Page 7 of Not This Night

"Look at the positioning." Rachel pointed to the way Heather's fingers were interlaced, the angle of her limbs.

“Almost like she’s asleep,” replied Ethan.

“Neck.” Rachel pointed to the obvious laceration across the woman’s throat.

Ethan let out a slow, echoing sigh, muttering darkly to himself and shaking his head in disgust.

Rachel crouched low, her gaze fixed on the glint of blue. Turquoise beads, scattered like tears around Heather's body, cut through the dust and dirt of the paddock floor. Not just any beads—each one polished to a deceptive innocence, their presence there inscrutable.

"Turquoise," she muttered.

"Significance?" Ethan asked, peering over her shoulder.

"Symbolic. Native tribes use them for protection, healing." Her hand hovered above the stones, careful not to touch. "But Heather wasn't Native American."

"Then why—"

"Could be a red herring." She straightened, eyes narrowing. "Or part of his fantasy."

Ethan scribbled in his notebook, lips pursed.

Heather lay centered in the makeshift grave, her arms folded with an unsettling precision. The body was positioned in what seemed to be a deliberate imitation of a ceremonial rest. Rachel's stomach tightened at the sight. Whoever did this tried too hard to make it look respectful—but the result was anything but.

"Her legs," Ethan gestured, "folded like that. It's unnatural."

"Intentional," Rachel corrected. "No sign of struggle here. He posed her after death."

"Staging," Ethan whispered. “Why?”

"Every detail's a choice." Rachel's voice was a blade, cutting through the fog of theatrics. "We need to understand the choices."

Rachel squatted beside the body, her fingers hovering a breath away from the turquoise beads spread around Heather's neck. Each bead caught the sunlight, winking with an ancient luster that spoke of sacred mountains and endless skies. The symbols etched into them were deliberate, intricate spirals and crosses, remnants of a culture that the killer had no right to claim.

"Those beads," Ethan said, crouching beside her. "They're not just for show."

"Symbols of protection," Rachel murmured, tracing the air above the designs. "In native belief, they ward off evil spirits."

"Guess the killer had a different kind of spirit in mind," Ethan replied, his voice edged with a bitterness that mirrored Rachel’s own thoughts.

"Or he's toying with us," she said, standing up. Her gaze shifted from the beads to the horizon, the uneasy feeling in her gut growing stronger. "Using symbols of peace as part of his violence."

Ethan nodded, his playful demeanor now replaced by a grim understanding of the sick irony at play.

Rachel studied Heather’s face. The woman would never have been described as beautiful, but in her sharp cheeks and strong jaw, she had

a certain quiet strength about her that now seemed sadly absent. Her eyes were closed, but Rachel knew the killer had taken the time to position them like that. A final gesture of respect, perhaps, or maybe just one more element of his twisted performance.

Rachel turned away from the grave and walked the perimeter, eyes sweeping the ground. No tracks marred the dusty earth except for Heather's tire treads, weaving a lonely path through the paddock.

"Something's not adding up here," she called out to Ethan, who followed her gaze to the unbroken ground. "No other vehicle came through."

"Could've come on foot," Ethan suggested, but Rachel shook her head.

"Out here? Not likely." She frowned, considering the isolation of the ranch. "He must have been with her. Or... he never left."

"Her husband said she was alone when she drove here." Ethan's brow furrowed.

"Maybe he lied," Rachel countered, "or maybe the killer hitched a ride undetected." She could almost picture it: Heather Sinclair, unsuspecting, sharing space with a predator hidden in plain sight.

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