Page 23 of Not This Place

And now, for an hour, she'd paced the parking lot.

A couple of vehicles had pulled in as she’d marched back and forth, but she was too distracted to trace the comings and goings of late night, motel clientele.

She pressed her aunt's number on the phone and raised it to her ear.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Her boot on the dry ground. Each tap a drumbeat counting down the seconds as she waited. Impatience twisted inside her, a tight coil ready to spring. Eyes darting around, she scanned the area. Always on alert. The screen of the phone glowed in the encroaching dusk.

"Come on, Sarah," she murmured, more to herself than anyone who could hear.

The line clicked. A breath. Then, a voice, distant like an echo in a cavernous space. "Rachel?"

"Aunt Sarah." Relief was a weight lifted, but the burden of concern was a heavier load to carry. Rachel's voice cut through the distance. Crisp. Clear. "Are you safe?"

A pause. Then, the sound of Aunt Sarah's detached tone brushed Rachel's ear. "Yes, Rae. I'm safe."

The answer hung between them, the words too sparse to fill the silence that stretched out, taut like a wire pulled to its limit. Rachel's fingers gripped the phone tighter, knuckles whitening.

Rachel's thumb hovered over the disconnect button. She didn't press it. Instead, she steadied her voice, a Ranger's voice—firm, demanding presence.

"Who was it, Aunt Sarah? Who came after you? I need a name." Her gaze fixed on a cracked patch of earth by her boot—dry, barren, unyielding.

"Name? What are you talking about, Rae?"

"Joseph White Cloud. Was it him?" The name cut through the line like a bullet, aimed and potent.

"Joseph who?" Confusion laced Aunt Sarah's words.

"White Cloud," Rachel repeated, slower, pressing each syllable as if they could carve understanding into this conversation. "Is he the one?"

Silence stretched. A dog barked somewhere in the distance—a sharp sound.

"Never heard of him." Aunt Sarah's voice was flat, a closed door in the face of Rachel's probing.

"Damn it." The curse slipped out—a rare crack in Rachel's disciplined facade. She pinched the bridge of her nose. Frustration seared her thoughts, leaving behind a smoky trail of more questions, less answers.

“How’s that possible?” Rachel said suddenly. “Dawes gave me their names… You and him are always sharing information.”

“It must never have come up.”

“What do you mean?”

Rachel frowned even more deeply now.

“I don’t remember everything Dawes tells me. Let it go.”

“Who took a shot at you?”

“I told you…”

"Tell me again. From the top. What exactly happened? Exactly. Everything you remember."

"We were drinking, right here at home, when someone shot through the window." Aunt Sarah paused, inhaling sharply. Then went on. "I flung my grease into the face of one of the hoodlums. Dawes tried to see who it was, but the shooter was too fast. They took off before he could get a look."

Rachel's fingers tightened around the phone, her grip a vice that echoed the tight knot in her chest. "Is Dawes okay?"

"He's fine, Rae," Aunt Sarah assured her, voice steady and sure as granite. "Just angry."

Those words should've brought relief. They should've untied the knot in Rachel's chest. But they didn't.

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