Page 24 of Not This Night

Scott thrashed, a wild animal in its death throes. His knee jabbed at her side, seeking leverage, seeking pain. Rachel absorbed the blow and traded it for disarming him.

A sudden twist of Scott's wrist, the knife glinting as it fell. Then it was lost in the frothing white.

Scott's eyes flashed with the realization of his vulnerability, but Rachel was relentless. She used his momentary shock to her advantage, her grip tightening around his forearm now that she’d lost her hold on his neck.

Their struggle slowed, the river's resistance waning as they reached the wider side of a bend.

Waterlogged and weary, Rachel could feel Scott’s desperate pulse under her fingertips as she hauled him toward the bank, each step a battle against the pull of the river and the suck of the mud below. At one point, her boots slipped, sliding, but she managed to keep her feet.

"Come on, you son of a—"

She grunted as she fought for stable footing, her muscles burning with the effort. The terrain rebelled beneath her, but resilience was woven into her fabric, a thread spun from years of trials and triumphs.

Ethan's voice cut through the chaos.

With a splash that sent ripples through the already disturbed water, he plunged in beside her.

Together, they shifted their grip on the now defenseless Scott, hoisting him up between them. Ethan's presence lent her strength, and the weight seemed to lift just enough for progress to be made. Water cascaded off Scott as they dragged him, his resistance waning.

Finally, with one last heave, they deposited Scott onto the shore. He lay gasping like a fish out of water, the fight drained from his limbs as Rachel and Ethan stood over him, gulping the air as the tremble of spent adrenaline rippled through their aching limbs.

They had their man. Now, they just needed to prove it.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The door to the ranger's station slammed shut, sending a shiver through the stillness of the room. Rachel Blackwood ushered in Scott Hawkeye, his clothes clinging to his frame, a steady drip from his borrowed jacket forming a puddle at his feet. He was a walking testament to endurance, his middle-aged features weathered like old leather, a living sculpture carved by years of sun and wind.

"Have a seat, Hawkeye," Rachel said, her tone even but firm. She motioned to a metal chair across from her desk, its surface as cold and hard as the questions she was about to fire.

Scott obliged with a grunt, shifting uncomfortably, his eyes darting around the room as if seeking an escape. His rugged face was set in a scowl, deep lines etched around his mouth and eyes – signs of a life that had known more storms than calms.

“This is an abuse,” he said.

“Yeah, so you said. A million times,” Rachel snapped. “But you’re here. We’re here. Let’s chat.”

“About what?” he demanded, shifting. His borrowed jacket had nothing underneath, and his leathery skin was still damp with river water.

Rachel’s own hair was tied back, having hastily been toweled in the car ride to the station.

The door shut behind them again as a new figure joined.

Ethan Morgan stepped forward, flipping open his notepad with a practiced motion. "Your store, Artifacts," he began, locking eyes with Scott. “You work their alone?”

“Got some employees,” he muttered. “We’re expanding.”

“Tell us about the jewelry you sell.”

“Nothing to tell. What’s this about?” he snapped.

“Tell us about Heather Sinclair and Jenna Amos."

"Sinclair?" Scott's voice was gruff, tinged with annoyance. "Yeah, she bought a bracelet a while back. Pretty thing, very particular about what she wanted. Is she saying something? That piece was authentic!" he yelled.

The way he said that suggested perhaps not all his wares fell into the ‘authentic’ category.

"Jenna Amos?" Rachel pressed, leaning in, her gaze unwavering.

"Name doesn't ring a bell," Scott replied, his shoulders lifting in a nonchalant shrug.

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