Page 29 of Her Last Warning
She knew this was a possibility.But she also knew that it felt as if time was slipping through their fingers, and somewhere in this city, a killer was probably already selecting their next target and taking steps to eliminate them.
The rain continued to fall, darkening the day even further, though dusk was still a few hours away.Something about the rain and the day cast in a perpetual shade of gray made Rachel feel as if they were working against a countdown clock…and neither of them had any idea when the final second would tick away.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
Linda Reynolds knew where David Shook kept his spare house key.She knew this because she had been trailing him for two weeks now...just as she had also trailed Marcy Connors.
The Volvo's engine hummed as she guided it down Park Avenue, each cobblestone sending tiny vibrations through the steering wheel and into her gloved hands.A fine mist had begun to fall, and she clicked on the wipers, watching them sweep aside beads of water that distorted the amber glow of the streetlights.As she passed Shook's house for the third time that evening, her mind drifted to the key—slightly rusted, with a crack in its brass head—lying beneath the terra cotta pot on his back stoop.She could almost feel it in her hand, could practically hear the soft scrape it would make in the lock once darkness fully settled over the neighborhood.She’d found it last week while she’d been snooping around his home while he’d been out at another of his doctor’s appointments.Another appointment to make sure he remained alive thanks to a miraculous recovery that had the doctors and even David Shook himself baffled.
It was, in many ways, her daughter's very own story.Only her daughter was now gone while David Shook lived on.
Linda's fingers tightened on the steering wheel as the memory crashed into her, uninvited and razor-sharp.The garage door had been open, Emma's silver Civic still running.Linda had just returned from the grocery store, arms full of ingredients for Emma's favorite celebration dinner—she'd insisted on cooking for her daughter that night, wanted to make it special.Sixteen days.They'd had sixteen precious days of hope, of future, of possibility after the doctors had told them the impossible: that Emma's heart had somehow healed itself.Yes, things like this happened from time to time, they insisted, but this was nothing short of a miracle.
The grocery bags had split when they hit the concrete, oranges rolling beneath the car as Linda ran.She remembered the sound they made, hollow plastic thuds as they disappeared into shadows.Emma was splayed beside her car door, one hand still clutching her keys, the other stretched toward her phone which had skittered just out of reach.Two neat holes punctured her head—one above the left eye, one to the temple, the kind of precision that spoke of close range, of purpose.There had been so little blood—that detail had haunted Linda for months afterward.How could something so devastating leave such a small mark?
The police had been thorough, she'd give them that.Detective Morris had spent hours with them, had shown them grainy security footage from the Walgreens two blocks away.The killer's face was clear enough: young, maybe mid-twenties, with a distinctive scar beneath his left eye.They'd even gotten a name—Marcus Wade—but it hadn't mattered.He'd vanished, probably across state lines, taking with him not just Emma's purse but any chance Linda and her husband had of closure.
She steered through a roundabout two blocks away from where David Shook lived, the Volvo's headlights sweeping across Shook's darkening house once more.The living room windows glowed warm yellow—he was home, probably settling in for the evening.Just like Marcy had been, just like Michelle Lester.Linda's pulse quickened at the memory of their final moments.
Michael hadn't understood at first.Her sweet, rational husband had tried to guide her through grief counseling, through support groups where other parents shared their losses.But none of them understood.Their children had been taken by disease, by accidents, by the natural order of things.Emma had been given back to them—a miracle, the doctors had called it—only to be ripped away by human cruelty.That was what had finally convinced Michael that she might be right: the sheer senselessness of it.What sort of God or other powers of the universe saw fit to strike your kid down with a terrible heart condition, then heal her miraculously, only to have her die senselessly sixteen days later?
"It's not right," she'd whispered to Michael one night, months after Emma's death, as they lay sleepless in their too-quiet house."These people get second chances they don't deserve, while our Emma..."She hadn't needed to finish the thought.She'd cried for nearly two hours, so hard that she thought she'd been on the verge of passing out a few times.The next day, Michael had helped her start researching, compiling names of miracle survivors in their area.It had been easy enough, really.They seemed to be shouting their victories from digital rooftops all over social media.And then, of course, there were the community support groups.The same damned groups they’d been going to as a family when Emma had been fighting her heart condition.The same group that, every now and then, would be lit up from within by a story of dealing or a positive diagnosis after years of nothing but bad news.
Linda pulled into a spot half a block from Shook's house, killing the engine but leaving the key in the ignition.In the gloomy grey of the rainy afternoon, she removed her gloves and flexed her fingers, examining the thin latex beneath.Double-layered, just like the night she'd visited Marcy Connors.She'd learned from watching crime shows—not that the police would ever connect these deaths.They were looking for grieving family members of the deceased, for bitter medical professionals.They'd never suspect the parents of a murdered miracle child.
The image of Emma's body flashed again in her mind, but this time it brought a different kind of pain.Not the searing agony of fresh loss, but something colder, more purposeful.Linda had spent countless hours imagining different scenarios: what if Emma had left work five minutes later?What if she'd taken a different route home?What if Linda had been there to stop it?But fate—cruel, capricious fate—had made its choice.Now Linda was simply its instrument, balancing the scales one undeserving survivor at a time.
She thought of the list tucked away in her bedside drawer, written in her precise handwriting.David Shook's name was fourth, followed by four others.Each one a person living within an hour of their own home who'd cheated death in the past six months or so, who'd been granted the miracle that Emma had been denied.Michael had helped research them all, though he'd grown increasingly uneasy with each name they had added to the list.She felt bad for him…like he was trapped but wasn’t even aware of it.But she knew this was for their own good…their only real way to bring any sort of justice home for Emma.
And she was shocked at just how strange justicefelt.Not since that first night with Marcy Connors, when she'd watched the woman's eyes widen with recognition in the darkness, had Linda actuallyfeltthe shifting of things—of justice, of the right and wrongs within the universe.Of knowing that when she took these matters into her own hands, she was in fact serving as an agent of good…of setting broken things right.
Linda had expected to feel something completely different after taking her first life—guilt, perhaps, or fear.Instead, she'd felt only the cool certainty of purpose.Each death was a step toward balance, toward the justice that Marcus Wade had stolen from them along with Emma's life.
The drizzle had strengthened to a steady rain, drumming against the Volvo's roof.Through the water-streaked windshield, Linda watched Shook's porch light flicker on automatically.Soon he would be settling into his evening routine—she'd memorized it over the past two weeks.Television until nine, a small glass of bourbon, then upstairs to read until he fell asleep.His miracle recovery from end-stage lung disease had left him with a deep appreciation for simple pleasures, according to the local newspaper article she'd clipped and saved.
Linda's own appreciation for life's simplicity had died with Emma.She remembered the last morning they'd had together, how ordinary it had seemed.Emma had been running late for work, her newly-healthy heart allowing her to rush around the kitchen in a way she never could have before.She'd kissed Linda's cheek, promised to be home early to help with dinner, and darted out the door.Linda had watched her go, marveling at her daughter's energy, at the rosy flush in her cheeks that had replaced years of pallor.
The police had asked for that detail later—what time Emma had left, what she'd been wearing, whether she'd mentioned any concerns.Linda had answered mechanically, still numb with shock, while Michael gripped her hand so tightly it hurt.Detective Morris had been gentle but persistent, returning day after day with new questions, new leads that inevitably led nowhere.The security footage had been their best hope: Marcus Wade entering the Walgreens at 2:17 PM, his distinctive scar visible as he glanced toward the camera.Leaving at 2:23 PM, turning in the direction of their neighborhood.The final frame showed him checking his watch—probably calculating that Emma would be arriving home soon, looking for an easy target.No one knew how long he’d been tailing her…or if he had intended to do more than kill their daughter.Not that it mattered.Wade was nothing more than dust in the wind now, and even though the cops wouldn’t come out and say it, they had essentially given up.
A car door slammed somewhere down the street, jolting Linda from her memories.She checked her watch—4:45 PM.Soon..No violence, no mess.Just like with Marcy and Michelle.They were weak already, their bodies once again adapting to healthy hearts and frames and minds.All it took was getting them to the ground and then choking the life out of them.Marcy had put up no fight at all.She wondered how much of a fight David Shook would offer.She almost hoped there would be a bit of a scuffle.She supposed it might make yanking the life out of him more enjoyable.
The rain continued to fall, washing away the day's heat, cleansing the world.Linda settled deeper into her seat, patience flowing through her like a cold stream.She would wait, as she had waited through endless nights of grief, through futile police investigations and well-meaning therapy sessions.She would wait, and then she would restore balance, one miracle at a time.
David Shook's borrowed life would end tonight, and Linda would be a little closer to making things right.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
The January drizzle cast a silvery sheen over the Dysons' front yard, transforming the modest brick house into something that belonged in a vintage postcard—the kind you might find tucked away in a grandmother's drawer, edges worn yellow with time.Rachel watched droplets collect in an aged concrete birdbath, its basin chipped and stained with seasons of weather.Around its base, dormant flowerbeds waited for spring, their bare soil dotted with whimsical ceramic garden gnomes and weather-worn angels that seemed to keep silent vigil over the empty beds.
Novak guided their car onto the faded asphalt driveway, parking beside a rusted Ford pickup that had clearly seen better days.The truck's navy blue paint was dulled by time and elements, its chrome bumper spotted with auburn patches of rust.Rachel guessed it had to be at least twenty years old.The house itself sat slightly removed from its neighbors, with a strip of woods providing a natural privacy fence along one side.It was the kind of place that screamed middle-class American dream—or at least what that dream had looked like thirty years ago.
"Quaint," Novak remarked as they made their way up the curved walkway, though something in his tone suggested he wasn't entirely convinced by the peaceful facade.
Rachel said nothing, her eyes scanning the property with the practiced efficiency that came from years of field work.The rain had picked up slightly, creating a soft percussion against their jackets as they reached the front stoop.A worn welcome mat proclaimed "Home Sweet Home" in faded letters, its fibers matted and dark.
Novak's knuckles had barely made contact with the door when it shifted inward, creaking open perhaps an inch.
The sound sent a jolt of adrenaline through Rachel's system, her muscles tensing instinctively.She shared a quick glance with Novak, noting how his easy demeanor had vanished, replaced by the alert posture of an agent expecting trouble.
