Page 48 of Not This Way

Rachel glanced in the corner of the footage toward the small, blinking digital clock.

She felt her pulse skip a beat. Her gaze returned to the grainy figure moving in the muddy terrain.

She hesitated, spotting something in the mud.

Rachel squinted at the security footage on the computer screen, her deep brown eyes scanning. Her worn Stetson sat atop her jet-black hair, and the beads she’d woven into a braid clinked softly as she leaned in closer. The hum of the overhead light was barely audible over the faint whirring of the computer fan.

“Right there,” she muttered to herself. “Tire treads. Those weren’t there at the start of the footage.”

She cycled back a bit more.

“Stop!” Ethan said suddenly.

She’d already hit the spacebar.

Both of them watched as, for a split second, a red sedan entered the frame. Suddenly, the vehicle reversed and sped away from the scene, tires screeching against the mud. A few moments later, the dark, hooded figure had appeared. “Strange…” Rachel’s brow furrowed as she replayed the clip several times, committing every detail to memory.

“Got the tag?”

“I saw ’em. Yeah,” she said, nodding at Ethan. “Let me run the plates real quick.” She typed the numbers into the database, her fingers deftly dancing across the keyboard.

Within moments, the search results appeared on the screen. “Jeremiah Smith,” Rachel read aloud, her eyes narrowing. “A driver for an oil barrel company. The car was reported stolen last week.”

“Stolen?” her partner echoed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “You think he might be our guy?”

“Could be,” Rachel mused, clicking through Smith’s profile. She did a quick web search.

Rachel’s eyes flicked back to Jeremiah Smith’s profile on the computer screen, her brow furrowing in thought. She noticed a string of posts he had made on social media. She clicked on these, from a few months ago, following the link.

“Hey,” she said, pointing at the screen for her partner to see. “Look at this. Our Mr. Smith appears to have quite the political chip on his shoulder.”

“Interesting,” Ethan murmured, leaning in to read the posts. “Wasn’t our first victim involved in political contributions?”

Grayson was standing by the window now, and his shoulders tensed at this comment, but he didn’t glance back at them.

“Could be,” Rachel mused, her fingers tracing the edge of her jacket. The leather was cool beneath her touch.

“Seems like it’s worth checking out,” her partner agreed, straightening up and looking at her expectantly. “Shall we pay him a visit?”

“Let’s find out if his politics align with our case.”

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the dusty exterior of the mechanic’s shop. Rachel squinted against the glare, her deep brown eyes narrowing as she and Ethan approached the entrance. Her hair was pulled back into a tight braid now, kept out of her face.

“Jeremiah Smith?” Ethan called out as he knocked on the door, his voice echoing through the desolate area. Rachel pushed the door open, revealing the dimly lit interior of the shop, cluttered with tools and machinery. The smell of oil and gasoline filled their nostrils, a familiar scent for those who lived in this part of Texas. They stepped inside cautiously, eyes scanning the space for any signs of life.

“Hello?” Rachel shouted, her voice steady and authoritative. “We just want to talk.”

Silence greeted them, broken only by the distant sound of a wrench clattering to the floor. Rachel exchanged a knowing glance with Ethan before they both moved further into the shop.

“Must be someone here,” Ethan muttered, his eyes darting around the room.

As if in response, an old, nervous man emerged from behind a stack of tires, his skin greasy and stained from years of labor. His hands trembled slightly, betraying his unease. “Hey there, strangers.”

“Rangers,” Rachel said quickly, raising her badge with practiced ease.

He didn’t look surprised. “Mhmm,” the old-timer said, nodding and adjusting his coveralls with a hooked thumb. “Who are you looking for?” he asked, attempting to feign ignorance. “I don’t know anyone named Jeremiah.”

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