Last Mile David Baldacci Novels & Stories

The rooftop lights have dimmed without being asked. Somewhere in the walls a soft voice is humming the lullaby I sang to children who may only exist in code. I am not afraid. Somewhere north of nowhere, a valley is still green. Somewhere a man with storm-grey eyes still says yes a thousand times every morning. Pomegranate. See you in December. The diary ends. The last page is pressed with the empty rind, stained the exact colour of forgiveness. (End of interludes)

Alpha Damien's parroting voice echoes. I knew this was going to happen. I should have realised this the first time I felt that disconnection. What was I even thinking? “Where's Vincent?” He smirks then Vincent walks forward, standing right next to Alpha Damien. At this point, everything is screwed up. There's no doubt about it. “You're screwed, Celine.” He's being so full of himself. Maybe his mother got a witch to pull him out of my spell when I was away. Unfortunately, I didn't see this coming.

Execution last. The city at night stretching beyond my window, the red folder in stark contrast to polished wood, and the faint glow of security monitors casting the office in an eerie luminescence. Control, power, and obsession intertwined in a delicate balance. And beneath it all, a simmering, unspoken thought of Eva lingered—her image a quiet reminder that some elements of life, like betrayal, could never be entirely predicted or controlled.

The air in the spectral exchange hall of the Night Market was cold, but a chill far deeper settled into Jack’s bones. Twelve hours. In twelve hours, his own face and name would be broadcast to a network of supernatural assassins, mercenaries, and monsters, each one eager to claim the exorbitant bounty on his head. New York would become a hunting ground, and everyone he cared about would be caught in the crossfire. This was David’s final, spiteful act of war. Hiding in the shadows, he had used his last remaining resources not to escape, but to sign Jack’s death warrant. A death by a thousand cuts, delivered by the underworld’s most vicious killers.

David said sniffing in her scent. "But this is the perfume I have been using for a long" Malia grinned "Hmm, that's true and I closer to you added to the scent, isn't it," David said winking at her... "Whatever" Malia said chuckling " Before I forget, guess what, I'm done with my novel, remember, "To The Girl, I Love," David said as they were walking down the hallway to their various lockers... "So I thought, Why don't we exchange since it's from our favorite author, "Blessing Adebayo" David added

I replay it in my head, searching my memory for any association—business, enemies, lawyers, distant relatives but come up empty. Unless my mother has finally lost her patience and decided to send a hired killer to finish me off, who knows what Victoria’s silence could mean but I doubt anyone named Alec is here to shoot me in cold blood. Still, with my family, anything is possible. “Send him up, David,” I reply after a beat. “Thank you.” The line disconnects.

I thought of Morrison’s smirk the last time I’d seen him alive, the way he spoke about people like pawns, always confident he’d have the last move. And now, even dead, he was still playing the board. I picked up the pen on my desk and began scribbling notes for David, ways to investigate how Morrison’s old associates had reopened the case. It wasn’t enough to free Blake; someone had to make sure the truth surfaced, and this time, stayed there. When the city lights finally came on, I stood again and looked out at the skyline one more time. Five hundred thousand dollars was a small price to pay for peace of mind. For Evelyn’s smile. For Aloe’s voice steadying again.

He answered where I took note of it. "Okay, I'll be back there this coming Friday. Thank you, David, and my apologies to disturb you during this kind of time." I stated "No worries, Ma'am. Have a good night." He stated back, I ended the call and put my phone back at the bedside table. I slumped back at the bed and heaved a sigh. We need to find the traitor as soon as possible or else things will lead to chaos or worse. ***

“Like it’s… aware.” “It’s always been aware,” Emma answered softly. “We just weren’t ready to hear it.” Lira’s voice was low, almost reverent. “Then this isn’t the end.” Emma stood, slipping the pulse device into her hand. She looked out at the horizon, where the first rays of sunlight pushed the night back one shadow at a time. “No. It’s the beginning. The Last Signal wasn’t an ending—it was a warning. A threshold. From here, what we build will decide whether this becomes our greatest ally… or our final mistake.”

In my sixth year of running an inn in Rimevale, I'm diagnosed with bone cancer. I leave the inn in the hands of my fiancé, Eric Jones, and head to Varenia with nothing but an old enamel mug. Once I'm there, I start a livestream called "My Last 100 Sunsets." Every day at 7:00 pm, I turn the camera toward the snowcapped mountains and make coffee just out of frame. On my 31st livestream, a comment suddenly catches my eye. "Wait. Does that mug at the edge of the frame have a V-shaped chip in it?" Six years ago, when a blizzard left us stranded in the mountains, I kept that same mug filled with hot spiced cider for Eric all night. The chat explodes. "That's Alice Graham from Veylune Inn!"