Page 9 of Not This Place

"Games have rules," Rachel replied. "We'll figure them out." She stepped back, taking in the scene as a whole. The rain continued its relentless descent, but for Rachel, the storm within surged stronger, driving her to piece together the fractured truths of Cheryl Danvers' final moments.

She turned to look at the ground, frowning. This woman out on the derrick late at night. Found dead early in the morning.

Where was Jake, her current boyfriend?”

And what about the tycoon heir Jasper Hargreaves, had her ex-fiancé had something to do with it?

“I want to speak with Jasper,” Rachel said simply. “And tell me if there’s a hit on that APB for Jake.”

The cops nodded and began to move.

Ethan hesitated. “Might be hard to speak with Jasper. They’ve got an army of lawyers.”

“Well… I’d like to try anyway,” Rachel said softly. “His ex-fiance was found dead on one of his derricks. Let’s see what he has to say about it.” Her eyes narrowed. “And tell the coroner to get his damn ass out here. I don’t care if the water is choppy. We’re not leaving her up there like that.”

“Roger. On it.”

Rachel turned, her gaze sweeping the deck, and then she muttered darkly, striding back towards her waiting boat.

CHAPTER THREE

The man who thought of himself as a phoenix… something rising from the ashes, as… as… Lazarus stood motionless, the brim of his weathered hat casting a shadow over his furrowed brow. The Texas sun bore down on him, unforgiving, as he contemplated the expanse of land stretching out before him. Dust swirled around his boots, the only sound for miles the whisper of wind through the grass.

He turned, his eyes softening as they fell upon the small figure beside him. His son, no more than a sapling in this vast field, looked up with wide-eyed innocence. Lazarus bent low, the rough skin of his hands brushing against the boy's hair, his lips pressing a silent kiss to the crown of his head. For a moment, time held still, the act bridging the gap between the hardened man and the gentle soul he protected.

Straightening his back, Lazarus faced the land once more. He dropped to one knee and plunged his hand into the earth, the soil cool and gritty against his palm. He stood, clenching his fist, then slowly opened his fingers. A cascade of dirt slipped through the gaps, each grain a silent testament to generations past and yet to come. The land was life; it was legacy.

"Remember this," Lazarus said, his voice barely louder than the rustle of dry leaves. The boy nodded, but his eyes remained fixed on the falling dirt, a puzzle yet to be solved. Silence reclaimed the space between them, heavy with unspoken thoughts.

Lazarus' gaze lingered on the horizon, where the sky kissed the earth, an unbreakable line that held both promise and peril. The weight of the revolver at his hip was a familiar comfort, a constant reminder of the fine line he walked. He turned, leading his son away from the scattered dirt, his steps deliberate, leaving deep impressions in the parched ground.

Lazarus walked, his son trailing behind like a shadow at twilight. The land stretched out before them, vast and unforgiving. Each step was a claim staked with the heel of worn boots. They stopped beside an overturned bucket, its metal surface dented and sun-bleached.

"Pa, why we do this?" The boy's voice cut through the silence, small yet stark against the expanse.

Lazarus did not turn to face him. "This land feeds us, son. We walk it to know it. To respect it."

The boy's head shook, slight, a wisp of hair falling over his brow. Understanding eluded him; the earth beneath their feet held no secrets to his young mind.

"Fill the bucket," Lazarus commanded, pointing to the barren ground beside them. His words fell flat, a hammer driving a nail into wood. "Only way to learn is to do."

The child hesitated, then moved. Small hands grasped the bucket's rim, dragging it across the dry soil to where Lazarus stood, a silent sentinel. He scooped up the dirt, each handful deliberate, filling the void within the metal. Dust clung to his fingers, coated his skin—a baptism in earth.

"Good." Lazarus' approval was terse, a nod more felt than seen. He watched the boy work, muscles learning the motions that would shape his life. This was a rite of passage, unspoken yet understood. The land demanded participation, and they obliged.

"More," Lazarus urged, the single word hanging between them, heavy with expectation.

The boy complied, his actions growing steadier with each repetition. Dirt filled the bucket.

Lazarus led the way, his boots etching a steady path through the scrub and overgrown grass that whispered against their legs. The boy trailed behind, his small frame dwarfed by the expanse of the Texas landscape that stretched on, a sea of rugged beauty. He clutched the metal bucket, its contents a testament to the day's labor.

The edge of the paddock loomed ahead, marked by a wooden fence weathered to gray. A deep hole interrupted the ground near the fence line, gaping like an open wound. Lazarus paused at the rim, his shadow falling across the void.

"Stay back," he said, voice low.

The boy obeyed, eyes wide, gripping the bucket tighter. He didn't understand the hole, its purpose. But he sensed its importance in his father's stillness, the taut set of his shoulders.

A faint whimpering broke the silence, a delicate sound muffled by earth. It rose from the depths of the hole, plaintive and persistent. The boy's eyes searched Lazarus' face for answers, found none.

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