Page 8 of Not This Night

"Or..." Ethan's voice trailed off, the possibilities multiplying and twisting like the patterns on the beads.

"Let's get the team to check the area," Rachel commanded, her tone leaving no room for debate. "I want a full sweep—look for tracks off-road, discarded cigarettes, beer cans, anything."

"Got it." Ethan pulled out his radio and began relaying orders to the search teams, his usual easygoing nature set aside for the urgency of the moment.

As the cops fanned out over the surrounding terrain, Rachel stood sentinel over the desecrated site, the weight of her heritage and her role as a Texas Ranger pressing down on her with every beat of her heart. This was more than a crime scene; it was a perverse theater staged by a killer who understood the power of symbols but not their sanctity.

Somewhere out there, amid the whispering grasses and the distant hills, a murderer waited.

Why were there no other tracks?

Her eyes turned to the old, dilapidated structure.

Her frown creased her face, and she moved towards the house.

CHAPTER THREE

The wind howled through broken shutters as Rachel Blackwood pushed open the creaking door of the farmhouse. Dust motes danced in the slanting light, and silence hung heavy in the air. Her boots thumped against the floorboards, the sound hollow in the abandoned space.

"Must've been empty for years," she muttered to herself, eyes flickering across peeling wallpaper and discarded furniture. She could almost smell the decay—a scent that spoke of past lives, now nothing more than whispers caught in cobwebs.

Rachel's hand rested on her holstered sidearm, a comforting weight at her hip as she moved from room to room. She scanned each one with practiced efficiency, instincts honed from a childhood spent learning to read the land and its subtle signals. Her aunt's voice echoed in her memory: "Always watchful, always ready."

The house groaned, settling on its tired foundations. Rachel paused, head tilting. The place was a time capsule, but she wasn't here for nostalgia. She searched for anything amiss, a clue left behind in haste.

A scuff mark. Too fresh among the dust layers. A drawer ajar, contents untouched except for one missing item. Rachel filed these details away, her mind assembling them into a larger picture.

Something wasn't right about this place. Rachel's gut twisted as she stepped into the next room, the floorboards creaking under her boots like a reply to her unspoken questions. The furniture was old and dusty, but this room seemed different, as if it had been used more recently.

She approached a table at the center of the room, the surface cluttered with stacks of paper and a few dusty books. As she reached for one of the books, her hand brushed against an envelope tucked between them. She carefully pulled it out, the corners damp with condensation.

An eviction notice—perhaps the previous owner’s?

The place was abandoned, but it still held furniture. Was that a motive? Is someone still protective or possessive of the property? How did that connect with the reverent, ritualistic posing of Heather's body?

Rachel glanced at the date on the eviction notice. Twenty years ago…

The killer waited a long time if this had anything to do with it. She doubted it was connected. Still, she took a photo of the notice before she turned away.

Rachel's gaze cut to the staircase, the banister warped by time. Upstairs then. Each step creaked under her weight.

She moved on the balls of her feet, treading lightly. How many times had she tracked predators through the woods?

She’d gotten her start as a big game hunter—someone hired by local municipalities to take out mountain lions or wolves or troublesome bears. She’d spent a decent amount of time in the Everglades, hunting pythons.

A true hunter knew how to follow a trail. But an even better hunter knew the ins and outs of their prey.

Mountain lions, for instance, were known to be incredibly adept at disappearing into their surroundings. They could vanish from sight in mere seconds, leaving no trace of their passage.

But Rachel had honed her senses over the years, developing a sixth sense for the subtle clues animals left behind. She could spot a fresh paw print or a patch of disturbed grass from miles away.

The worst type of animal to hunt, in her opinion, was an alligator: silent, still, and nearly invisible in the murky waters of the Everglades. The only way to catch one was to know the landscape like the back of your hand and have an intimate understanding of the creature's habits and behavior.

Applying these skills to hunting humans felt…different. It required a different mindset, a different approach. But it was the same game, after all. The same primal instincts at play.

The upstairs hallway was cool and dim, lined with decaying wallpaper and shadows. A faint scent of mold hung in the air, heavy and damp. Rachel knew better than to let her guard down.

She slowed her pace, conscious of every sound she made. Each step was deliberate, calculated. This wasn't about brute force; it was about finesse, strategy.

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