Page 7 of Her Last Warning
"The note," Novak said."Where was it placed?"
"Right in the center of the kitchen table," Millie replied, her voice hollow."Folded neatly in half, just as proper as you please.Like a place card at a formal dinner."
"About the doors?"Rachel asked."We understand they were found unlocked?"
“That’s right,” Millie said."Robert always did a final check of the doors before coming up to bed.And since he was still awake...they would have been unlocked.He was so careful about it usually.Ever since his diagnosis, he'd gotten almost obsessive about securing the house at night.But if he was still up..."
Rachel leaned forward slightly."Was there anything else unusual in Robert's life recently?Besides his recovery?"
A wan smile touched Millie's lips."Just the book, really.He threw himself into it completely.Although..."She hesitated.
"What is it?"Rachel encouraged.
"His primary cardiologist, Dr.Brian Yorke—he wasn't supportive of the project at all.Made it very clear he didn't want his name mentioned in it.Robert was disappointed; he'd hoped to include interviews with his medical team.But he kept writing anyway.Yorke’s dismissal sort of discouraged Robert for a while, but he eventually got over it and carried on."
Rachel and Novak exchanged glances."Did Dr.Yorke say why he objected?"
"He claimed it would be inappropriate," their mother answered, a note of displeasure in her voice."Said it might give other patients false hope.But if you ask me, he was just upset that Robert had improved despite his dire predictions.And you know how much a doctor hates to be proven wrong."
They asked a few more questions—about Robert's daily routine, any unusual phone calls or visitors, whether he'd mentioned feeling watched or followed.But nothing else of note emerged.And word by word, Rachel could see that she and Novak had managed to put a significant damper on what had, until their visit, been a joyous moment.
Finally, Rachel stood, sensing they'd gotten all they could for now.“Well, we thank you for your time.And I’m sorry for your loss.”
As they prepared to leave, Millie caught Rachel's arm."Agent Gift?Please find whoever did this.Robert fought so hard to live.He deserved better than this."
Rachel met her eyes, seeing in them the same desperate need for answers she'd seen too many times before."We'll do everything we can," she promised, knowing it wasn't enough, but it was all she had to offer.The piano hymns followed them out, their peaceful melodies a jarring counterpoint to the darkness they were chasing.
They made their way back outside, the January afternoon starting to feel almost warm.Almost.The dour mood they’ve left back in the house seemed to cling to them as they got back into the car.Rachel stared at the Hayes house before Novak pulled away from the curb.Two victims now, both recently recovered from terminal conditions, both strangled in their own homes.And now they had the name of a doctor who seemed to be at some sort of odd conflict with one of the victims.It wasn't much—maybe nothing, actually—but it was somewhere to start.
Rachel's phone buzzed as they pulled away.She smiled wanly when she saw that it was a text from Jack, checking in.She typed a quick response, trying to ignore the immediate image of the playing card that still sat in her computer bag, the Jack of hearts grinning up at her like it had some dark and vicious secret.
CHAPTER SIX
The afternoon sun slanted through conference room B's single window, catching dust motes in its soft, yellow beam.Rachel shifted in her chair, the cheap fabric upholstery scratching against her blazer.The room was barely large enough for the oval table that dominated it, leaving just enough space for their two chairs and the whiteboard mounted on the far wall.Coffee cups—Rachel's third of the day—dotted the surface between manila folders and hastily scribbled notes.
Her eyes burned from staring at her laptop screen, and she fought the urge to get up and pace.This was the part of the job she'd always struggled with: the endless hours of research, of piecing together digital breadcrumbs when her body screamed to be in motion, to be out there where the action was.Where she could read faces instead of files, interpret body language instead of browser histories.Across the table, Novak's fingers clacked steadily against his own keyboard as he dug through social media connections, looking for links between Marcy Connors's celebration attendees and Robert Hayes.
Rachel's own search had led her down a rabbit hole of medical journals and news articles about Dr.Brian Yorke.The more she read, the more complex a picture emerged of a man whose career had weathered a devastating storm—and somehow come out stronger for it.Under any other circumstances, she might have found it a rather entertaining read.
Seven years ago, Dr.Yorke had been at the height of his career.Chief of Cardiology at Boston Memorial, published in pretty much every major medical journal, and the go-to expert for local news stations whenever they needed a sound bite about heart health.Then came the case that nearly destroyed everything: seven-year-old Sophie Martinez.
Sophie had come in with symptoms that mimicked a common kidney infection.Yorke, consulted on the case due to some cardiac involvement, had insisted her heart symptoms were psychosomatic, a stress response to the kidney issues.He'd been so convinced of his diagnosis that he'd prevented other doctors from pursuing alternative theories.By the time another physician finally ordered the correct tests—against Yorke's explicit directions—Sophie's kidneys were shutting down.She'd barely survived.
The resulting investigation uncovered two other cases where Yorke's misdiagnoses had led to serious complications.In one, an elderly man had suffered a minor stroke that could have been prevented.In another, a woman in her thirties had undergone unnecessary cardiac procedures based on Yorke's incorrect interpretation of her test results.
Rachel leaned back, rubbing her temples.The articles from that period painted a picture of a man whose certainty in his own judgment had nearly cost lives.The medical board review had been scathing, citing "dangerous overconfidence" and "reluctance to consider alternative diagnoses."Yorke had been suspended for six months and ordered to complete additional training in diagnostic procedures.
But what happened next was remarkable.Instead of retreating into bitter defensiveness or leaving medicine altogether, Yorke had transformed himself.He'd taken his suspension time to volunteer at free clinics in underserved areas—including a month-long trip to Sierra Leone.He'd published a surprisingly candid article in the New England Journal of Medicine about the dangers of diagnostic momentum and cognitive bias in medicine.He'd established a foundation that provided second opinion consultations to low-income patients.
The medical community had watched, skeptical at first, then increasingly impressed as Yorke demonstrated genuine change.He became known for his caution, his willingness to admit uncertainty, his insistence on thorough testing before making definitive pronouncements.The same traits that had once made him dangerous—his stubbornness, his intensity—were channeled into advocating for patient safety and diagnostic accuracy.
Rachel scrolled through more recent articles.Yorke's rehabilitation wasn't just professional window-dressing.It seemed that he'd truly rebuilt himself, but at a cost: his reputation was now incredibly fragile—and he seemed to know it.One wrong move, one mistaken endorsement, and everything he'd rebuilt could crumble.
She thought about Robert Hayes, about Yorke's refusal to contribute to the book.It made perfect sense now.Hayes's recovery had defied medical explanation—exactly the kind of case that someone in Yorke's position would be wary of touching.One wrong word, one misinterpreted quote, and his carefully reconstructed credibility could be questioned all over again.
The sound of Novak's frustrated sigh drew her attention.He was rubbing his eyes, looking as drained as she felt.The conference room felt smaller by the minute, the walls seeming to press in with each passing hour.Rachel's legs twitched with the need to move, to chase, to do anything but sit and stare at another screen.
"Any luck on your end?"she asked, already knowing the answer from his expression.
