Page 3 of Her Last Escape

And really, it had. Sitting there in her cubicle, the memory hit her like a physical blow - Christmas morning, trying to smile through the pain in her leg while Paige opened presents. Thinking of the three lives lost in the explosion and all the times she had walked through those doors to spend time with the ailing and desperate.

"I need some air," she muttered, standing abruptly. Her thigh protested the movement, but she didn't care. All of a sudden, the field office felt too small. The walls were closing in on her.

She spoke to no one as she made her way out of the building, keeping her head low, her eyes to the floor. Outside, the January wind cut through her coat as Rachel walked to her car. She pulled out of the garage and began driving through the city, barely even registering traffic or the streets. She felt as if she were on some automated line, being pulled by a magnet.

And then, fifteen minutes later, there she was…parked in the hospice center parking lot. The cleanup crews had done their job well - most of the debris was gone, and the damaged section was cordoned off with temporary fencing. But she could still see the scars: the blackened walls, the shattered windows, the place where Eleanor Webb had been struck by flying debris. Yellow tape blocked it all off, as well as two basic concrete barriers. The yellow crime scene tape fluttered in the wind, creating a rhythm that matched the pounding in her head.

Rachel could at least rest easy in knowing that those who had survived—all but one which, she had to admit to herself, was a blessing when the totality of the event was considered—had been relocated to the secondary wing at Riverside Retirement Home. Even Rachel had to admit to herself that it was a better environment than Goodrich Hospice, but it wasn't the same. That sense of peace, of dignity in life's final chapter - the bomb had shattered more than just walls.

Rachel's phone buzzed. A text from Director Anderson: Team meeting tomorrow, 9AM. Updates on surveillance review.

She knew what they'd say. Nothing suspicious. No leads. But Anderson didn’t know about the address in her desk drawer—a thread she couldn't pull yet, but couldn't ignore either.

Her fingers traced the outline of her FBI badge, a reminder of everything she'd worked for, everything she'd nearly lost before. She'd promised herself she wouldn't go down that path again. The last time she'd let personal vengeance drive an investigation, it had cost her grandmother her life. And it had put Paige in grave danger.

But as she stood there, watching the wind whip debris across the parking lot, Rachel couldn't shake the feeling that somewhere Cody Austin was watching, too. Waiting. Planning his next move while she stood here, bound by rules and procedures and the weight of past mistakes. Or maybe he was just proud of what he had done, knowing that he was putting her through this sort of torment.

The sun was setting behind the damaged building, casting long shadows across the ground. Rachel remembered other shadows - the Christmas tree's lights reflecting off her living room wall while she sat with ice on her thigh, pretending to enjoy the holiday for Paige's sake. The darkness that crept into her dreams, where the faces of Sharon, Devon, and Eleanor merged with older ghosts - her first husband Peter, Grandma Tate, Scarlett.

Her phone buzzed again. An addendum to the text about the meeting. Work went on. It had to. Rachel took one last look at the hospice center, committing every detail to memory. The twisted metal, the broken glass, the empty chairs visible through shattered windows. Three lives ended here, and somewhere out there was a man who knew why.

She got back in her car, her thigh aching as she settled into the seat. The knowledge of Austin's address weighed on her like a stone. Not today, she told herself. Not yet. But soon, if the surveillance footage yielded nothing, if the evidence continued to dead-end...what choice would she have?

Rachel started the engine, letting its rumble drown out the whispers of temptation. As she pulled away from the hospice center, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the rearview mirror. The determination in her eyes reminded her of other times, other cases where she'd crossed lines to keep her loved ones safe and to bring killers to justice.

But this time would be different. This time she'd play it smart, play it by the book - right up until the moment the book failed her. Because if Cody Austin was behind this, if he was truly back to finish what he'd started, then following the rules might not be enough to stop him.

The Christmas decorations were coming down across the city, twinkling lights giving way to the stark reality of January. Rachel drove home through the gathering darkness, her mind already mapping out contingencies, backup plans, ways to work within the system while keeping one eye on that address she couldn't forget.

Rachel knew that justice sometimes needed a nudge. Sometimes the rules needed bending. But not today. Today she'd go home, take her pain medication, review the case file on the bombing for the fiftieth time, and pretend she wasn't counting the hours until tomorrow's surveillance update.

CHAPTER TWO

Thomas Whitman looked down at the bathroom counter, a bit disturbed by how familiar it was becoming to him. The granite surface gleamed under the recessed lighting, spotless. The entire bathroom was spotless, actually, like the rest of Jill’s house. She kept a clean home, which was pretty much a stark contrast to how she behaved in the bedroom.

He chuckled to himself at this thought, checking his reflection in the mirror. His greying black hair was slightly mussed but presentably so—exactly how it might look after a long day at the office. The crisp white collar of his dress shirt showed no lipstick marks, and his blue silk tie hung perfectly straight. To anyone else, he'd look like any other tech executive heading home after a typical Tuesday.

The endorphins still coursed through his system, making his movements fluid and easy. He could still feel Jill's fingernails on his back, still taste the mint of her lip balm. At forty-eight, he hadn't expected to feel this alive again. Hadn't expected the rush that came with sneaking around, the thrill of forbidden pleasure that made him feel like a teenager breaking curfew.

Through the bathroom door, he heard Jill humming—some pop song he should probably know but didn't. The domestic sound of it twisted something in his gut. Guilt, maybe. Or perhaps just the recognition that this wasn't really his life to share.

He opened the door to find her making the bed, her movements quick and efficient. She'd already changed into comfier clothes (after having peeled out of her work clothes half an hour ago). Now, she was wearing a tee shirt and a pair of jogging shorts that were just tight enough to remind him how this whole ordeal started. At forty-two, she moved with the confidence of someone who knew exactly who she was and what she wanted. It was one of the first things he'd noticed about her six months ago.

"Hey there, stranger," she said, smoothing the duvet. "I was starting to think you'd climbed out the bathroom window."

"And miss saying goodbye? Never." He crossed the room and kissed her, meaning it to be quick but lingering when she pulled him closer. Her perfume—something light and expensive—filled his senses. "But I really do need to go."

"Same time next week?" Her fingers traced the length of his tie, a gesture that six months ago would have seemed practiced and calculated. Now he knew it was just Jill being Jill—tactile, present, unapologetically sensual.

"Wouldn't miss it." He caught her hand, squeezed it once. "Though I might need to get in more cardio. You wore me out tonight."

She laughed, the sound rich and genuine. "There's plenty more where that came from, old man." She picked up her shirt from where it had landed near the dresser. "Though I have to say, for someone who claims to be worn out, you certainly didn't show it."

The first time they'd met had been nothing like this—all business and bureaucracy in the sterile conference room at City Hall. He'd been there representing his company's interests in upgrading the city's emergency broadcast system. She'd been the deputy director of emergency services, full of pointed questions and skepticism about his proposal. He'd found her intensity attractive even then, though he'd buried the thought.

It wasn't until their third meeting, when they'd ended up working late going over technical specifications, that something shifted. She'd mentioned her recent divorce, casual and matter-of-fact. He'd found himself talking about the growing distance in his own marriage—things he hadn't even admitted to himself. They'd ended up in an unused conference room, and it had been the most erotically charged night of Thomas's life.

One coffee led to another, then a secret dinner, then this—a weekly get-together at Jill’s house.

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