Page 41 of Not This Place

Rachel's boots crunched on the gravel as she stepped away from the body, holding her phone up. The device felt cold and solid in her palm—a lifeline to the answers that eluded her at this windswept crime scene. She scrolled through her contacts, her thumb-stopping on a name that promised expertise. The screen lit up with the call's progress, each ring punctuating the silence that engulfed her.

"Blackwood here. Need a consult on soil samples. Rare type—might be imported. Sending details ASAP." Her voice was terse, the words clipped. The other end acknowledged with a brisk "Understood" before the line went dead.

She pocketed the phone and surveyed the estate once more. The mansion loomed, its shadow stretching like an accusation across the grounds. The police officers busied themselves with their tasks, their movements methodical, yet Rachel's focus remained beyond the immediate perimeter. She was already piecing together a new map of the investigation, one that sprawled out to unknown territory.

A gust of coastal wind tugged at her hair, but she barely noticed. Her gaze lingered on the hem of Jake Shields' pants—the muddy tell-tale sign of a narrative hidden beneath the surface. It was a tangible piece of the puzzle, something she could chase down while the coroner and techs scavenged for what they could from the body.

What had her aunt told her… the soil. Fir trees grew in it. What else? Why would someone import it south? She wracked her brain, trying to think

back to the details her memory held, trying to isolate those times when she'd observed this particular soil type. Her mind was a whirl of images – forests of fir trees, carpets of moss beneath the shade, patches of wildflowers sprinkling vibrant colors against the dark earth...

A sudden realization jolted through her. The soil wasn't just imported; it was cultivated. Cultivated and preserved. Someone had brought it for a purpose. And that someone had more than a passing connection with Jake Shields.

She turned to look at the mansion again. The Hargreaves' estate stretched before her eyes, a testament to wealth and power. Yet, she knew that within its confines were secrets waiting to be unraveled. She could almost feel them beckoning her, challenging her. A challenge she would gladly accept.

She knew of one crop in particular that relied on healthy, fertile soil. A sort of crop still frowned on in the deep south.

She hesitated, considering this. She typed in her phone’s search engine, what sort of illicit plants grow in loamy, rich soil?

She hit enter.

Her phone blinked back at her, loading the search results. There it was. The crop she suspected: Cannabis. It grew optimally in rich, well-drained loamy soil.

In her peripheral vision, she caught sight of the estate's sprawling garden. A manicured landscape peeping out from behind tall brick walls and iron-wrought gates. A garden that could easily hide a secretive crop if one knew where to look.

Rachel chewed on her bottom lip, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully as she stared at the opulent mansion looming in the distance. The missing shoes were a puzzle piece that didn’t fit yet.

But no… not the Hargreaves’. Their oil business was a multi-billion dollar enterprise. They wouldn’t sacrifice it for some marginal increase of an illicit plant. Already, Cannabis was less and less regulated, anyhow.

Not the Hargreaves. But someone who hated them.

Who would drop a body on their land?

Alice?

But that didn’t explain her testimony of someone having taken a shot at her.

So it was someone who knew the land, knew its soil. Someone who hated the Hargreaves’, hated the Danvers’… Someone who’d killed Cheryl, Jake.

“Someone with roots in the land,” Rachel whispered to herself, eyes narrowing.

If she found the soil, she’d find the killer. She turned, calling, “Ethan! I have an idea!”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Rachel felt a weight of weariness descending on her shoulders as she drove down the wide, dusty country road.

Two down.

One to go.

They'd divided up the five hits. Results on imported loam and earth from northern Texas within a twenty-mile radius. If anyone had managed to bring some in via private vehicle, they were sunk.

But they had to follow every lead. No matter how small.

Still, Rachel’s breath of frustration indicated the failure of the last two stops.

Alibis on both. The Andersons, for instance, were both in their eighties, and Mr. Anderson walked with a limp.

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