintaining them.But why?What was the point of keeping them alive only to let them die?Rachel's mind raced through possibilities, each more disturbing than the last.

Her muscles protesting, Rachel lowered herself back to the ground.The morning sun had crept higher, but the lot remained stubbornly gloomy, as if the brick walls themselves absorbed the light.A delivery truck rumbled past on the street beyond, its vibrations echoing off the walls.Rachel blew air hard out of her nostrils as if to dislodge the smell of the dumpster.

"What do you think?"Novak asked, his voice low.He'd been quiet during her examination, respectful of her process, but she could see the same questions and connections forming behind his eyes.

Rachel pulled off her gloves with sharp snaps that seemed to punctuate her thoughts."He's taking them somewhere first.Keeping them sedated."She glanced at the dumpster again, its bulk looming over them like an accusation."The locations where we're finding them—they're not random.Smith in his own car, Walsh in the dumpster behind her office.These are places that meant something to them.It’s almost like he’s attempting to return them to their lives after they’ve died."

Her mind raced ahead, connecting dots with an urgency that made her pulse quicken.The killer was telling them something with these bodies, these locations.Something about power, about forcing people to feel trapped, helpless.Just like someone on life support, aware but unable to move, unable to choose...

And the Mitchell right-to-die case hung at the center of it all, a dark star pulling everything into its orbit.Smith had presided, Walsh had testified, Harrison had prosecuted.And at the core of it all was Nathan Mitchell, fighting to keep his mother alive while someone else had wanted to let her go.From what Rachel could tell, there was no way he wasnotgoing to turn out to be guilty.

But something about Nathan's reaction earlier nagged at her.The way his hands had trembled when they'd mentioned his mother's case, in particular.The look in his eyes that hadn't quite matched his words.The constant checking of his phone during the ride to the precinct.Was he nervous about something more than just being a potential target?

Yes,she thought.He’s worried about his mother.He’s worried she’s being placed in unnecessary pain.

“If your hunch is right,” Novak said, “that means if Harrison also ends up dead, we should have eyes on any place that would be significant to him.”

“Exactly,” Rachel agreed.“But I’d much rather find him and make sure he doesn’t die first.”She sighed, taking out her phone.“But you’re right.We need to be pro-active on this.We need to get immediate surveillance on James Harrison’s home and office."

"And we’ll need to make it discreet,” Novak added.“We don't want to spook our killer—or tip off anyone who might be helping him."

Somewhere above them, a door slammed in the parking garage, the sound echoing like a gunshot.Rachel's hand instinctively moved toward her weapon before she forced it back to her side.She was relieved that no one had seen her do it as she flushed with embarrassment.Jesus, why was she so jumpy?

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