Page 38 of Not This Place

“Coincidence?”

“Sure doesn’t seem like it.”

She pressed harder on the gas, the needle on the speedometer climbing. The landscape blurred past, an endless stretch of Texas terrain unfolding before them.

"Think Hargreaves is our man?" Ethan asked, watching the horizon.

"Too soon to tell," Rachel replied, her focus unyielding. "But we're about to find out. But… no… I don’t think so."

“Someone planted it?”

“Jasper was a careful man. A cautious one. Think he’d make a mistake like this?”

A pause. “No.”

“I don’t think so either.”

“Someone wants us to look at Hargreaves?”

“We need to confirm… but yeah. That’s my gut instinct.”

"I agree. And someone took a shot at Alice?"

“If she’s telling the truth.”

“I think she is.”

“Yeah. At least some of the truth.”

‘So someone’s going after these two tycoons.”

Rachel nodded, a scowl on her face. “So who is bold enough to take on two billionaires, and think they can get away with it?”

She floored the pedal, and their newly loaned vehicle screamed through the desert, racing towards the newest crime scene.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The dusty road crunched beneath the tires of their unmarked car as it rolled to a halt, facing the newest crime scene where Cheryl's boyfriend's body had been discovered.

Rachel Blackwood's gaze sliced through the chaos of police officers and the flash of red and blue lights, settling on the grandeur of the Hargreaves estate. Looming. Silent. Accusing.

"Looks like the whole department's here," Ethan muttered, his eyes scanning the perimeter.

She stepped out, boots hitting the ground with purpose. The air carried a chill, the kind that seeped into bones.

She strode towards the body, a shroud of yellow tape marking its sanctity. Jake Shields lay on his back, eyes open to the Texas sky. He would’ve been a handsome man if he’d been alive, with

his sharp jawline and smooth features. His hands, she noticed, were rough, though. The hands of a laborer. Now, he was a grim testament to the brutality of his death, his body sprawled in an undignified pose on the manicured lawn of the enormous estate.

A slash across his throat—a violent grin in the stillness of death. No flailing arms. No clenched fists. Serenity in the horror.

"Throat's cut clean," Rachel observed, voice stripped of emotion. "No signs he fought back."

A figure cut through the cluster of uniformed officers, moving with an air of authority that parted the sea of blue. Rachel recognized the coroner, Dr. Sierra Hart, by her white coat and the purpose in her stride.

Dr. Hart had worked with Rachel on cases in the past, especially those that took them to southern Texas.

"Ranger Blackwood," Dr. Hart greeted, voice steady and even.

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