Page 29 of Not This Night

A figure moved in the gloom, emerging from the back of the room—a man, big and grizzled. He trod heavily, like a bear roused from its slumber. When he reached the window, he peered out at Rachel, squinting. His eyes widened in recognition as he took in Rachel’s uniform.

He scowled at her, and she tried to channel her inner Ethan and force a quick smile.

He didn’t return it, but instead jammed his finger towards the front of the house.

She nodded.

He moved swiftly then, disappearing from sight. Moments later, the front door creaked open, and Mark Kelley stood framed in the doorway.

"Ranger Blackwood?" he asked warily. His voice was rough, as if dragged over gravel. "You the one who called ahead?"

Rachel nodded curtly and showed her badge again up close this time. "Yes. I need to ask you some questions about Scott Hawkeye."

Recognition flickered in Kelley's eyes, but his expression remained inscrutable.

Wafting from inside, the house smelled faintly of cigarettes and stale beer.

The man's frown eased into a contemplative squint as he eyed the badge. Lines of skepticism folded into his forehead, but he stepped back an inch, granting her a sliver more space.

"Blackwood, huh?" His voice held a note of recognition, unexpected and unsettling. "Your mother, was she on the reservation?"

A flicker of surprise crossed Rachel's face, quickly masked. She tilted her head slightly, not used to personal inquiries on the job.

"Yes," she replied curtly, maintaining eye contact. "But that’s not why I’m here."

His nod was almost imperceptible, a silent acknowledgment.

“You been here a long time?” she guessed.

“Thirty years,” he replied. “And in the creek ten years before that.”

The parole officer's gaze lingered on Rachel a moment longer, then he stepped aside, the door creaking wider. "Come in," he grunted, his voice losing some of its edge.

Rachel's boots thudded against the bare floor as she crossed the threshold. She surveyed the room—sparse, functional, a life stripped down to essentials. The air was still, heavy with silence, save for the faint ticking of an old clock on the wall.

"Take a seat," he gestured towards a wooden table that bore the scars of use and age. Rachel nodded, pulling out a chair, its legs scraping against the floorboards.

"Decaf?" he offered, already moving towards the kitchenette.

"Sure," Rachel replied, her voice steady despite the unease that knotted her stomach. She watched him fill two mugs, his movements efficient, practiced.

He returned, setting one mug before her. The steam curled up, carrying a hint of bitterness. Rachel wrapped her hands around the warmth, brought the cup to her lips, and took a cautious sip. Across from her, the parole officer downed his coffee in quick, assured gulps.

"Thanks," she said, placing the mug back on the table. Her eyes met his, searching, gauging.

Rachel leaned forward, her gaze fixed on the man across from her.

“You’re Scott’s alibi. Last couple of nights.”

"What did he do?”

“We’re not sure yet. Maybe nothing. Maybe murder.”

A long sigh. “Murder? Really?”

She nodded. “Was he with you?”

“Last night?”

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