CHAPTER TWO
The hospice Rachel had been volunteering at for the better part of four years occupied the ground floor of a converted Victorian on Redmond Avenue.
Rachel had always thought it was a remarkable building, and that whoever had overseen the renovation had understood that the people inside didn't need to be reminded they were in a medical facility.
The ceilings were high, the woodwork original, and the windows were large enough to let in real light.
There were actual curtains rather than blinds.
The floors creaked in the hallways. It smelled of coffee and, faintly, of whatever someone had brought in from a bakery that morning.
Rachel had been coming here twice a week for years, and she still noticed those things each time she walked in.
She noticed them because she remembered what she'd thought, during the worst of it, when the tumor was there and the prognosis was careful and hedged and nobody would quite meet her eyes.
She had thought about places like this. She had thought about them with a specific, private terror she'd never fully described to anyone, not even Jack.
The creaking floors and the real curtains mattered because they were the difference between a place a person could bear and a place a person couldn't.
She was sleeping when Rachel came in. Rachel sat in the chair beside the bed and didn't say anything.
The room held the stillness of a place where sleeping was serious business.
There was a strange, almost stale quality to the air.
Outside the window, Redmond Avenue was looking as glorious as ever.
The oak tree at the edge of the lawn had thinned considerably, dropping leaves in a steady, persistent way, reminding the city that Fall was here and winter was being a bit too eager to hurry along.
After about twenty minutes, Eleanor opened her eyes.
She looked at Rachel and her face lit up with a slow gathering of recognition that turned into a sleepy-looking smile. It was a smaller smile than it had been six weeks ago, but it was the same smile at its core.
"You're here early," Eleanor said. Her voice was thin.
"I had some extra time this morning."
A silence settled between them, comfortable in the way silences get between people who have been sitting together long enough. Rachel reached over and took Eleanor's hand, which was cool and light, the skin papery against her palm.
"I finished it," Eleanor said, without preamble.
“Finished it? Finished what?”
"Lonesome Dove."
“Oh!” Rachel was genuinely impressed. It had been the largest of the books on Eleanor’s list—a book she said she was tired of people recommending to her over the past thirty years or so. “Good for you!”
"Nine hundred and forty-five pages." She paused to breathe, shaking her head. "I didn't expect it to do what it did to me."
“Good or bad?”
“Good. Very good.” She chuckled and added, “Surprisingly good.”
"Which part?"
"All of it. But especially Augustus." She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again.
"I've read a great many books in my life and I don't think anyone has ever written a man like that.
He just talks and talks and you think he's just charming and ridiculous, and then somewhere along the way you realize you love him completely and it's too late to do anything about it. "
Rachel had read the last hundred pages herself, three weeks ago, so she could keep up with Eleanor. She'd stayed up until past midnight on a Tuesday to finish it. She’d cheated, though, skipping the larger sections where there was really nothing going on except walking along the plains and fields.
"And then McMurtry takes him away," Rachel said.
"Exactly. No fuss. No grand speech. Just gone." Eleanor's fingers tightened slightly around Rachel's. "I found that very honest."
She drifted after that, not quite asleep but not quite present either, her breathing slow and even.
Rachel stayed. She knew she should probably leave, had things to do before the workday properly started, but she stayed anyway and held Eleanor's hand and watched the oak tree lose another leaf to the morning.
She had never been good at leaving this room.
She was looking over at the small notebook on the bedside table.
It was opened to Eleanor’s list. She could see where Lonesome Dove had been crossed off.
At least a dozen other books were beneath it and Rachel felt a shudder of sadness pass through her when she realized Eleanor might not make it through the list before she, like Augustus, was taken from the world.
Her phone buzzed in her jacket pocket just before she reached for the list. She removed her phone from her pocket carefully, not wanting to disturb Eleanor. She checked the screen and saw that it was Novak calling. She stood and moved to the doorway before answering, keeping her voice low.
"Hey, Novak. What’s up?”
“Good morning,” Novak said in his business-as-usual voice. He sounded like he'd been up for a while. "There’s a case Anderson wants us on as soon as possible. It’s local, here in Richmond, and Anderson wants us there today."
She stepped fully into the hallway and pulled the door nearly closed behind her. "Who’s the victim?"
“Victims, actually. Plural. Three dead elderly folks in the past six weeks. All in the same apartment building. Two confirmed so far. Local PD caught it but it's got enough to it that Anderson wants federal eyes."
"How soon?"
"I can pick you up in an hour if you can be ready."
She glanced back through the gap in the door. Eleanor had not moved. Her chest rose and fell steadily, her hand resting open on the blanket where Rachel had set it down. Thinking of three dead elderly people suddenly felt far too close to home for her.
"An hour," Rachel said. "I'll be ready. See you then.”
She went back into the room and stood at the bedside for a moment. Eleanor's eyes were still closed. Rachel picked up her jacket from the chair and put it on quietly.
"Eleanor," she said softly.
There was no response…just her breathing, slow and steady.
Rachel touched the back of her hand once, lightly, and left.
In the car, driving home to grab her go-bag, she ran through what Novak had told her.
Elderly residents. Same building. Two confirmed.
It was thin, but it was enough to feel like something substantial.
And with that feeling, she allowed herself some honesty: there was a stirring excitement in her chest, the kind that always came with news of a new, active case—a proper one with geography and crime scenes and a problem that needed solving from the ground up.
It had been a long time since she'd had one that felt like more than paperwork with occasional travel.
The terrorism arrest had given her about four minutes of genuine adrenaline before resolving into forms and records.
Before that, the cases had been solid but contained, the kind that got worked and closed and filed without leaving much of a mark.
This felt different already, and she didn't even have the file yet.
She walked to her car and sat for a moment before starting the engine.
She thought about Paige and her composition notebook, the true crime podcast playing through her earbuds, and the study she'd looked up and critiqued on her own time. And now here she was, about to take on a real homicide case with multiple victims. She’d call Jack and fill him in (though he’d know soon enough thanks to his position within the bureau) and Paige would find out, too.
Rachel had no idea whether that would unsettle her daughter or simply give her something new to think about.
That uncertainty was almost enough to make Rachel doubt her place in this new case and what it might mean for her career and her family.
But this was her job and so far, it had never really failed her. It had been there for her after Peter’s death, it had been there when she’d battled with the tumor. And through it all, as she’d grown, Paige had never resented it. And for now, maybe that was enough.
Rachel started the car and pulled out onto the avenue, the golden oak trees shrinking in her rearview mirror.