Page 4 of Her Last Escape

Thomas checked his phone as he made his way through the house. 7:34 PM. Perfect timing. Traffic would be light enough that his story about working late would hold up. Ellie, his wife, would be finished with dinner, probably settled in with her iPad and that mystery series she'd been binging lately. She barely looked up when he came home these days.

The guilt surfaced then, as it always did during these moments of transition. Ellie deserved better. Twenty-three years of marriage, and this was how he repaid her loyalty. But the guilt wasn't enough—not nearly enough to make him end things with Jill. The truth was, he felt more alive in these stolen hours than he had in years.

He had his story straight: last-minute crisis with the Singapore team, endless Zoom calls, the usual alibi. It wasn't even really a lie. There had been issues with Singapore, just not today. The best lies, he'd learned, were built on foundations of truth.

The house was quiet as he made his way to the back door—his usual exit route, chosen because it opened onto an unlit side street rather than the well-lit main road. Jill's neighborhood was upscale enough to feel safe but not so exclusive that his BMW stood out among the other luxury vehicles. Still, habits of discretion died hard.

His hand was on the doorknob when he heard Jill call from upstairs: "Drive safe!"

The warmth in her voice followed him out into the January night. The cold hit him immediately, shocking after the warmth of the house. His breath formed clouds in the frigid air as he fished his keys from his pocket. He was thinking about dinner, how he really didn’t deserve to have one waiting for him when he arrived home. He wondered how much long this thing with Jill could last. Would they be able—

The impact came from behind, explosive and brutal. Something hard crashed into the back of his head, sending him stumbling forward. His keys clattered to the wooden surface of the back porch. Before he could turn, before he could shout, before he could even process what was happening, a second blow caught him in the temple.

He went down hard, his cheek scraping against the rough concrete of the path. Through the ringing in his ears, he heard footsteps—deliberate, unhurried. A shadow fell across him. Thomas tried to roll over to see his attacker, to call for help. But his body wouldn't respond, and the darkness was already closing in.

His last coherent thought wasn't of Ellie, or even of Jill. It was who would be able to fill his shoes on the Singapore job if anything happened to him.

Then the third blow fell, and Thomas Whitman thought nothing at all.

CHAPTER THREE

The alarm chirped at six, but Rachel had already started coming awake. Jack's side of the bed was empty, the sheets cool to the touch. She lay there for a moment, listening to the quiet of the house, feeling the weight of another day settling over her. Through the bedroom window, the sky was just beginning to lighten, a pale gray that promised another clear but cold Virginia morning.

Her morning routine had the comfort of muscle memory. She started in the shower where she stood under the spray until the water ran hot enough to steam the mirror, letting it pound against her shoulders where tension always seemed to collect these days. The wound to her thigh was nearly done healing and needed no special attention in the shower anymore. Once out and dry, she chose her favorite gray pantsuits, paired with a cream blouse that softened her reflection in the mirror. The familiar ritual of very brief makeup application followed—more to look professional than to enhance, though she took extra care covering the shadows under her eyes. Sleep hadn't come easily lately.

As she left her bedroom and passed Paige's room, she made sure to walk quietly. There was another hour and fifteen minutes before she'd need to wake Paige for school. Rachel moved on, her footsteps whisper-quiet on the carpeted hallway. Sometimes these morning moments, tiptoeing past her daughter's room, reminded her sharply of those days during her illness—when every quiet morning felt like a gift she wasn't sure she'd get to keep.

The aroma of coffee drew her downstairs, accompanied by the soft rustle of papers and the quiet tap of fingers on a laptop keyboard. Jack sat at the kitchen table, suit jacket draped over the back of his chair, scrolling through his phone with one hand while absently working on a half-eaten bagel with the other. Morning light slanted through the bay window, catching the silver at his temples. She remembered when those first gray hairs appeared during her treatment. He'd earned every one of them, standing by her through it all.

"Another long day ahead?" she asked, reaching for her favorite mug—the one with the chip on the rim that she refused to throw away. Jack had tried to replace it twice, but she kept coming back to this one. Some imperfections felt like old friends.

"I hope not." He didn't look up from his phone. "That's why I'm up so damned early. Trying to get a head start."

Rachel cracked eggs into a pan, listening to them sizzle. These morning moments were precious—increasingly rare snippets of normalcy in their chaotic lives. Jack reading emails while she cooked, sharing space in comfortable silence. The scratch of his chair against the floor as he shifted position. The way he automatically smiled when she briefly looked in his direction, a dance they'd perfected over time. Even the small irritations felt like comfort: his habit of leaving cabinet doors slightly open, the way he always set his coffee mug precisely on the edge of a coaster instead of centered on it.

She caught herself trying to memorize these details the way she had during her recovery. Old habits died hard. But she was healthy now. The quarterly scans proved it. She didn't need to hoard these moments like a squirrel storing nuts for winter anymore.

She settled across from him with her eggs, watching him work. His forehead creased in concentration, tie slightly askew. She thought about reaching over to straighten it, but something else pressed against her thoughts, demanding attention. The same thoughts that had kept her awake last night, staring at the ceiling while Jack slept beside her.

"Jack." The word came out before she'd fully decided to speak.

He looked up, eyebrows raised. "Hmm?"

"I need to tell you something." She set her fork down, the metal clicking against porcelain. Something in the back of her mind screamed that this was a bad idea. But the words were already there, coming like a storm cloud, "About Cody Austin."

His expression shifted subtly—a tightening around the eyes, a slight compression of his lips. They'd been here before. Too many times, maybe, but she couldn't let it go. Not when she was so certain.

"I have his address," she continued, the words tumbling out now. "And I'm almost certain he's connected to the hospice bombing. More than almost certain—I feel it in my bones."

"Rachel—"

"Just hear me out." She leaned forward, hands flat on the table. "Look at the timeline. I start volunteering and form this intense bond with Scarlett…and then Scarlett beats cancer, finally gets to go home, and within weeks of Austin's release, she's murdered. Then, three weeks after that, a bomb goes off at the exact same hospice center where she was treated.”

Jack set his phone down, giving her his full attention. His eyes held that mix of concern and skepticism she was growing to hate. "That's quite a leap."

"Is it?" Heat crept into her voice. "This is what he does, Jack. He's methodical. Patient. He picks targets that matter to people. He's trying to send a message.”

"But what evidence—"

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