Page 8 of Not This Place

Ethan shook his head. “No sign of him.”

“APB?”

“Already issued. They’re looking for Jake.”

She turned back to the body where it hung grotesquely suspended.

Cheryl’s eyes, once vibrant and full of life, were now dull and vacant. The image held a haunting beauty, one that chilled Rachel to her core. She saw similar scenes too often, but each time it was like a gut punch. It served as a brutal reminder of the human lives caught in the cruel web of crime and violence.

"Jake Shields," she said, the name rolling off her tongue with measured caution. "We need to find him. Fast."

Ethan nodded in agreement, his face pulled taut in a grimace. "I've got the team on it."

They fell into silence then, the roar of the storm filling the void between them. The oil derrick creaked ominously above their heads, its silhouette outlined against the darkened sky. Rachel's gaze was drawn to the haunting spectacle of Cheryl's lifeless body, swaying rhythmically with each gust of wind.

“How long had she been hanging before they found her?” Rachel asked after a long moment.

Ethan checked his notes, his fingers brushing against the rain-soaked pages. "A couple of hours is the preliminary guess," he said finally. His voice held an edge of bitterness that mirrored Rachel's own feelings.

She inhaled deeply, taking a moment to steady herself before turning back to Ethan. "Who found her?"

"A worker on an early shift," Ethan replied, flipping through his notes once more. "Said he almost didn’t see her at first because of the darkness and rain.”

Rachel grimaced at the thought, imagining Cheryl alone in these last moments, suspended over an empty abyss.

“Alright,” she finally mustered.

She reached for her evidence kit, its contents meticulously organized. With practiced precision, Rachel selected tweezers and sample jars. She scraped some of the substance from under Cheryl's nails, movements deft despite the bulky gloves. Each sample found its way into a jar, each jar labeled with a steady hand.

Having spotted them, and having taken shelter in a shipping container, a pair of local police officers approached, their slickers whipping in the wind. One held out a hand to steady himself against the sway of the derrick. "Ranger Blackwood, Ranger Morgan," the lead cop greeted, his voice barely audible over the tempest.

"Report," Rachel said curtly, her eyes scanning the horizon where water met sky in a gray smear.

"Victim's Cheryl Danvers," the officer began, water dripping from the brim of his hat. “Ex-fiance of Jasper Hargreaves of the Hargreaves family—oil tycoons, rivals to her own kin's company."

“Her own family?”

“Danvers oil company. Smaller operation, but growing.”

"Conflict of interest?" Ethan suggested, the question hanging between them like the heavy clouds above.

"More than that," the second officer chimed in, flipping open his notepad. "Rumors of corporate espionage between the companies. She had access to both sides. They say that’s why the engagement with Jasper was broken off."

“I see. So why’s she on one of the Hargreaves’ rigs?”

“Dating a guy named Jake. Mechanic,” said the cop, nodding.

"Means and motive," Rachel murmured, her gaze drifting back to the body. She moved closer to Cheryl's suspended form, her steps measured and deliberate.

The body hung at an unnatural angle, arms splayed wide. A message in the positioning, perhaps—a grotesque mimicry of crucifixion or surrender. But there was more. Cheryl's head was tilted, chin lifted, as if staring defiantly at the storm above. Her feet were bare, toes curled inward. Staged. Deliberate.

"Notice her hands," Rachel instructed, pointing without touching. "Palms out. Fingers spread."

"Like she's pushing something away," Ethan observed, following her lead.

"Or someone." Rachel's eyes narrowed. "Forced to face her accuser even in death."

"Staging," Ethan confirmed, his expression grim. "Killer's playing games."

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