Page 36 of Not This Night

Her room key, clicked in the lock, granting entry to a space that promised rest if not comfort. The door creaked on its hinges, a mournful sound that echoed Rachel's internal unrest, and she tossed her bag onto the threadbare carpet and sank onto the edge of the bed, her body craving sleep even as her mind continued to roll like a storm inside her.

Her phone was already in her hands before she registered the motion. Muscle memory, she supposed. She punched in her security code, digits blurred by the speed of her movements.

Notifications flashed up, two names among them: Miguel Ortiz and Lucy Thompson. Rachel's index finger hovered, then stabbed at the screen with precision.

No updates.

She sighed, flopping back on the bed and shooting off a quick text to Ethan.

Still nothing.

It was nearly two am. The glowing, red lights on the clock next to the bed winked at her.

They needed to find Miguel Ortiz and Lucy Thompson—the two other members of that group of five. Fifteen years ago, Scott Hawkeye had been friends with the first two victims.

Now, three of the old friend group were dead, and two had moved away years ago.

Would tracking Lucy and Miguel down be of any help?

A married couple, judging by the certificate she’d found registered with the county clerk. They had left town a decade ago. For Texas, it was as good as being off the grid.

They needed a lead. A cop was now dead, his partner in critical condition.

And they'd recognized the deputy.

She saw her phone buzz. A message from Ethan.

No go on the tread marks. Belonged to a service vehicle. Accounted for.

She sighed, shaking her head and rubbing a hand over her face.

The mattress groaned beneath Rachel as she shifted for the umpteenth time, her limbs restless.

She lay there on the precipice of exhaustion, her body aching for surrender.

Sleep wouldn’t come—she knew herself enough to determine that.

Rachel swung her legs over the edge of the bed, the cold floor a shock against the soles of her feet. She strode across the room. The moonlight filtered through the window, casting a silver glow that carved the room into a monochrome landscape.

She needed air. A new perspective.

The air felt too close, and she was too cooped up in this room, too cooped up inside her own head.

Rachel felt like a caged lion, pacing and pacing and waiting to be released. She’d muted the calls from Dawes—and yet the phantom of the sheriff still pestered her behind her closed eyes.

Her gaze wandered beyond the glass, where the world seemed suspended in a state of quiet anticipation. And there he was—Ethan, a solitary figure on the terrace next door, his silhouette etched against the night sky.

She paused.

She watched as he leaned forward, elbows resting on the railing, his profile softened by the darkness. There was a steadiness about him, a rootedness that Rachel found herself gravitating towards.

Rachel slid the terrace door open, the cool desert air brushing against her skin. She stepped out, the rough texture of the concrete beneath her feet a stark contrast to the room's worn carpet. The night was a canvas of dark blue, stars scattered like a handful of thrown diamonds across its expanse. Ethan turned to her, his face half-lit by the weak glow from a distant streetlight.

"Can't sleep?" His voice had a friendly lilt, but she could detect the undercurrent of shared fatigue.

She answered with a nod, succinct, the motion sharp and unembellished. Her silhouette melded with the darkness, two weary hunters pausing in their solitary pursuits.

"Everything alright?" he asked.

---