Page 22 of Her Last Warning
"Do you remember the name of the group?"
"No, I'm sorry.I just dropped her off.But it was specifically for terminal cases.People who'd been told they only had years or months to live."
Rachel was already gesturing to Novak, pointing at her watch."Thank you, Lacey.You've been incredibly helpful."
She ended the call and quickly scanned the list on her screen.There it was: "Living with Terminal Illness Support Group - Goodwin Community Center - Wed/Fri 10:00 AM."
"We got one," she told Novak, already reaching for her jacket."And we're in luck.It starts in half an hour."
Novak grabbed his keys, his movements precise, efficient."One of our victims attended this meeting?”
“Yeah, Michelle Lester.”
Rachel checked her weapon out of habit as they headed for the elevator, the familiar weight reassuring against her hip.And while this did still feel like a desperate grasp, another part of her insisted that there was a demented logic to it.Where better to find people who've beaten terminal diagnoses than a support group for terminal patients?
As they rode the elevator down, Rachel realized that her surge of adrenaline was mixed with something else – a deep, aching empathy for the people they were about to meet.People facing their own mortality, just as she had.People who came together to share their fears, their hopes, their small victories and devastating setbacks.
She thought about Cody Austin, about the playing card he'd sent, about his threats against Jack.The world suddenly seemed full of invisible connections, threads of pain and hope and fear binding them all together.Whether they chose to acknowledge these connections or run from them – that was the choice each person had to make.
She glanced at Novak, who seemed lost in his own thoughts.Their earlier conversation about the nature of these support groups had shifted something between them, cracked open a door that had been firmly closed.Maybe, she reflected, that's what all human connection came down to: the willingness to be vulnerable, to share your truths and fears with another person.
The elevator doors opened to the parking garage, and Rachel pushed these thoughts aside.They had a killer to catch, one who perverted the very concept of support and understanding into something twisted and deadly.Someone who saw hope as an affront, survival as an insult.
Someone she planned to stop before they could rob someone else of their second chance.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Goodwin Community Center squatted at the back of a thin network of road that wound around a middle-class neighborhood.Its red brick facade was dulled into a shade of red that was nearly brown.Rachel took note of the several cars parked in front of it as Novak guided their own car into a space near the entrance.The building's architecture spoke of 1970s municipal optimism—all sharp angles and tall windows—but time had softened its edges, much like the neighborhood around it.A rusted playground long forgotten sat in one of the back corners of the grounds, its swings creaking softly in the January wind.
Rachel pulled her coat tighter as she stepped out of the car, her breath visible in the morning air.The gathering clouds in the sky still threatened rain later in the day, and this cold was going to make it miserable.Beside her, Novak tightened his coat as well.Rachel wondered if they were truly so cold or if they were chilled by what they were about to walk into.
Though it was a mostly unremarkable building, something about its weathered dignity struck a chord in Rachel.As they approached the double doors, she noted the careful maintenance that spoke of pride rather than prosperity: recently swept steps, gleaming door handles, windows that caught the morning light despite their age.The kind of place where middle-class dreams were both nurtured and mourned.
A blast of warm air hit them as they entered the lobby, carrying the lingering scent of industrial cleaner and coffee.The floor's linoleum tiles, though worn, had been freshly waxed, reflecting the lights overhead.Cork bulletin boards lined both walls, their surfaces a patchwork of community life.January had brought its usual crop of weight loss programs and financial planning seminars, feeding off of New Years resolutions.Their printed flyers competed for space with hand-drawn advertisements for senior bingo nights and teen art classes.A construction paper snowman, clearly the work of the daycare program, reminded visitors that winter was far from over.
The front desk sat empty.But there was a sign taped up stating that the receptionist would return at 10:30.A stack of community newsletters sat in a plastic holder, their headlines announcing upcoming renovations to the center's gymnasium.Rachel picked one up, scanning it quickly before tucking it into her coat pocket.
"There," Novak said, pointing to a hand-lettered sign taped to the wall."Lasting Hope, 10:00."The simple message had an arrow underneath it, pointing to the left.
Rachel's stomach tightened at the sight of the careful penmanship.The loops and curves of the letters bore an unsettling resemblance to the killer's notes—that same deliberate precision, as if each stroke carried weight beyond mere communication.She pushed the thought aside, but it lingered like a shadow at the edge of her vision.
"You okay?"Novak asked, catching her hesitation.
"Fine," she replied, perhaps too quickly."Just...the sign.Reminds me a bit too much of the letters the killer is leaving behind."
Novak studied the sign for a moment, then nodded in understanding."Similar style.But these letters are rounder, more relaxed.Our guy's writing has more...tension in it."
They followed the arrow's direction down a corridor where fluorescent lights hummed overhead.A water fountain gurgled as they passed, its basin stained with mineral deposits.The sound of voices grew stronger as they approached a room at the far end, where double doors stood propped open with rubber wedges.
Through the doorway, Rachel caught glimpses of movement—people setting up chairs, arranging refreshments.A woman's laugh, quickly stifled, echoed from within.The meeting space was larger than Rachel had expected, with high windows that let in strips of winter sunlight.Metal folding chairs had been arranged in a circle, their scratched surfaces telling stories of countless gatherings.A folding table against one wall held a coffee urn, Styrofoam cups, and plates of store-bought cookies arranged with careful attention.
The room smelled of coffee and dust, with an underlying hint of the cleaning products used on the institutional carpet.Exposed pipes ran across the ceiling, painted the same off-white as the walls, and a stack of plastic storage bins lined one corner, labeled for various community programs.
In the center of the chair circle sat a woman who held the kind of presence that anchored a room—not through force of personality, but through a quiet steadiness that drew people in.Her silver hair was cut in a practical bob, and reading glasses hung from a beaded chain around her neck.She wore a cream-colored sweater over black slacks, and a wedding ring glinted on her finger as she studied a sheet of paper in her lap with such concentration that she didn't notice their approach.Rachel assumed this was the leader of the group, preparing for the meeting.
At the back of the room, several people were clustered near the snack table, their conversations a low murmur.Rachel recognized the particular cadence of grief support groups—the gentle pauses, the knowing nods, the careful navigation around raw wounds.A young woman in a red scarf dabbed at her eyes while an older man patted her shoulder.Near the windows, two middle-aged women spoke in hushed tones over untouched cookies.
Novak took the lead as they approached the woman at the center of the room, in the middle of the circle of chairs.He kept his voice low as he reached for his badge, shielding it from the others in the room with his body."Ma’am, are you leading this group?”he asked.
