Page 2 of Her Last Farewell

When she made it to her car, the silence felt oppressive. She sat for a moment, hands gripping the steering wheel, letting the engine warm up. Her breath fogged the windows, creating a barrier between her and the world outside. The thoughts she'd been holding back began to surface, demanding attention.

If Alex Lynch or Alice had still been alive, this would make sense. They had both come after her through the people she cared about, understanding that the best way to hurt Rachel Gift was to target those she loved. But they were dead. And gone. So, who else would have reason to hurt someone close to her? Who else would have known about Scarlett, about their friendship, about her release from hospice?

The questions tumbled through her mind as she pulled away from the cemetery and drove toward Scarlett's house. She wasn’t even aware that was where she was going until she took the turn several blocks away from her own house. The drive gave her too much time to think, to remember. She thought about how Scarlett had looked just two weeks ago, sitting up in her hospice bed, eyes bright with hope as she talked about the garden she planned to plant. "Spring bulbs," she'd said, "because sometimesyou have to believe in tomorrow." And then Scarlett actually showing Rachel the flower bed where she’d place the bubs just a few days before she’d been killed in her home…just inside the front door.

Scarlett had been so animated, her hands gesturing excitedly as she described the colors she wanted to see blooming in her garden. The cancer treatments had left her thin and pale, but in that moment, her face had been flushed with life and possibility. Rachel had seen so many people fade away in hospice care, but Scarlett had been different. She had fought back. She had won. Until someone took that victory away from her.

The house came into view—a modest ranch-style home with white siding and black shutters. Yellow police tape still crossed the front door. Rachel parked in the driveway, knowing she couldn't go inside without a key, but needing to be here anyway. The neighborhood was quiet, almost eerily so. A child's abandoned bicycle lay on its side in a nearby yard. A single jogger made their way down the street behind her.

Ignoring the locked front door, Rachel walked around to the backyard. The crime scene photos flashed through her mind as she moved: the blood on the wood floors, Scarlett’s expressionless face and dead eyes. But nothing had been taken, no window broken and no lock tampered with. Every piece of evidence pointed to a robbery interrupted, a confrontation turned fatal. The lead detective had walked her through it all, pointing out that the killer had likely knocked on the front door and Scarlett had answered. And that had been that. Maybe there had been a struggle, but if there was, it had been very brief.

But something about it needled at her consciousness, like a splinter she couldn't quite grasp. The staging felt too perfect, too precisely aligned with what you'd expect to see. In Rachel's experience, real crime scenes were usually messier, less textbook. Real burglars didn't typically stick around to fightwhen confronted—they ran. And why would anyone choose to rob a house that had been empty for months on the exact week its owner returned home?

She reached the flower bed that wrapped around the back of the house. Scarlett had been so excited about it, had spent hours planning what would go where. Now the dark earth lay exposed to the November chill, with only a few newly planted bulbs waiting beneath the surface for a spring they would never see bloom. The soil still showed signs of recent work—Scarlett's final project, completed just days before her death.

Rachel knelt beside the flower bed, not caring about the dirt on her black dress pants. She could see where Scarlett had carefully marked the locations of different plantings with small wooden stakes. All roses, marked with the color. Each stake was labeled in Scarlett's neat handwriting, the markers arranged with the precision of someone who believed they had time to see their plans come to fruition. A garden planned with such hope, such certainty that there would be time to see it grow.

The unfairness of it all hit Rachel like a physical blow. Scarlett had fought so hard, had endured months of pain and uncertainty, had finally won her battle with cancer—only to die like this, alone and afraid in her own home. The tears came then, hot against her cold cheeks, and Rachel didn't try to stop them. She reached out and touched one of the wooden markers, its surface rough against her fingertips. A sudden gust of wind rattled the bare branches overhead, sending a shower of dead leaves spiraling into the flower bed.

"I'll take care of them," she whispered, though she wasn't sure if she was making a promise to Scarlett or to herself.When spring comes, I'll make sure they bloom,she thought to herself.

She knew it might not be possible—the house would likely be sold by then—but somehow that made the promise feel even more important. These bulbs were Scarlett's last act of faithin the future, and Rachel couldn't bear the thought of them withering away untended.

The wind picked up, sending more dead leaves skittering across the yard. Rachel stood, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. The hollow feeling in her chest had grown familiar over the years, a constant companion in the aftermath of loss. But this time felt different. This time, the hollow space was filled with questions that demanded answers, and a growing certainty that Scarlett's death was more than just a tragic coincidence.

As she walked back to her car, Rachel felt the familiar weight of determination settling over her grief. Someone had taken Scarlett's second chance away. Someone had turned a story of hope into another tragedy. And regardless of what the official report said about a home invasion gone wrong, Rachel intended to find out who—and why.

In her gut, she knew this was just the beginning. The question was: the beginning of what? As she started her car, Rachel couldn't shake the feeling that Scarlett's death was just the first move in a game she didn't yet understand—but one she was now unwillingly part of.

CHAPTER TWO

Back at home, Rachel sat on the couch beside Paige, binging her daughter’s latest Netflix obsession—something with over-dramatic teens, a murder mystery, and a lot of cringy dialogue. The soft glow of the TV filled the living room with dancing shadows, and Rachel found herself paying more attention to Paige than to the show. These quiet moments meant everything to her now. Her battle with cancer had taught her that lesson the hard way – how precious each ordinary second could be, how quickly they could slip away. And now Scarlett was yet another reminder of that.

She studied Paige's profile in the flickering light, marveling at how the round-cheeked little girl she remembered had begun transforming into a young woman. The slope of her nose, the set of her jaw – these were features that had once belonged to a child who would spend hours twirling in tutus, practicing pirouettes in the hallway until she got dizzy and collapsed in fits of giggles. Now, those same features belonged to someone who worried about pre-algebra and spent hours texting her friends. And was also beginning to wear makeup in experimental little spurts.

Rachel remembered the day Paige had announced she wanted to try soccer. She couldn't have been more than six, standing in the kitchen with her hands on her hips, declaring that ballet wasn't enough anymore – she needed both. Rachel and Peter had exchanged amused glances over their daughter's head, knowing full well that their energetic little girl would probably excel at both.

And she had, for a while. Rachel could still picture those Saturday mornings, rushing from ballet class to soccer games, Paige somehow managing to keep her ballet bun perfectlyintact beneath her soccer headband. She'd been fearless then, charging after the ball with the same determination she'd shown in mastering her plies and relevés. Andalwaysturning to her parents with a large smile, seeking their approval.

And, of course, Grandma Tate had come to live with them, and Paige had found a new love, a new hero. So many afternoons had been spent baking, the two of them inseparable. The way Grandma Tate would pull a chair up to the counter so Paige could reach, showing her exactly how to measure flour, teaching her the difference between folding and stirring. The kitchen would fill with warmth and laughter and the smell of vanilla, and Paige would end up with flour on her nose and cookie dough under her fingernails.

Now, watching her twelve-year-old daughter curled up on the couch, Rachel felt that familiar mix of pride and melancholy that seemed to define parenthood. Paige's long legs were tucked beneath her, those same fingers that once clumsily shaped cookie dough now expertly navigating her phone between episodes. The little girl who once needed help reaching the kitchen counter could now raid the refrigerator without standing on tiptoe.

When she'd been sick, fighting the tumor that had nearly taken everything from her, Rachel had made countless bargains with whatever higher power might be listening. Just let me see her grow up, she'd pleaded in those dark hours when the pain was worst. Let me be there for the important moments. Now, sitting here in what anyone else might consider a completely unremarkable evening, she knew these were the important moments – these quiet interludes between the milestones.

As the current episode drew to a close, Paige stretched and reached for the remote. "I should probably start my homework," she said with a resigned sigh that seemed far too adult forRachel's liking. "Ms. Henderson assigned this massive history project, and it's due next week."

“What’s it on?” Rachel asked.

“The Louisiana Purchase,” Paige muttered with a groan.

Before Rachel could respond, the front door opened, and Jack's familiar footsteps sounded in the entryway. Paige used the momentary distraction to slip away upstairs, leaving Rachel to greet Jack with a hug that carried all the warmth of their years together.

“How are you?” he asked right away. They’d had a very brief text conversation following the funeral, but nothing more than that.

“I’m good.”

“For real?” he asked skeptically.

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