CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Gravel crunched under Rachel's boots as she approached the solitary house. A rusty chain-link fence, topped with barbed wire, attempted to ward off uninvited guests. She scanned the perimeter; "No Trespassing" signs clung to the fence at intervals, their red letters faded but legible against the sun-bleached background.

"Mr. Kelley?" Her voice cut through the stillness, assertive, carrying across the yard. She rapped sharply on the door, her knuckles making a solid thud against the weathered wood.

No answer.

She glanced at her phone, studying the frowning face of the parole officer staring back at her.

Mark Kelley.

Scott Hawkeye's parole officer and now his alibi.

She looked up again, eyes narrowed. She'd driven nearly an hour on winding, desert roads.

If Hawkeye had been all the way out here, there was no way he could've killed anyone back in the valley.

"Kelley?" she called, louder. "Ranger Blackwood!"

She knocked on the door again.

The silence of the Texan desert swallowed her words, leaving nothing but a hollow echo. Squinting under her hat at the moon, she circled the property, footsteps crunching gravel underfoot. The house was as quiet as the grave.

She approached one of the windows, peering through the dust-coated glass into a sparsely furnished room. A quiet sigh left her lips; it looked like Kelley wasn't home.

As she began to turn away, something flickered in her peripheral vision. She jerked back to the window, squinting into the dim interior. The flicker came again—a television.

She knocked on the window.

"Mr. Kelley!" she called, louder.

The TV went suddenly silent.

A figure moved in the gloom, emerging from the back of the room—a man, big and grizzled. He trod heavily, like a bear roused from its slumber. When he reached the window, he peered out at Rachel, squinting. His eyes widened in recognition as he took in Rachel's uniform.

He scowled at her, and she tried to channel her inner Ethan and force a quick smile.

He didn't return it, but instead jammed his finger towards the front of the house.

She nodded.

He moved swiftly then, disappearing from sight. Moments later, the front door creaked open, and Mark Kelley stood framed in the doorway.

"Ranger Blackwood?" he asked warily. His voice was rough, as if dragged over gravel. "You the one who called ahead?"

Rachel nodded curtly and showed her badge again up close this time. "Yes. I need to ask you some questions about Scott Hawkeye."

Recognition flickered in Kelley's eyes, but his expression remained inscrutable.

Wafting from inside, the house smelled faintly of cigarettes and stale beer.

The man's frown eased into a contemplative squint as he eyed the badge. Lines of skepticism folded into his forehead, but he stepped back an inch, granting her a sliver more space.

"Blackwood, huh?" His voice held a note of recognition, unexpected and unsettling. "Your mother, was she on the reservation?"

A flicker of surprise crossed Rachel's face, quickly masked. She tilted her head slightly, not used to personal inquiries on the job.

"Yes," she replied curtly, maintaining eye contact. "But that's not why I'm here."

His nod was almost imperceptible, a silent acknowledgment.

"You been here a long time?" she guessed.

"Thirty years," he replied. "And in the creek ten years before that."

The parole officer's gaze lingered on Rachel a moment longer, then he stepped aside, the door creaking wider. "Come in," he grunted, his voice losing some of its edge.

Rachel's boots thudded against the bare floor as she crossed the threshold. She surveyed the room—sparse, functional, a life stripped down to essentials. The air was still, heavy with silence, save for the faint ticking of an old clock on the wall.

"Take a seat," he gestured towards a wooden table that bore the scars of use and age. Rachel nodded, pulling out a chair, its legs scraping against the floorboards.

"Decaf?" he offered, already moving towards the kitchenette.

"Sure," Rachel replied, her voice steady despite the unease that knotted her stomach. She watched him fill two mugs, his movements efficient, practiced.

He returned, setting one mug before her. The steam curled up, carrying a hint of bitterness. Rachel wrapped her hands around the warmth, brought the cup to her lips, and took a cautious sip. Across from her, the parole officer downed his coffee in quick, assured gulps.

"Thanks," she said, placing the mug back on the table. Her eyes met his, searching, gauging.

Rachel leaned forward, her gaze fixed on the man across from her.

"You're Scott's alibi. Last couple of nights."

"What did he do?"

"We're not sure yet. Maybe nothing. Maybe murder."

A long sigh. "Murder? Really?"

She nodded. "Was he with you?"

"Last night?"

"And the night before."

"Yeah. Yeah, he was here." He answered with an almost apologetic shrug. "What time frame?"

"Late. Very late.

He shrugged again, the motion burrowing his broad shoulders deeper into his plaid shirt. "Couldn't tell ya. He usually leaves at midnight. That's when he checks in."

Rachel digested this, her gaze steady on the parole officer. "Midnight?" she echoed, her tone neutral. "Doesn't that seem a bit late for a meeting?"

"Scott's an odd one," he said, dismissing her query with a wave of his hand. "Always preferred the night. Said it helped him stay clear of trouble."

She contemplated this new information, piecing it together in her meticulously ordered mind.

"Did Scott mention Jenna Amos or Heather Sinclair to you? Ever?" she asked, her gaze fixed on Kelley.

"Didn't need to," he said after a pause that seemed to stretch out for miles. "I knew ‘em. Like I said, I'm an old timer around here. Scott used to hang around with them when they were kids. They were part of his old crowd."

"Why didn't he tell us this?" Rachel muttered more to herself than him.

The old man shrugged once again, a gesture Rachel was beginning to associate with him rather than a nonchalant dismissal of her question.

"He didn't say anything about them lately?"

"Nah," Kelley shook his head, looking slightly puzzled now. "Haven't heard those names in years."

Rachel took a final sip of her coffee, grimacing at the bitter aftertaste. Her mind was whirling with thoughts and possibilities that she needed to sort through.

"What else can you tell me about Jenna and Heather?"

The parole officer leaned back in his chair, the wood groaning under his weight. He steepled his fingers, eyes narrowing. "Knew 'em," he said curtly. "Close, once upon a time."

"Close how?" Rachel pressed.

"Teenagers." He shrugged. "Did what teenagers do. Made trouble together. Vandalism was their art of choice."

"Both girls?" Rachel picked up her mug again, the decaf long forgotten.

"Both," he confirmed, his eyes not leaving hers. "Scott had a way with people. Still does, I reckon."

Rachel absorbed the information, her brain ticking like the clock on the wall.

"Any recent contact?" she asked, her tone even.

The parole officer's face remained impassive. "Not that I've seen. But Scott's a private sort. Always was."

A flicker of hesitation shadowed Rachel's face. She leaned in, the chair creaking under her shift of weight. "His relationship with the victims," she said, voice steady but eyes betraying a sliver of doubt. "Scott was upfront about everything, except that. But you're saying he was here late the last two nights? You vouch for his alibi last night?"

The parole officer's confidence seemed to swell as he matched her posture, leaning forward with an air of certainty. His hands clasped together, a fortress of assurance. "Absolutely," he said, the timbre of his voice resonating slightly off the walls. "I was with him until midnight. We met up in town. Didn't part ways till one in the morning."

"Like I said, those hours are... unconventional, for a meeting." Her observation hung between them, an unspoken question.

"And like I said, he's a long-standing acquaintance." He waved it off, dismissive yet firm. "We operate on our own schedule."

Rachel's gaze sharpened, the doubt gnawing at her. "You're certain about those times?" she pressed, voice low, a hammer seeking a crack.

"Like I said, midnight," he reiterated.

The mountain of a man shrugged those massive shoulders again.

"So these three, they hung out what… ten years ago?"

"Almost fifteen."

"And did they have anyone else in their posse?"

"Mhmm. Two others."

He hesitated, then rattled off two names. "Miguel Ortiz and Lucy Thompson," he said.

"Huh. Know anything about those two?"

"Not really. Pretty sure they moved out of town years ago."

The shrill ring of Rachel's phone cut him off.

The names hung in the air like smoke. "Someone else in town might know about them," he offered, his gaze drifting as he seemed to dig into decades-old memories.

Rachel's phone buzzed, slicing through the silence. A name flashed on the screen – Ethan. She excused herself and stepped outside, her boots crunching on the gravel.

"Talk to me," she commanded, her voice hitching slightly into the night air.

"Ethan here. We've got a situation. Scott Hawkeye," he relayed hastily, his tone grave. "He's dead."

Rachel froze, the words echoing in her head. "What happened?" Her voice was cold steel, snapping out like a drawn knife before she could temper her question.

"His police transport was torched on the move. We're setting up a perimeter now," Ethan informed her, his voice a low rumble on the line. "We'll need you here ASAP."

Her hand tightened around the phone, its cool surface pressing against her palm. Scott dead. The words seemed surreal, a stark contrast to the tranquil desert landscape that encased her.

"I'm on my way," she said finally, snapping out of her daze.

"Rachel," Ethan's voice softened for a moment, his concern seeping through.

"I've got it, Ethan." Determination crept back into her voice as she ended the call.

She turned back to face parole officer's house but he was already standing in the doorway, watching her with a question in his eyes.

"Scott Hawkeye is dead," she announced, her voice ringing out clear as a bell in the silent desert night.

The parole officer blinked at her words, disbelief.

"Dead?" he repeated, his voice catching slightly. The shock was clear in his eyes. "How?"

She took a step back. "It sounds like the police vehicle transporting him was firebombed. But we'll need to confirm the details."

He looked at her for a moment longer, then with a quick nod, he retreated into the house, leaving her alone on the porch.

Rachel's mind raced as she strode back to her car, her boots crunching against the coarse gravel spread out beneath her. The sky above her was a blanket of darkness, only interrupted by the far-off glimmers of stars that dared to shine. Scott Hawkeye was dead. That changed everything.

She climbed back into her car, started it up and adjusted the rear-view mirror. Her fingers lingered over the keys. She squinted at her own reflection, the sharp lines of her face drawn taut in deep thought beneath the dim light.

The dashboard clock blinked at her — 12:13 AM — mocking reality and its uncanny sense of timing. Her grip tightened around the steering wheel as she processed what had just happened. Scott Hawkeye, a suspect turned victim, firebombed while under police protection.

Rachel thought of the two dead women once more. There had been nothing respectful or reverent in the way Scott Hawkeye had died, and if this was the same killer, that had to mean something. But what?

With a final look at the parole officer's unassuming house, she pulled away into the Texas night.