Page 31 of Not This Night

“So these three, they hung out what… ten years ago?”

“Almost fifteen.”

“And did they have anyone else in their posse?”

“Mhmm. Two others.”

He hesitated, then rattled off two names. "Miguel Ortiz and Lucy Thompson," he said.

“Huh. Know anything about those two?”

“Not really. Pretty sure they moved out of town years ago.”

The shrill ring of Rachel's phone cut him off.

The names hung in the air like smoke. "Someone else in town might know about them," he offered, his gaze drifting as he seemed to dig into decades-old memories.

Rachel's phone buzzed, slicing through the silence. A name flashed on the screen – Ethan. She excused herself and stepped outside, her boots crunching on the gravel.

"Talk to me," she commanded, her voice hitching slightly into the night air.

"Ethan here. We've got a situation. Scott Hawkeye," he relayed hastily, his tone grave. "He's dead."

Rachel froze, the words echoing in her head. "What happened?" Her voice was cold steel, snapping out like a drawn knife before she could temper her question.

"His police transport was torched on the move. We're setting up a perimeter now," Ethan informed her, his voice a low rumble on the line. "We'll need you here ASAP."

Her hand tightened around the phone, its cool surface pressing against her palm. Scott dead. The words seemed surreal, a stark contrast to the tranquil desert landscape that encased her.

"I'm on my way," she said finally, snapping out of her daze.

"Rachel," Ethan's voice softened for a moment, his concern seeping through.

"I've got it, Ethan." Determination crept back into her voice as she ended the call.

She turned back to face parole officer's house but he was already standing in the doorway, watching her with a question in his eyes.

"Scott Hawkeye is dead," she announced, her voice ringing out clear as a bell in the silent desert night.

The parole officer blinked at her words, disbelief.

"Dead?" he repeated, his voice catching slightly. The shock was clear in his eyes. "How?"

She took a step back. "It sounds like the police vehicle transporting him was firebombed. But we'll need to confirm the details."

He looked at her for a moment longer, then with a quick nod, he retreated into the house, leaving her alone on the porch.

Rachel's mind raced as she strode back to her car, her boots crunching against the coarse gravel spread out beneath her. The sky above her was a blanket of darkness, only interrupted by the far-off glimmers of stars that dared to shine. Scott Hawkeye was dead. That changed everything.

She climbed back into her car, started it up and adjusted the rear-view mirror. Her fingers lingered over the keys. She squinted at her own reflection, the sharp lines of her face drawn taut in deep thought beneath the dim light.

The dashboard clock blinked at her — 12:13 AM — mocking reality and its uncanny sense of timing. Her grip tightened around the steering wheel as she processed what had just happened. Scott Hawkeye, a suspect turned victim, firebombed while under police protection.

Rachel thought of the two dead women once more. There had been nothing respectful or reverent in the way Scott Hawkeye had died, and if this was the same killer, that had to mean something. But what?

With a final look at the parole officer's unassuming house, she pulled away into the Texas night.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

---