Page 4 of Her Last Warning
"Evidence at the scene," Anderson was saying, his voice coming from very far away, "indicates a link to another murder victim from three days ago.Robert Hayes.I don’t have all of the information right now but it appears there was some sort of a note left at both scenes."He kept his eyes on Rachel the entire time, watching her reaction."Hayes was also just coming off of beating a terminal diagnosis."
Rachel set down her cup with careful precision, hiding the tremor in her hands.The playing card in her bag seemed to pulse like a second heartbeat.This should have been her morning to finally share her Cody Austin theory with Anderson, to let others take that burden.Instead, she sat here listening to a story that could have been her own, if fate had turned just slightly different.
"Case files will be emailed to you both in the next ten minutes," Anderson said, gathering the papers before him."For now, head to Connor's address.CSU is still processing the scene."
Rachel stood, her body moving on autopilot while her mind raced.The Jack of Hearts would have to wait.Scarlett's obituary would have to wait.Someone was out there targeting survivors – people who had fought their way back from the edge only to be pulled into a different kind of darkness.It felt almost like a personal attack.
"Ready?"Novak asked quietly, holding the door open.
Rachel nodded, feeling the familiar surge of determination replace the initial shock of Anderson's details.She'd only spent about three minutes in this room since she'd arrived, but it felt like she'd just gotten an abundance of information.And it sat heavy on her shoulders like a millstone as she headed for the door, ready to head back out into the cold to hunt down a killer.
CHAPTER THREE
The morning was rather cloudy, looking like snow even though there was none in the forecast, and it cast a grey pallor over Marcy Connors' front lawn as Rachel and Novak pulled up to the crime scene.The house was a modest single-story ranch with cream-colored siding and dark green shutters—the kind of home that usually blended into the peaceful suburban landscape.Today, it stood out starkly, marked by yellow crime scene tape and two patrol cars parked at awkward angles in the driveway.
Rachel studied the dead flower bed, the small porch, the little flowerpot at the top of the short set of stairs.The house was quaint and small, the sort of place that blended in with all of the other homes around it.The sort of place someone could live and not really need to be seen at all.She knew it was the sort of neighborhood where each of the neighbors would hear the news about Marcy Connors and say they never expected something like this to happen here.
As they approached the house and ducked under the crime scene tape, she could already hear cops speaking quietly inside.Novak opened the door and they saw a uniformed officer standing guard at the entrance, nodding as he checked their badges.The door opened into a foyer that still held the lingering scent of vanilla from a wall plug-in air freshener—a jarringly domestic detail in what was now a crime scene.
"Agents."A tall, unformed cop with salt-and-pepper hair approached them, extending his hand."Sergeant Lane.Thanks for coming out so quickly."His wedding ring caught the light as he shook their hands—old and worn, probably twenty years or more of marriage.
Rachel shook his hand, noting his firm grip and the shadows under his eyes."What can you tell us about the victim?"she asked, following him deeper into the house.The hardwood floors creaked slightly under their feet, the sound somehow emphasizing the emptiness of the home.
Lane consulted his notepad, the pages already dog-eared from frequent reference."Marcy Connors, fifty-two.Lived alone after her divorce eight years ago.Elementary school teacher until her cancer diagnosis two years ago—stage four pancreatic.Then something of a medical miracle happened."
They passed through a living room that spoke of a life interrupted.A half-drunk glass of water on the coffee table, a paperback novel on the couch.A picture book of Paris sat on the coffee table as well.A phone charger dangling from the wall outlet, its cord coiled like a snake.
As she stepped further into the house, she noticed a high-pitched whining coming from the back of the house.Almost like something the crying.“What’s that?”she asked.
"Ms.Connors had a dog," Lane said."We weren't sure what to do with him, so he's currently in the laundry room.Don't worry…we gave him food and water.I'm hoping a friend will take him."
“Back to this miracle,” Novak said."The cancer went into remission?"Even as he spoke, his eyes were scanning the room methodically.He'd developed a good eye for detail in their short time working together, Rachel had to admit.
"Complete remission," Lane confirmed, flipping a page in his notepad."Her latest scans showed no trace of the disease.Her doctors called it unprecedented.And I know that because we literally got the update from her specialist about three minutes before you came in."
Rachel's attention was drawn to a collection of framed photos on the mantel.Marcy with groups of smiling children in a classroom, her face animated as she pointed to something off-camera.Marcy in a hospital bed, thin but grinning, holding up a thumb's up.Marcy more recently, looking healthy, surrounded by friends holding champagne glasses.The progression told a story of someone who'd fought hard for their second chance.
Marcy’s body lay in the threshold between the living room and kitchen, sprawled at an unnatural angle.Rachel simply looked at the woman for a moment, as if a sign of respect, before pulling on latex gloves.The snap of rubber made a familiar sound that still made her pause sometimes.She crouched beside the body, studying the victim's face.Marcy's eyes were open, frozen in what might have been surprise or terror.Lividity patterns suggested she hadn't been moved since death.
The bruising around her neck told a violent story.Deep purple marks wrapped around like a macabre necklace, with distinct patterns that suggested strong hands.Rachel had seen enough of these scenarios to be able to tell the killer had been wearing gloves, which meant they were being careful.She also saw petechial hemorrhaging in her eyes.Swollen tongue slightly protruding.The killer had been face-to-face with her, watching as the life drained away.
"Time of death?"Rachel asked, gently turning the victim's head to examine the bruising pattern.She noticed a small silver necklace with a medical caduceus charm—probably a gift celebrating her recovery.
"ME's preliminary estimate puts it between two and four AM," Lane replied, his voice taking on the detached tone cops used when discussing details that would horrify civilians."We know she was alive at midnight.She'd been out celebrating with friends—a 'second chance' party, they called it.As far as I know, we’ve only been able to locate one of the friends.”
Rachel stood, her knees cracking slightly.The sound reminded her of her own recent recovery, how her body still betrayed her sometimes with these small signs of weakness.She pushed the thought away, focusing instead on Novak, who was examining the kitchen with careful attention to detail.From what she could see, there were no signs of a struggle.The killer had surprised and then overpowered Marcy quickly, suggesting either significant physical strength or training.
"The friends who were with her last night—we'll need their names and contact information," Rachel said, already thinking about the interviews ahead.Would any of them have noticed someone watching them at the restaurant?Following them, maybe?
"Already working on it," Lane assured her."Five people total.They had dinner and drinks at Castello's downtown, then a few more drinks at a martini bar….all that according to the one friend we’ve been able to speak to.”He shrugged and added, “But hey, it’s still early.”
Rachel's eyes swept the crime scene again, taking in details she might have missed.Nothing appeared to be stolen.No signs of forced entry.The killer had either been invited in or known how to gain access.On the kitchen counter, a small pill organizer sat next to a water filter pitcher—maintenance medications, probably, to prevent the cancer from returning.Medications she wouldn't need anymore.
"There was a note, right?”she asked, pushing back the wave of anger that threatened to break her professional demeanor.
Lane snapped his fingers at a younger officer who hurried over with an evidence bag containing a single sheet of paper.Rachel held it up to the light, studying the message written in neat black ink: Fate cannot be cheated.
The words sent a chill down her spine that she refused to show.The handwriting was controlled, deliberate.No angry slashing of the pen, no signs of hesitation.This wasn't written in the heat of the moment—it was planned, considered.Rachel thought of her own brush with death, how surviving had felt like both a miracle and a responsibility.Who was this killer to decide that survival was an offense worthy of punishment?
