Page 12 of Not This Place

"Power outage fried the gate system," Dan “Bruno” offered, unsolicited. Rachel nodded once, acknowledging the words but not the sentiment. She knew the dance of conversation and interrogation well—each word weighed, each response measured.

"Big place for just one person," she commented, voice even.

"Mr. Jasper likes his space," Hank replied without looking back. “His father lives here when not on business trips.”

“Mr. Jasper likes his space,” Dan repeated as if he hadn’t heard Hank say this very thing.

A rehearsed line?

Strange. This whole place was strange.

"Does he now?" Rachel's gaze never wavered from the approaching facade.

They turned a corner sharply, the breeze catching strands of Rachel's dark hair, pulling them free from their confines. The estate unfurled before them, manicured lawns giving way to the opulence of old money.

"Here we are," Dan announced as they came to a stop with a jolt that sent a jarring shiver up Rachel's spine.

She stepped off the cart, boots sinking slightly into the soft earth, her presence an intrusion on the stillness of the grounds. The house stood silent, a monolith of wealth and power.

The grandeur of the estate gave way to an expanse of green, the lawn stretching out like a sea of meticulous landscaping. Rachel's eyes narrowed as she scanned the area, every sense attuned to the task at hand. The guards led her not towards the stately entrance of the house but around its side, where the vastness of the property revealed itself in all its glory.

A man stood in the distance, posture relaxed, a golf club swinging with rhythmic precision. Jasper. He drove another ball into the horizon, his focus unbroken until the small vehicle and its passengers invaded his solitary game.

"Ranger Blackwood," he greeted, voice devoid of surprise as he turned to face them. His tone held the weight of old Texas money, cultured yet detached.

"Mr. Hargreaves," Rachel acknowledged, stepping off the cart with deliberate slowness. She approached, her boots firm against the earth, each step a measured advance into the lion's den.

She studied his appearance.

He was an imposing figure, tall and broad-shouldered with a chiseled jawline that spoke of generations of privileged breeding. Dressed in a white polo shirt, khaki pants, and spotless white gloves, he looked like his photo in the society pages, albeit more weathered and less polished.

His hair was slicked back, showcasing a receding hairline that contrasted starkly with his youthful face. His eyes were a cold blue, the kind of color associated with glaciers. Jasper looked every bit as unyielding and impenetrable as ice.

Rachel walked towards him, her boots sinking slightly into the manicured lawn. She studied him as she approached, taking in everything from his meticulously creased pants to the golf club gripped firmly in his gloved hand.

"Mr. Hargreaves," she responded curtly. "I understand you were expecting me."

Jasper just shrugged, his movements fluid beneath the Texas sun. "Father's away," he said simply. When he spoke, he rarely met her gaze or anyone else's, instead staring out at some unseen point.

Rachel didn't miss the implication. His father owned everything - land, money, power - but it was Jasper who occupied this gilded cage while his father was away.

“This is about the murder?” Jasper said, his tone devoid of emotion.

"You've heard?"

“I did.”

"Cheryl was quite a lady," she began, her words slicing the air between them. "Her passing must weigh heavy."

Jasper's eyes fixed on Rachel, the hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "Life has its course, Ranger. We mourn, we move on." The nonchalance in his voice felt practiced, like armor against any prying beneath the surface.

"Breakups are tough," Rachel continued, watching for the smallest crack in his facade. "Especially with someone so... connected."

"Connections can be overrated," Jasper responded, his gaze steady. He picked up another golf ball, teeing it up with calculated casualness. "Sometimes, they complicate things unnecessarily."

Rachel noted the choice of words, storing away each inflection for later analysis. She watched him closely, reading the lines of his body language, the controlled stillness that spoke volumes more than his careful speech.

"Complications can lead to drastic actions," she pressed, her voice a low thrum of authority.

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