CHAPTER ELEVEN

The door to the ranger's station slammed shut, sending a shiver through the stillness of the room. Rachel Blackwood ushered in Scott Hawkeye, his clothes clinging to his frame, a steady drip from his borrowed jacket forming a puddle at his feet. He was a walking testament to endurance, his middle-aged features weathered like old leather, a living sculpture carved by years of sun and wind.

"Have a seat, Hawkeye," Rachel said, her tone even but firm. She motioned to a metal chair across from her desk, its surface as cold and hard as the questions she was about to fire.

Scott obliged with a grunt, shifting uncomfortably, his eyes darting around the room as if seeking an escape. His rugged face was set in a scowl, deep lines etched around his mouth and eyes – signs of a life that had known more storms than calms.

"This is an abuse," he said.

"Yeah, so you said. A million times," Rachel snapped. "But you're here. We're here. Let's chat."

"About what?" he demanded, shifting. His borrowed jacket had nothing underneath, and his leathery skin was still damp with river water.

Rachel's own hair was tied back, having hastily been toweled in the car ride to the station.

The door shut behind them again as a new figure joined.

Ethan Morgan stepped forward, flipping open his notepad with a practiced motion. "Your store, Artifacts," he began, locking eyes with Scott. "You work their alone?"

"Got some employees," he muttered. "We're expanding."

"Tell us about the jewelry you sell."

"Nothing to tell. What's this about?" he snapped.

"Tell us about Heather Sinclair and Jenna Amos."

"Sinclair?" Scott's voice was gruff, tinged with annoyance. "Yeah, she bought a bracelet a while back. Pretty thing, very particular about what she wanted. Is she saying something? That piece was authentic!" he yelled.

The way he said that suggested perhaps not all his wares fell into the ‘authentic' category.

"Jenna Amos?" Rachel pressed, leaning in, her gaze unwavering.

"Name doesn't ring a bell," Scott replied, his shoulders lifting in a nonchalant shrug.

Rachel's eyes narrowed slightly, her instincts humming. She exchanged a glance with Ethan – they both knew when a subject was holding back. The game of cat and mouse had just begun.

"Think hard, Hawkeye," Rachel urged, her voice a steel wire. "The bracelet Sinclair bought—details?"

Scott's eyes, flinty and evasive, darted away. "Can't remember every trinket I sell." His fingers drummed on the metal table, a staccato nervousness belying his feigned indifference.

Rachel's gaze didn't waver, sharp as a shard of glass. She watched the twitch in his jaw, the uneasy shift of his weight. Lies had a way of seeping through the cracks of a man's armor, and Scott was no exception.

She pivoted swiftly, seizing upon another thread. "What exactly were you doing in that basement?"

"Ritual cleansing," he answered with a dismissive flick of his wrist. But the scowl that crept across his leathery face betrayed him, a flash of anger directed at Rachel and Ethan. "Trying to get the bad spirits out. Clearly, it didn't work." His eyes lingered on Rachel's face for a moment.

Ethan watched the exchange, quiet but calculating. He knew when to let Rachel take the lead, this was her dance. He was empathetic and likable, but Rachel… in the more direct approach, she was capable of giving as good as she got.

"Jenna Amos," Rachel said, her tone flat, her eyes drilling into Scott's. "When did you last see her?"

Scott's face tightened, a subtle tell. He looked away, his gaze landing on a water stain creeping along the ceiling.

"Been a while," he muttered, too quick, too vague.

Rachel leaned in, her presence dominating the cramped space of the interrogation room. "Define 'a while,' Scott."

He glanced at her, a flicker of something dark crossing his features. "Months, maybe."

"Months? She's been missing for days."

A muscle in his cheek twitched. "News to me."

"Is it?"

"Alright." Scott sighed, a hint of resignation in his voice. "Maybe a week. Came by the store."

"Alone?"

"Yep."

"Behavior? Anything unusual?"

"Seemed fine to me."

Rachel noted his clipped responses, the way his hands had stopped their nervous dance and now lay clenched on the table. "But you remember her visit clearly now."

"Guess I do," he shot back, defiance sparking in his eyes once again.

"Curious."

Scott shifted, uncomfortable under her scrutiny. "I've got nothing to hide."

"Then why run, Hawkeye? Why bolt at the sight of me at Artifacts?"

"Instinct," he shrugged, a smirk playing on his lips. "You're not exactly local law."

"Instinct," she echoed, disbelief coloring her tone. "Or guilt?"

"Look, Ranger," Scott said, leaning back in his chair. "Anyone would run from an armed woman storming in like the place was on fire. Especially when she's not wearing a badge I recognize. You look half white anyhow."

Ethan continued to watch, allowing the direct approach, waiting for it to yield results.

Rachel leaned in, her eyes fixed on Scott like twin drills. "You killed Jenna Amos," she stated flatly, the words hung between them, heavy with accusation.

Scott's face contorted, a mixture of confusion and shock. "Killed? Jenna?" His voice faltered, as if the ground had slipped away beneath him.

"That's what this is about? I didn't kill anyone."

"Then why run?" Ethan cut in. Now they were rapid-fire, refusing to give him an ounce of breathing room.

"Your store, 'Artifacts'," Rachel continued, undeterred, "we have a warrant to search it. Every nook, every cranny." She let the words dangle in the air, a silent ultimatum.

A sigh escaped Scott's lips, the sound heavy with resignation. He looked down, nodding slowly. "Fine. You'll find some items that... aren't exactly acquired through... traditional channels."

"Stolen goods," Rachel clarified, the corners of her mouth twitching downward in disapproval.

"Yeah," he admitted, eyes still lowered, "but I swear on my life, I didn't lay a hand on Jenna or any other soul."

Rachel stood back up, her movements deliberate, controlled. She jotted something in her notebook, a quick scribble. "We're going to find out, Hawkeye. If you're lying, we'll dig it up." Her tone was as hard as the Texas soil under a summer drought.

"Believe what you want," Scott said, finally meeting her gaze once more, "but killing's not my style."

"Let's hope for your sake you're telling the truth," Rachel countered, pocketing her notebook.

"Where were you last night? The night before?"

Scott Hawkeye leaned back in his chair, his leathery face set in hard lines. "With my parole officer," he said, his tone flat but clear. "In Kerrville, an hour away from this dump."

Ethan's pen paused over his notepad. "Can anyone confirm that?"

"Talk to him. He'll vouch for me." Scott's gaze didn't waver.

Rachel's brain clicked into high gear. Her eyes narrowed as she processed the new information. Scott's alibi, if true, blew holes through her theory like buckshot. She felt the familiar twinge of frustration knotting her stomach. If Scott wasn't their man, who was?

Her voice was a low grumble. "If we find out you're lying, if your alibi doesn't check out..."

"It will," he interjected, his confidence unwavering.

"Then you have nothing to worry about." The promise hung between them, heavy and ominous.

Scott nodded, a flicker of something crossing his otherwise impassive features. Relief? Defiance? Rachel couldn't tell.

But it wasn't fear… the thought of them checking with his parole officer seemed to give him a sense of relief…

Not good.

If he had an alibi, then he couldn't have been at the old farmstead, murdering Sinclair.

The turquoise, the old bumps of scarred skin on the two white women, the burial-style poses of their bodies—what did it all mean?

She felt a flicker of frustration as she pushed away from the table.

Ethan leaned in, speaking in the far more amiable way of his.

She didn't wait to listen. She pushed out the door, scowling as she moved. She was going to check Scott's alibi personally. To see if the parole officer he'd mentioned could really vouch for his whereabouts.