Page 1 of Her Last Farewell

PROLOGUE

The rusted iron rails of Patterson Bridge rose like monstrous fingers against the dark November sky, reaching up toward stars that offered no comfort. The structure had stood for nearly one hundred years but had been abandoned and in a state of disrepair for decades. Cracked and pitted pavement stretched across its span, broken in places to reveal the steel bones beneath. The bridge itself seemed to groan softly in the night wind, as if bearing witness to the scene about to unfold upon its surface.

A dog barked somewhere off in the distance, and Andrea Haskins nearly screamed at the sound. She shook her head in embarrassment and stepped closer to the surface of the old bridge, finding a sad irony in it, given that she’d burned quite a few bridges in her own life. At thirty-two, she felt ancient, worn down by years of bad choices and worse consequences—all of which had led her here. A gentle breeze stirred her unwashed hair, carrying with it the musty scent of decaying leaves and the metallic tang of old iron. Stripped trees swayed in the darkness around her, their bare branches scratching against one another like desperate whispers urging her forward.

She took another step closer to the edge, feeling the crunch of loose gravel beneath her worn sneakers. The drop ahead of her and below the bridge seemed to stretch into infinity, a void that promised an end to everything—the shame, the loneliness, the constant struggle to stay clean. Somewhere far below, barely visible in the darkness, lay an unforgiving bed of rocks and a shallow creek that wound through them like a cruel smile.

The vertigo hit her in waves, making the darkness below seem to pulse and swim. Her stomach lurched as a sudden gust of wind pushed against her back, as if nature itself was tryingto hurry her decision along. Andrea closed her eyes, steadying herself against the sensation, but the darkness behind her eyelids offered no escape from the loneliness that had driven her here. Three months clean, and what did she have to show for it? A shabby trailer she could barely afford, a job she was probably going to lose anyway, and a collection of failed relationships ruined by years of addiction.

The memories surfaced unbidden: her mother's face the last time she'd stolen from her purse; her ex-boyfriend’s disappointed eyes when she'd relapsed after six months of sobriety; the way her little sister had stopped answering her calls altogether. The meth had taken everything, piece by piece, until Andrea barely recognized the person she saw in the mirror each morning. Even now, clean for a large number of days of which she’d lost count, she felt like a ghost haunting the edges of a life she could never fully reclaim.

She opened her eyes again, gazing down into the waiting darkness. The height was dizzying, the empty space before her seeming to pull at her like a magnet. Every breath drew her closer to the edge, each exhale carrying away another reason to step back. The wind picked up slightly, whistling through the iron framework of the bridge; it created an eerie melody that seemed to echo her inner turmoil.

But even now that she was clean, the cravings still clawed at her insides like hungry animals. Three months of group therapy sessions where she sat in silence, listening to others talk about hope and recovery while she felt nothing but the hollow space where her future should have been. Three months of her current boyfriend trying to help, even though she could see in his eyes that he was fighting his own battles, his own demons that threatened to drag them both back down.

The AA chips in her pocket felt like stones now—thirty days, sixty days…each one a milestone that had meant nothing in theend, because no matter how many days clean she collected, she couldn't wash away the memories of what she'd done to survive when the addiction had its teeth in her deepest.

A solitary tear traced its way down her cheek, though Andrea barely felt it in the numbing cold. Below, the creek continued its eternal journey through the rocks, indifferent to her pain. The drop would be quick, she thought. A moment of weightlessness, and then nothing. Hell, maybe she may actually enjoy the sensation of free fall for a few seconds. No more struggling to rebuild a life from ashes. No more disappointment in the eyes of those who'd tried to help. No more fighting against the constant pull of addiction, the whispered promises of chemical comfort that still haunted her dreams.

She lifted one foot slightly, testing the edge of the bridge. Loose pieces of pavement crumbled away, disappearing into the darkness below. The sound of them hitting the rocks came seconds later, a distant patter that seemed to beckon her forward. The void before her offered a terrible kind of peace—an end to the daily battle of existing in a world that had no place for her anymore.

"There's no need for that, is there?"

The voice came from behind her, soft but clear in the night air. Andrea's breath caught in her throat as she turned, her movements careful on the crumbling edge. Through tears she hadn't realized were falling, she made out the figure of a man standing several yards away. The security light from a distant property caught the edges of his face, revealing kind eyes and an expression of genuine concern. She was surprised to find that her primary reaction was one of embarrassment—that someone had found her in the midst of this, the lowest point of her life.

He took a step toward her, his movements slow and deliberate, as if approaching a wounded animal. There was something both comforting and unsettling about his presence—like a pastor who had wandered out of his church and into this darkness purely by chance.

"Would you take just one small step back for me?" he asked, his voice gentle but firm. "Just one step. That's all I'm asking for right now."

Andrea remained frozen, caught between the void behind her and this unexpected interruption of her final moments. The man moved closer still, his steps careful on the ancient pavement. When he was close enough that she could make out the details of his face in the darkness, he extended his hand toward her.

"Let me help you," he said softly, his palm open and waiting. "Please. You don’t want to do this."

Deep down, she knew he was right. Shedidn’twant to do this. But right now, it seemed like her only escape.

The night wind gusted around them, carrying with it the lonely sound of branches scraping against one another in the surrounding forest. Andrea stared at the man’s offered hand, trembling on the edge between existence and oblivion, as the bridge creaked beneath her feet like a tired sigh.

Weeping, she reached out her hand to him.

And then he moved very quickly and somehow, Andrea succumbed to the darkness anyway.

CHAPTER ONE

Rachel dug her hands into her coat pocket and lowered her head against the chill of morning. The faintest trace of fog hung like a shroud over the cemetery, its cold fingers somehow finding their way through her coat as she stood among the gathered mourners, looking toward the gravesite. The grass beneath her feet was stiff with frost, crackling softly with each subtle shift of her weight. Above, the sky stretched endless and gray, the color of old stone, a fitting backdrop for yet another funeral—one that felt more bitter than most. A sharp wind cut across the gathered crowd, carrying with it the scent of dying leaves and approaching winter.

The mourners huddled together in their dark coats, their breath visible in small, temporary clouds that dissipated into the cold air. Rachel recognized most of them from the hospice center—nurses, orderlies, a few administrators. Their faces were familiar from her many visits to see Scarlett, though she'd never learned most of their names. Now they stood in small clusters, sharing whispered conversations that the wind carried away in fragments…talking and reminiscing about Scarlett.

Rachel had attended more than her share of funerals over the years. Too many. Each one had carved away another piece of her, leaving behind a hollow space that could never quite be filled. First Peter, her husband, murdered by Alex Lynch in an act of revenge that had shattered her world. Then Grandma Tate, killed protecting Paige from Alice Denbrough's twisted scheme. The losses had accumulated like layers of sediment, weighing her down, reshaping her into someone harder, more cautious. And now Scarlett—sweet, vibrant Scarlett, who had beaten cancer only to have victory snatched away in what the police were calling a home invasion gone wrong.

The thought made Rachel's jaw clench and her stomach tighten in knots.A home invasion gone wrong.The words felt wrong in her mind, like pieces of a puzzle that didn't quite fit. She looked around at the other mourners—their faces drawn, marked by the particular grief that comes from losing someone who had just been given a second chance at life. A young nurse nearby dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. Two orderlies stood with their heads bowed, one occasionally shaking his head as if still unable to accept the reality of why they were gathered here. Rachel felt a bit bad because she found it hard to think of them as the same people she’d seen at the hospice center because they were dressed formally here at graveside.

Some of the mourners were sitting in stunted rows of chairs under an awning. Rachel was not among them, electing to stand off to the side. Ahead of the assembled crowd, a minister spoke, his words drifting through the cold. He spoke of hope and peace and better places, but Rachel barely heard those words. Her mind kept circling back to the timing of it all. Less than a week. Scarlett had been home less than a week after being released from hospice. The odds of a random break-in happening in that specific window of time seemed astronomical. In fact, it would have made more sense for a thief or robber to strike when the home was empty.

No, this felt targeted. Personal. But she hadn't voiced these thoughts to anyone, not even Jack.

Jack had offered to come with her today, but Rachel had declined. "You never even met her," she'd said, though the real reason was more complex. Sometimes grief needed to be faced alone, especially when it was tangled up with suspicion and doubt. Besides, she didn't want to have to maintain a composed facade for his sake.

The service drew to a close, the minister's final prayer carried away on a bitter wind that stirred the scattered leaves aroundthe grave. The sound of dirt hitting the polished surface of the casket seemed unnecessarily loud in the morning stillness, each thud a final punctuation mark on Scarlett's truncated story. People began to gather in small groups, sharing memories and condolences. Rachel saw Martha, one of the hospice nurses, starting to make her way over to her. Before she could arrive, Rachel turned and walked quickly toward her car, her heels clicking against the cemetery's paved path. She was aware it probably appeared rude, but she simply didn’t want to speak with anyone who’d only want to talk about how great of a person Scarlett had been, how brave she’d been in her fight with cancer. It was all true, of course, but Rachel simply wasn’t up for that right now.

---