Page 40 of Not This Place

Ethan's eyes widened in understanding. "So you think the killer took Shields' shoes to hide where they'd been."

Rachel nodded, looking back at Jake Shield's body. "It's a theory. The boots could've held some telltale trace of the killer."

A moment of silence passed between them as Rachel and Ethan studied the scene, mulling over this new hypothesis. The lawn, previously a picturesque backdrop for Hargreaves' grand estate, now felt tainted with mystery and death.

"Tell forensics to check the clothing folds and toes for soil deposits," Rachel instructed, her tone authoritative. "If there's any residue left... we need to know."

Rachel turned to glance towards the Hargreaves’ mansion. Figures in the windows.

Lawyers, no doubt. Maybe even Jasper himself.

She wondered what the tycoon’s son was thinking. Did he want to protest his innocence? Did he assume they were now gunning for him?

Rachel would let the locals interview Jasper again. It was too obvious. Far, far too obvious. Jasper was a very careful man. Speaking with him, she’d found him intelligent, cautious.

To deposit a body outside his own home, thirty hours later?

And then an anonymous, untraceable tip directing the cops right to it?

This was a setup.

But who was behind it?

"Shoes can tell stories," she murmured, repeating her original train of thought, breaking the silence. "Soil caught in the treads, scuffs from running or stumbling—it's evidence. Our killer might've known that. Which tells us something about him… he knows the land."

Ethan stood close by, his frame casting a long shadow that fell across the scene. He watched Rachel, waiting for the next piece of her thought process to materialize.

"Without the shoes," she continued, "it's harder to trace his last steps. But soil doesn't just vanish. It clings."

Her gaze fixed on Jake's exposed feet. No superficial debris marred the skin.

"Check his clothing. Every fold." Rachel’s voice held an edge, commanding but not harsh. "If the killer was thorough enough to take the shoes, there might still be traces left behind. Soil deposits. Residue."

"Got it." Ethan flipped open his notebook once more. His hand moved quickly, penning down her orders.

"Be meticulous. Tell the team I want a full sweep. Between the toes, under the nails, any crevice where dirt could hide."

"Will do." Ethan’s affirmation was swift, decisive.

Rachel gave a curt nod and rose to her full height, her mind already racing ahead. Every detail mattered. This rare soil, this missing link, could be the thread that unraveled everything.

Ethan turned on his heel and strode away to relay her instructions to forensics, leaving Rachel alone with the body. The crime scene was quiet except for the occasional crackle of the police radio or the shuffle of an officer's footsteps on the grass.

Rachel crouched down beside Jake Shields' remains, her eyes scanning every inch of the body before her. The hem of his trousers was caked with mud—a dark, dense layer that spoke of wet earth and heavy steps. She reached out, her gloved fingers lightly touching the fabric, feeling the grittiness of the soil embedded in the weave.

This soil wasn't native to the area; she'd bet her badge on it. It was too dark, too rich for the dry Texas terrain. Local soil crumbled to dust beneath your boots; it didn’t cling like this. A rare type, possibly from a different part of the state or beyond. Imported. Deliberate.

She straightened up, her gaze lingering on the muddy hem. A clue. A silent witness to where Jake Shields had been before he died.

"Damn," she muttered under her breath, the word barely a whisper. She pulled out her phone, ready to begin the search for the origin of the soil. The answer lay out there, somewhere.

Rachel stood for a moment, the weight of her boots sinking slightly into the ground beside Jake Shields' body. Her eyes narrowed as she contemplated the muddy evidence clinging to the dead man's trousers. She had seen soil like this before, not here in the arid landscapes that sprawled around Jasper Hargreaves' imposing estate, but in the damp, loamy grounds of East Texas forests where she had once tracked deer with her aunt.

Those early mornings came back to her now, the chill in the air, the whisper of leaves, and the distinct shades of earth that told stories of the land. The dark soil under her fingers was rich with moisture, unlike the dusty terrain of their current location near the coast. The differences were subtle to an untrained eye, but to Rachel, they were a glaring anomaly.

"Imported," she said aloud, the word cutting through the silence. The realization settled with a heavy certainty.

Who would import soil like that to south Texas? What would grow in it?

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