Page 21 of Not This Night

"Jenna's boyfriend mentioned it," Rachel reminded him, her gaze now distant, surveying the vast expanse of the horizon. "And now Heather Sinclair too?"

"Coincidences don't sit well.”

"Because they're rare.”

Ethan nodded slowly. "So, we head to the reservation next? It's getting late."

The car door slammed shut, a definitive echo in the quiet desert air. Rachel's hand was on the ignition when the shrill ring of her phone pierced the silence. She glanced at the screen—Sheriff Dawes again.

"He’s not going to leave you alone, is he?” Ethan's voice was tinged with concern, eyes fixed on her as he settled into the passenger seat.

"Missed three calls." The words were flat, her gaze locked onto the phone's glaring light.

Ethan leaned back, the fabric of his seat whispering with the shift. "He's getting antsy."

"Can't blame him," she said, finally pressing the button to silence the call. The screen went dark, the weight of urgency momentarily lifted.

Ethan pressed, watching her closely. "What's that about?"

She met his stare, a brief flicker of something unreadable in her eyes before she turned the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life, a rumble that matched the growing restlessness within her.

"Later," she said, more to herself than to Ethan. Her hands gripped the steering wheel, the leather cool and smooth under her touch.

"Okay, then." Ethan's voice held a note of resignation. He knew better than to push when Rachel's walls went up.

Headlights cut through the twilight as they pulled away from the coroner's, the shadows of streetlights and cacti stretching long across the desert like skeletal fingers. Rachel's mind was already racing ahead to the reservation, to Artifacts, to Scott Hawkeye.

Sheriff Dawes would have to wait.

CHAPTER NINE

Boots clicking against sun-baked pavement, Rachel’s shadow stretched before her as she approached Scott Hawkeye's Antique store. The air was thick with dust and the musk of old wood. She paused, a hand resting on the door's wrought iron handle, and shot a glance across the street. Ethan Morgan leaned against the brick façade of the bakery, feigning interest in a day-old croissant. His nod was almost imperceptible. She pushed forward.

She’d pose as a customer—that was the initial approach.

On reservation land, even land bordering the rez, they couldn’t act in an official capacity without jumping through some hoops. But Hawkeye’s lease extended between one world and another. Rez and US soil.

Still, they had to tread lightly, so Rachel approached without a badge in hand.

The door swung open with a creak that betrayed its age. The interior was a cavern of treasures, walls lined with shelves groaning under the weight of history. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light, piercing the dimness. Rachel's gaze swept over the display cases, past the glint of aged silver, until it snagged on the turquoise pendants.

The bell overhead chimed as Rachel let the door swing shut. Silence clung to the air, thick and unbroken. She frowned. A store like this should echo with the footfalls of browsing customers or the creak of floorboards under the proprietor's watchful rounds. But there was nothing—just the hum of a neglected silence that filled the space like cobwebs in the corners of a long-abandoned room.

"Scott Hawkeye?" Her voice cut through the stillness, strong and clear. No reply came. Only her own words seemed to bounce back at her, as if the cluttered shelves absorbed all other sound.

She glanced along the wares on the wall. Mostly jewelry, antiques, perhaps… but some looked newer than the signs boasted. She leaned in, studying some tribal pieces dangling from a length of hemp. It seemed out of place in this historic collection. Rachel's hand hovered to touch it, then froze. A soft padding from the back of the store reached her ears—footsteps.

She turned, frowning towards a bead curtain.

“Hello?”

No reply. She wondered if their two victims had both found themselves in this shop, perusing the wares. Neither woman was Native, and yet they’d both been posed in their deaths as if buried like one. And then there were the scars on their legs…

Scott had sold a bracelet to Sinclair. And Jenna’s boyfriend had mentioned the store, Artifacts, as well.

So where was the shop owner?

Rachel advanced, boots whispering across the worn wooden floor, toward the back where a woven bead curtain hung like a shroud between the storefront and secrets beyond. The delicate clatter of beads tapped out a rhythm as she parted them slightly, peering into the dimness.

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