Page 18 of Not This Night

"Scott Hawkeye," Rachel repeated, filing away the name like a bullet in the chamber. "We'll check it out. Thanks."

She paused, scanning the trailer's cluttered landscape before continuing. "Mind if we look around?"

He hesitated, then shrugged—a defeated gesture. "Guess not. Just—just be quick, alright?"

"Appreciate it," Rachel said, nodding once with gratitude but her eyes remained sharp, analytical.

He led them through the narrow hallway, past walls papered with peeling concert posters and framed photos tinged with sun fade. They arrived at Jenna's room, the door hanging ajar.

"Here," he mumbled, pushing the door wider.

Rachel stepped over the threshold, her boots treading softly on the worn-out carpet. The room was small, cluttered—a mirror to its owner's troubled life. A bed shoved against the wall, a dresser burdened with knick-knacks, and a nightstand drowning in old bills and receipts.

Her eyes swept the space methodically, catching on a glint of blue-green. Turquoise beads spilled across the wooden dresser, some rolling onto the floor. Rachel crouched, gathering them in her palm. They were cool to the touch, smooth, each one a silent witness.

"Jenna made jewelry," Miles mumbled, his gaze flickering away. "Sold it sometimes."

"Is that so?" Rachel murmured, placing the beads back onto the dresser, leaving no trace of her touch.

She scanned the room again, looking for something out of place, something that screamed 'clue.' But the room was stubbornly mute, offering nothing but the mundane details of Jenna's absence:

an unmade bed, a half-empty coffee cup, a dog-eared novel left open. The only sound was the soft hum of an old air conditioner struggling against the encroaching warmth.

Rachel took a final look at the room before nodding towards Ethan. "We're done here. Thank you," she addressed Miles, her tone brisk but not unkind.

Miles merely nodded, his jittery energy replaced by something akin to exhaustion—or perhaps resignation.

Rachel gave the room one last glance before stepping out into the narrow hallway. Every detail had been etched into her memory—every bead, every speck of dust. She may not have found the smoking gun, but each little piece could be part of a larger puzzle; she knew that better than anyone.

"Thanks for your cooperation," Rachel said, though her eyes were already moving past the boyfriend, calculating their next move. "We'll be in touch if we need anything else."

"Whatever," he muttered, already retreating to the sanctuary of his beer bottle fortress.

Outside, the sun was setting, casting long shadows across the trailer park. Dust swirled in the air as Rachel walked down the rickety steps, the metallic clang of her footsteps a stark goodbye to the scene behind her.

Rachel's boots crunched on the gravel, her pace brisk as she put distance between herself and the trailer. Ethan kept up, his gaze sweeping the perimeter, always alert. They reached the relative privacy of their cruiser, the setting sun painting the sky in hues of orange and purple.

"Those beads," Rachel started, her voice low. "They're our best lead."

"He gave the store’s name was Artifacts," Ethan said, the establishment’s name hanging between them like a clue begging to be followed. "Scott Hawkeye?"

"Right." Rachel nodded. “The turquoise beads at both crime scenes might be the connection we’re looking for.”

“That… or the coroner,” Ethan said suddenly. “Just got a text. She has the prelim report.”

Rachel hesitated. Information was always the best ammunition before confronting a potential suspect. She nodded. “Coroner first. Then Hawkeye.”

“Okiedokie, lemon smokey,” Ethan said cheerfully, slipping into the car.

Rachel followed, glancing at the single turquoise bead she’d taken from the room. She studied where it rested cold and polished in her hand.

It was the only connection they had.

It would have to pay off.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The wheels crunched over the gravel, stirring up a haze of dust as the cruiser came to a halt. Rachel Blackwood stepped out into the arid expanse. The coroner's studio, an unassuming structure, squatted under the vast Texas sky, its bleached facade mirroring the barren desert that stretched beyond.

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