Page 68 of Not This Place

"This land," she began, her voice low, each word a hammer striking steel, "is mine."

Rachel's eyes locked onto Hargreaves. Steady. Unyielding. Her pupils, dark mirrors of resolve, reflected a man broken by his own conceit. His breath came in ragged gasps, the sound of defeat to her ears.

"Look at me," she commanded.

He lifted his head, the effort monumental. Their gazes clashed. Hers, tempered steel; his, doused flames.

“You don’t scare me. You’re nothing but a bluff.”

Hargreaves' lips parted, but no sound emerged.

“Your lawyers… your billions… all of it… I don’t give a shit. I will personally make sure you end up where you belong.”

She patted him on the cheek, then shoved him to the ground, cuffs emerging just as Ethan landed next to her, hastening over.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

The neon sign of the bar flickered, casting erratic shadows over the patrons inside. Rachel Blackwood's fingers curled around a chilled glass, condensation beading on her hand. Beside her, Ethan Morgan mirrored her grip, both of them silent amidst the low murmur of conversations and the occasional scrape of chairs against the worn wooden floor.

The bar was a refuge of sorts, a place where dim lighting hid the creases of fatigue etched into their faces. Rachel's back hunched slightly, shoulders bearing the weight of the day's burdens. Her eyes, usually sharp as flint, appeared dull under the bar's muted glow. Ethan, too, looked like he carried the world, his normally attentive gaze now lost in some distant thought.

Tired. They were both so tired.

Time stretched between them, filled only with the soft hum of an old jukebox playing a forgotten song. Rachel lifted her glass, the ice clinking against the sides. Ethan followed suit, the sound of their glasses meeting, punctuating the stillness that enveloped them.

"Cheers," she said, voice low and devoid of warmth.

"Cheers," Ethan echoed, his reply barely above a whisper.

They drank. The liquor hit with a familiar burn, tracing a path down their throats. In this moment, the drink was just another necessity, like the air they breathed, devoid of pleasure or celebration.

She didn’t drink much anymore. In fact, she tried to avoid it entirely…

But someone had tried to kill her. Twice. Someone had tried to kill her aunt.

Rachel set her glass down, the base thumping softly against the scarred wood of the bar. Ethan did the same, his movements deliberate, controlled. Each sip, each silent exchange, another step towards oblivion, away from the chaos that waited beyond the bar's door.

Ethan shifted in his seat, the worn leather squeaking under his weight. His gaze lingered on Rachel for a moment before he spoke.

"Going against Hargreaves tomorrow," he remarked, voice steady but low, as if reluctant to slice through the quiet of the bar.

Rachel's eyes flicked toward him, then away. She reached for her glass, fingers brushing against the cold surface. "Not tonight, Ethan."

“They found more than enough evidence. Doesn’t matter his wheeling and dealing. Half the law firms he uses are bailing as we speak.”

She shrugged. She found she didn’t care.

To Hargreaves, he was an important man.

To her, he was just another killer.

He'd killed Cheryl and Jake. Tried to kill Alice. Had killed the Barkers. They'd found other bodies on his property. Some of them go back twenty years.

One body, in particular, had been kept in decent condition. A known street thug who’d vanished decades ago.

Hargreaves had kept the corpse in a freezer. A sort of memento.

ATF and DEA were still sifting through all the things Hargreaves had his fingers in.

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