Page 8 of Her Last Warning
Novak shook his head, pushing back from his laptop."Nothing concrete.I've gone through every social media post, every tagged photo from Marcy's celebration.Cross-referenced them against Hayes's known associates and medical support groups.If there's a connection, it's buried deeper than I can dig."
Rachel stood, needing to move, and began to pace the small space behind her chair."It's not technically true though, is it?"she said, thoughts crystallizing as she moved."We do have a connection.Both victims made recoveries that defied medical expectations.Both were given death sentences that turned out to be wrong."
Novak straightened, interest flickering across his face.“You find anything on him?”
“Let’s just say he has a reputation that could be blown over by a slight wind.And we know from Millie Hayes that he was vocally skeptical about at least one of those recoveries."
"Sounds like it’s worth looking into.”
Rachel stopped pacing, bracing her hands on the back of her chair."Yorke was the only physician who didn't join the celebration when Hayes started improving.He maintained it was likely temporary, that the apparent recovery could be misleading."
"And we know how that turned out," Novak said, already reaching for his coat.
"He didn’t want to be wrong…if when being wrong meant good news."
Rachel gathered her own coat, energy surging through her at the prospect of finally leaving the confines of the conference room."I’d be very surprised if he’s our killer," she said, shrugging into the jacket."But his whole life now is built around being careful, conservative in his judgments.But he might have insights we're missing.He's seen how these kinds of cases can go wrong—and right."
"And he might know of others," Novak added, holding the door for her."Other patients who've beaten the odds, other doctors who might have struggled with being proven wrong."
As they headed for the elevator, Rachel felt her earlier restlessness transform into focused anticipation.The research phase had served its purpose, giving them a direction, a thread to pull.Now they could do what she did best: get out there, ask the right questions, read the subtle tells that no amount of digital digging could reveal.
"You know," Novak said as they waited for the elevator, "most agents I've worked with love the research days.Chance to catch up on paperwork, make phone calls in comfort, maybe even grab lunch at a normal hour."
Rachel smiled slightly, checking her phone for the time."I've never been much good at desk work.Give me a door to knock on, a witness to interview, a suspect to chase—anything but another hour of staring at a screen."
The elevator arrived with a soft chime.As they stepped in, Rachel thought about Yorke, about how people could change—or appear to change—when their backs were against the wall.She wondered what they'd find when they met him face to face, what subtle tells might reveal themselves in person that no amount of online research could uncover.Whether Yorke turned out to be a useful source or another dead end, at least they were finally in motion, following the trail wherever it might lead.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The cotton of his hood brushed against his ear as he adjusted it, maintaining the delicate balance between concealment and suspicion.Too far forward, and he'd look like someone with something to hide.Too far back and his face would be exposed.The gray fabric blended seamlessly with the overcast sky, making him just another shape in the urban landscape.He'd chosen this particular sweatshirt carefully—a popular brand, but last season's model.Nothing remarkable, nothing memorable.It blended into the moderate amount of foot traffic on the street quite well.
Michelle Lester walked ahead of him, about half a block ahead.Her honey-blonde hair caught occasional glimpses of wan sunlight.Her laughter carried back to him on the autumn breeze, mingling with that of her friend who walked along beside her.Their joy felt like needles under his skin, each peal of happiness driving deeper into his flesh.He wondered if she knew how precious these moments were, how easily they could be snatched away.Probably not.People like her never did, not until it was too late.
Thirty-three years old.That's what his research had told him.Thirty-three years old and granted a miracle she didn't deserve.The doctors had been certain—absolute in their diagnosis of an irreversible neurological condition.Yet here she was, striding down the sidewalk as if she'd never spent months unable to control her own muscles, as if she'd never faced the certainty of progressive deterioration.Her medical files had told the story in clinical terms: degradation of motor function, progressive nerve damage, inevitable decline.Until suddenly, inexplicably, there was improvement.Recovery.A miracle, they called it.
He kept his pace measured, maintaining exactly half a block between them.Close enough to track, far enough to avoid notice.His footfalls matched the rhythm of other pedestrians, his posture carefully calibrated to project casual purpose rather than predatory intent.The art of invisibility wasn't in hiding—it was in being so ordinary that people's eyes simply slid past you.He'd learned this rather easily the deeper into this little voyage he became.
A gust of wind carried the scent of coffee from a nearby café, reminding him of where he'd first spotted them today.He'd been waiting, knowing Michelle's patterns, knowing she and her friend were meeting at that particular coffee shop.The friend was new in her life, part of her "support system," someone who'd helped her through the darkest times.He'd learned all this from careful observation, from piecing together fragments of overheard conversations and social media posts.Every detail was a thread in the tapestry of her life—a life that had been marked for ending, then inexplicably spared.
His jaw clenched as he watched them pause at a boutique window.Their reflections overlapped with the mannequins, all of them dressed in celebration of life.Michelle pressed her palm against the glass, pointing at something, and her friend nodded enthusiastically.He could read their body language like a book: the easy companionship, the shared joy of simple pleasures.The sort of moments far too many would never have again.
They disappeared inside.Even from across the distance between them, he thought he could hear the little electronic bell above the door chiming cheerfully.The sound rang in his ears like a mockery of church bells, celebrating false resurrection while true saints lay buried.
The universe had made a mistake.It was the only logical explanation for these...anomalies.These people who slipped through death's fingers while others, more deserving, were crushed in its grip.
Hi own daughter had been pure light, a force of goodness in the world.Her recovery had been a promise, a covenant with fate—and then that promise had been shattered by random violence, while others like Michelle Lester were granted second chances they hadn't earned.
He thought about Emma's last morning, how she'd danced in the kitchen, weak but jubilant after receiving her clean bill of health.She'd made plans for the future, talking about college and travel and all the things she'd do now that she had her life back.The universe had played a cruel joke, dangling hope before snatching it away.
He shifted his weight, conscious of how long he'd been standing still.A man in athletic wear lingering outside a boutique would draw attention.Amateur mistakes like that could unravel everything.His muscles coiled with suppressed rage as he forced himself to move, to cross the street with unhurried steps.Each footfall felt like an affront.How dare she celebrate?How dare she shop for new dresses while his daughter's clothes gathered dust in a closet he couldn't bear to empty?
He quickly took in his surroundings, selecting the small deli across the street.It offered a place to hide while also watching the door of the boutique.He waited for traffic to pass and then crossed the street.The very first step into the deli pushed the chill of the day away; its warm air carried the scent of fresh-baked bread and sliced meat.Modern industrial lighting hung from exposed beams, illuminating polished concrete floors and reclaimed wood tables.It was the kind of place that straddled the line between trendy and traditional, with its hand-lettered menu boards and carefully curated vintage photographs.The kind of place Emma would have loved.
"What can I get you?"The young man behind the counter wore a neatly trimmed beard and an apron that looked artisanally distressed.His friendly smile received a carefully measured response—pleasant but forgettable.
"Roast beef on rye."His voice emerged perfectly modulated, rehearsed to hit that sweet spot between friendly and forgettable.He'd practiced this, the art of being unmemorable.It was a skill he'd refined long before it became necessary for his mission."Light mayo, no tomato."
He paid in cash—exact change, nothing memorable there—and took his place at the window bar.The stool's metal legs scraped slightly against the floor as he settled in, positioning himself for optimal surveillance while appearing to be absorbed in his phone.Through the smudged window, he could see the boutique entrance perfectly.The universe might be random, but his actions would not be.
