Page 20 of Not This Soon

With a deep breath, she pushed open the door to the interview room.

The couple looked up as she entered, their eyes filled with apprehension and grief, but also something else. A type of discomfort, perhaps?

Again, she decided not to jump to any conclusions.

Rachel greeted them with a nod of her head, her expression reflecting her serious intent. She knew her appearance could sometimes be off-putting. Especially as she had a bandagewrapped around her arm, and she wore her dusty flannel shirt. Her white hat was tipped back along the strand of turquoise beads to drape under the brim, grazing her cheek.

Rachel took a seat across from the couple, the metal chair scraping against the concrete floor as she pulled it out. She placed a manila folder on the table between them, her movements deliberate and precise.

"Mr. and Mrs. Morris," she began, her voice even and professional. "I'm Ranger Blackwood. I appreciate you coming in to speak with me today."

Mr. Morris gave a curt nod, his eyes darting from Rachel to the folder and back again. "Of course," he said, his voice tight. "Anything to help find out what happened to our daughter."

Rachel noted the way his hands gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white. She glanced at Mrs. Morris, who sat silently beside her husband, her eyes downcast.

"I understand this is a difficult time for you both," Rachel said, her tone softening slightly. "I want to assure you that we're doing everything we can to get to the bottom of this."

She opened the folder, revealing a stack of documents and photographs. As she began to spread them out on the table, she watched the couple's reactions closely.

Mr. Morris leaned forward, his eyes scanning the papers with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. Mrs. Morris remained still, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. The photos were of Rebecca’s car and of the desert road leading to the crime scene. None of the actual crime scene photos were on display.

Rachel cleared her throat, drawing their attention back to her. "I'd like to start by asking you a few questions about Rebecca," she said, her gaze steady. "Can you tell me about her work as a journalist?"

Mr. Morris shifted in his seat, his jaw clenching. "She was always sticking her nose where it didn't belong," he muttered, his voice low and bitter.

Rachel raised an eyebrow, her interest piqued. She leaned forward, her elbows resting on the table. "What do you mean by that, Mr. Morris?"

Mrs. Morris remained slumped in her chair, her shoulders hunched and her eyes fixed on the floor. Her once vibrant blonde hair now hung limp and dull around her face. The lines around her eyes and mouth seemed deeper, etched by worry and exhaustion.

Rachel studied her for a moment before turning her attention back to Mr. Morris. "Can you elaborate on what you meant about Rebecca sticking her nose where it didn't belong?"

Mr. Morris let out a sharp exhale, his fingers drumming against the table. "She was always chasing stories, even if it meant putting herself in danger or hurting her family."

Rachel nodded, jotting down a quick note. "And what kind of stories did she typically pursue?"

There was a pause, and then Mrs. Morris spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. "She liked to expose corruption. She said it was her duty as a journalist."

Rachel leaned forward slightly, her eyes locked on Mrs. Morris. "Did her work ever cause problems for your family?"

Mrs. Morris glanced at her husband, who remained silent, his jaw clenched. She hesitated, then nodded. "Sometimes. She received threats. We were worried about her safety."

"When was the last time you spoke with Rebecca?" Rachel asked, her gaze shifting between the couple.

Mrs. Morris's hands trembled as she clutched a tissue, her eyes pleading with Rachel. "Please, just tell us what happened to our daughter. How did she die?”

Rachel maintained a composed expression, her voice gentle but firm. "I understand your concern, Mrs. Morris, but I'm afraid I can't disclose any details about the investigation at this time. We're doing everything we can to find answers."

Mrs. Morris's shoulders slumped further, a choked sob escaping her lips. Rachel's attention, however, was drawn to Mr. Morris, who sat rigidly in his chair, his hands balled into fists on the table.

His eyes, dark and stormy, flickered with an emotion Rachel couldn't quite place. Anger? Resentment? She studied him intently, noting the tension in his jaw and the vein pulsing at his temple.

The air in the room felt thick, suffocating. Rachel's instincts told her there was more to Mr. Morris's demeanor than just a father's concern for his missing daughter.

She leaned forward slightly, her voice calm and measured. "Mr. Morris, I can't imagine how difficult this must be for you. Is there anything you'd like to share about Rebecca, anything that might help us understand her situation better?"

Mr. Morris's eyes snapped to Rachel's, a flicker of defiance in his gaze. He remained silent, his lips pressed into a thin line.

Rachel held his stare, unwavering. The seconds ticked by, the only sound in the room the soft ticking of the wall clock and Mrs. Morris's muffled sniffles.

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