Page 1 of Her Last Warning
PROLOGUE
The Uber's headlights swept across Marcy Connors' front yard as the car turned into her driveway.She watched the beams of light glide over the small flowerbeds she had not maintained for nearly two full years.She fumbled with her phone, squinting at the payment screen through wine-blurred vision.Her friends had insisted on covering the ride, but she managed to tap out a decent tip on her phone anyway.The driver deserved it – he'd endured her tipsy rambling about second chances and miracle cures the whole way home.And he’d smiled the entire time.
He provided his own phone, with an attachment on it.A little beep sent the tip his way."You have yourself a good night, ma'am," he called as she extracted herself from the backseat, her knee-high boots crunching against the frozen gravel.
Marcy steadied herself against the car's trunk and then started walking for her porch.She fished the keys from her purse, watching the red taillights disappear down her quiet street.Her little ranch house sat dark and familiar before her, its weathered brick facade and slightly crooked mailbox as unremarkable as every other home on the block.The porch light cast a weak yellow glow over her collection of terra cotta pots, their summer flowers long since withered.She'd have to replant them come spring – something she hadn't bothered with last year when the chemo had stolen all her energy.
But that was then.Tonight, she felt electric with possibility, despite the late January air biting at her cheeks and the wine making her head swim.She checked her phone: 12:25.When was the last time she'd stayed out past midnight?Before the diagnosis, certainly.Before the endless rounds of treatment that had stripped away everything but hope.God, it all made her feel so young…so absolutely and unapologeticallyalive.
The lock gave its familiar sticky resistance as she turned her key.From inside came the clicking of tiny claws against hardwood, and then an enthusiastic snuffling under the door.Marcy grinned."Hold your horses, you silly thing."
Itchy greeted her with his usual frenzied dance, all nine pounds of him vibrating with joy.His Yorkie-Pom mix gave him a perpetually disheveled appearance, like a dust mop that had achieved sentience."Did you miss mama?"she cooed, kneeling awkwardly to scratch behind his ears."Did you think I'd never come home?"
She straightened up, steadying herself against the wall when the room tilted slightly.Definitely had one glass too many of that prosecco, but honestly?She'd earned it.Two weeks cancer-free deserved a celebration.Her friends had insisted on it, had practically dragged her out to dinner and drinks."To Marcy," they'd toasted, again and again, until her cheeks hurt from smiling."To kicking cancer's ass!"
Fumbling for her phone, she typed out a quick group text:Home safe.Love you all so much.Thank you for everything.She had to stare at the keyboard quite hard, as the letters were blurry.The message immediately sparked a flurry of heart emojis and gif responses.Marcy felt warm despite the chill that had settled into her dark house.
"Come on, Itchy," she said, wandering toward the kitchen."Mama needs some water, or tomorrow's going to be rough."Itchy trotted after her, his nails tick-tick-ticking against the floor.The house felt different at night, familiar shapes transformed into looming shadows.She'd lived here alone since Derek left – eight years now – but tonight the darkness felt...watching.She shook off the sensation.Just the wine making her imagination run wild.
The kitchen tap ran cold and clear.She gulped down one glass standing over the sink, then filled another to take with her.She made her way to the bathroom, she flicked on the harsh fluorescent light and immediately winced."Oh honey," she told her reflection, "tomorrow's going to be interesting."
She did her business and then washed her hands.The woman in the mirror looked back at her with smeared mascara and wine-flushed cheeks.Her shoulder-length brown hair, freshly colored to hide the gray, had escaped its careful styling.But underneath the slight mess of the evening, she could still see what her friends always insisted: she didn't look her age.Fifty-two, but with good genes and better skincare, she could pass for early forties.The cancer had taken its toll – her face was thinner than before, cheekbones more prominent – but she was alive.Gloriously, impossibly alive.
Two Ibuprofen went down easy with the rest of her water."Prevention is better than cure," she muttered to Itchy, who had followed her into the bathroom and was now watching her with his head cocked to one side."Don't judge me.You're not the one who has to work tomorrow."
Back in the kitchen, she filled Itchy's water bowl, splashing a bit on the floor in her less-than-steady state."Oops.Don't tell anyone about that."Itchy stared at the bowl for a moment, then to her, then out toward the living room.He looked jittery, and there was a low whine in his throat.It wasn’t like him…but then again, he wasn’t used to his mama staying out so late.She likelyhadfrightened him a bit.He continued to glance into the living room while Marcy used her sock-clad foot to swipe at the spill of water.
The house creaked and settled around her, its familiar night sounds somehow amplified in her slightly altered state.Time for bed.She'd deal with removing her makeup in the morning.Right now, she just wanted to collapse into her—
The thought stuttered to a halt as she crossed the living room.Something was wrong.Different.Her coffee table held only two items: a picture book of Paris she’d gotten at the Louvre when she visited several years ago (before the cancer) and.a folded sheet of paper.What struck her as odd was that she had no idea what the paper was.She’d cleaned this afternoon before heading out.The paper had not been there when she left.She was sure of it.
The warmth of the wine seemed to curdle in her stomach.She reached for the paper with trembling fingers, telling herself it was nothing.Maybe she'd left herself a note and forgotten.Had she had enough to drink to forget something like that?She didn’t think so…
The paper was heavy, expensive.The kind used for wedding invitations or formal announcements.Inside, five words were written in precise black ink.
Fate cannot be cheated.
The paper slipped from her numb fingers, drifting to the floor like a dead leaf.The silence of the house pressed in around her, no longer comfortable but suffocating.Someone had been here.Someone had been in her home while she was out celebrating her survival.
Itchy stood in the kitchen doorway, head tilted, showing no sign of distress.He was still whining, still looking uncertainly at her with his big, brown eyes.But then, he was thirteen now, his hearing going, his guard dog instincts limited to announcing the arrival of mail trucks and squirrels.If someone had broken in...
Her phone.She needed her phone.Her fingers fumbled with the screen, trying to pull up the keypad for 911.The wine that had made everything soft and lovely now made her clumsy, slow.Behind her, a floorboard creaked.
Marcy knew, with bone-deep certainty, that she wasn't alone.The movement behind her was deliberate, purposeful.She tried to turn, tried to scream, but the figure rushing from the shadows was faster than her wine-dulled reflexes.
The last thing she saw was Itchy, still standing in the doorway, watching with mild curiosity as a heavy weight fell on her from behind.
CHAPTER ONE
The winter sun hung low in the Virginia sky, casting long shadows across Rachel's backyard.Despite the calendar marking late January, the afternoon had brought an unexpected warmth that coaxed both Rachel and Jack outside to the back porch.The weathered thermometer mounted beside the door read forty-eight degrees – practically balmy for this time of year, though the forecast promised a return to freezing temperatures soon enough.Virginia was one of those places where February tended to sneak up on everyone to remind the American south what winterreallywas.
They sat together on the old wooden glider, the same one where Rachel had spent countless afternoons with Grandma Tate.The memory rose unbidden: her grandmother's fingers wrapped around a glass of sweet tea or lemonade (whichever Paige had asked for that week), ice cubes clinking as she gestured to emphasize particularly dramatic points in her stories.The condensation from those glasses had left permanent rings on the armrest that Rachel could never bring herself to sand away.
"You know what Grandma Tate would say about all this?"Rachel asked, breaking the comfortable silence between them.Her fingers continued their nervous dance along the edges of the playing card in her lap – a Jack of hearts, its corners softened and worn from her constant handling over the past week.
Jack's eyebrows lifted in question."Something wise and Southern?"
"She'd say we're both being silly, sitting out here fretting instead of doing something about it."Rachel traced the thick black "3" written across the card's face, matching the "1" scrawled across Scarlett's obituary and the "2" defacing the article about the hospice bombing.All three items had been waiting for her, tucked beneath her windshield wiper like a curse nine days ago as she’d left for work."Then she'd probably make us drink hot toddy and tell us everything looks better after bourbon."
