CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Rachel was glad to be back on the road and on the move once more.

Her hands were no longer slipped into Ethan's but now gripped the steering wheel, while her eyes occasionally darted to her partner, where he sat in the passenger seat. But for the most part, she kept her gaze on the road, looking for their exit.

Three hours they'd driven.

Three hours north to a small town on the border of Texas.

But it was going to be worth it. It had to be.

"Ortiz and Thompson could be our key," she said, her voice cutting through the hum of the road. She wasn't sure if she was trying to convince herself or Ethan.

Morgan nodded, flipping through notes on his tablet. "If they know anything about it, they'll probably want to steer clear. We'll have to take it slow."

"Time isn't on our side, Ethan." Rachel's eyes darted to the rearview mirror then back to the road. "Every minute we lose, the case gets colder."

"Understood. Let's hope they're home."

They'd found the last known address of the childhood friends of their three victims.

Now, Ethan issued a small whistle as he spotted the community where the GPS directed them.

Nestled in the leafy embrace of old oak trees, the gated community appeared regal, shimmering under the bright Texas sun. The sprawling network of well-manicured lawns and pristine houses spoke of a quiet affluence that made Rachel raise an eyebrow.

"High tech programmers really do rake in the big bucks," she muttered, more to herself than to Ethan.

They approached the wrought-iron gates of the affluent gated community, lined with surveillance cameras and lush greenery that spoke of wealth and privacy. Rachel pulled up to the guard shack, her badge at the ready.

They reached the gate, its imposing iron bars guarded by a stern-faced man in a uniform. Rachel rolled down her window as they pulled up, flashing her badge.

"Texas Rangers," she said, squinting through the open booth window. "We need to speak with Lucy Thompson and Miguel Ortiz."

The guard looked at them impassively before shaking his head. "Can't let you through without prior appointment. It's a private community."

Rachel's grip tightened on the steering wheel. "We've got an ongoing investigation. You have two suspects living here."

"Or witnesses," Ethan added.

Still, the gate guard shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest defiantly. "You need to speak to the sheriff for that kind of business." Rachel scowled at his stubborn refusal but knew they couldn't afford to attract too much attention.

Ethan was always the charming one, and she was now wishing she'd allowed him to sit driver's side for this interaction.

She could feel her partner watching her, and she wracked her brain for what he might say.

"Texas Rangers," she repeated a bit helplessly, displaying her identification to the uniformed guard a second time. He sighed and stepped out with a practiced air of authority.

"Yeah, saw it the first time. Sorry, Rangers, I can't let you in without consulting the sheriff," the guard replied, his stance rigid.

"Look, this is critical to an ongoing investigation," Rachel insisted, her scowl deepening at the bureaucratic hurdle.

"Orders are orders. Sheriff's rules."

"Got some fancy donors of his in there, does he?" Ethan asked sweetly.

The guard just frowned.

With an exasperated sigh, Rachel shifted the car into reverse. "Fine," she snapped, masking her frustration.

She pulled down the long drive towards where the intersection veered off from the main road. But as she pulled out of sight, she put the car into park.

Ethan glanced at her.

"Er… we gonna try and ask nicely this time?"

"Keep him busy," Rachel muttered, her eyes flicking to the guard who had just denied them entry.

He was visible just past the row of hedges lining the road, concealing much of the gated property from the view of the scant passing traffic.

"Not exactly."

Ethan sighed. "You're gonna do something, aren't you?"

"We're always doing something. "

"You know what I mean," he muttered. "Something I won't like."

She shrugged. "Think you can chat up that guard dog?"

"Probably."

"Sure?"

Ethan nodded, his face already assuming the easygoing smile they both knew could disarm.

"Watch and learn, Rae," he said with a wink before stepping out of the car. He paused only briefly. "And what are you going to be doing?"

"Watch and learn," she replied, echoing his own theatrical tone.

He rolled his eyes, turned on his heel then sauntered around the side of the hedge, strolling casually towards the guard booth, a hand raised high in cheerful greeting.

"Hey, buddy!" Ethan called out. "Beautiful morning, isn't it? Just had a couple questions about the sheriff—nice guy, from what I hear."

Rachel didn't wait to hear the response. She slid out of the vehicle, her movements silent and precise, still obscured by the hedge. The guard, visible through the scattered leaves, was nodding along to whatever story Ethan spun. Perfect.

She rounded the car, staying low, her boots whispering against the gravel. Ahead, an electrical box jutted from the wall—a foothold. She glanced back; Ethan was gesturing expansively, the guard's attention firmly on him.

Rachel hoisted herself onto the box, muscles coiled, then sprang up. Her palms met the top of the gate. Cold iron bit into her skin. She swung a leg over, teetering for a split second before pulling herself fully to the other side.

Landing on the balls of her feet, she crouched in the shadows. Heart pounding, she darted between manicured hedges and ornate statues that adorned the lavish homes of the community.

A dog barked in the distance, a sound muffled by opulent walls, and Rachel paused, breaths shallow, waiting. And when it was clear no guard hounds were barreling down on her, she moved again. She was in.

Now to find Miguel Ortiz and Lucy Thompson

Her phone in hand, she scrolled, zeroing in on the target. The Ortiz-Thompson residence loomed at the map's center, marked and unmistakable.

Ethan's laughter punctured the quiet, a jovial sound that bought her seconds.

She pocketed the phone, eyes fixed on her destination. The largest house on the block beckoned, its silhouette sprawling and dark against the starlit sky.

The house belonging to their suspects—or witnesses, she reminded herself— was imposing. Two stories of sleek lines and expansive windows punctuated by towering columns. Its concrete facade was unadorned, stark against the neatly manicured lawn that surrounded it. Tall trees framed the property, their shadowy limbs dancing ominously with the wind.

Despite its grandeur, there was an air of desertion surrounding the place. Not a single light shone inside; the mansion stood as silent and still as a mausoleum. She approached the front door, heavy oak with intricate carvings. Tried knocking. Felt the echo vibrate against her knuckles. No response.

Rachel stood before the imposing door, her hand raised in a fist, wondering if they could hear her from every room in such a large house. She knocked again, three sharp raps that echoed slightly in the stillness of the morning. Silence greeted her. She waited, counting heartbeats, then knocked again—harder, more urgent.

No answer.

"Come on," she muttered under her breath, her impatience flaring as she jabbed at the doorbell. The chime was distant, almost mocking in its cheerfulness. Again, nothing stirred within.

She leaned closer to the window beside the entrance, cupping her eyes with her hands to peer through the glass. Her gaze swept over the interior, scanning for signs of life, movement. Anything.

The dining room was a still-life of abandonment. Plates upturned, glasses toppled, silverware splayed across the tablecloth. A meal interrupted, the food left to cool and congeal—the scene reeked of sudden departure, or worse.

Rachel's throat tightened, a low pulse of alarm throbbing in her temples. Something was off, very off.

She shifted her weight, ready to circle the house for another entry, when a glint on the floor caught her eye. A small object lay just inside the threshold, where the ambient light kissed the polished tiles.

It was a bead. Turquoise, unmistakably so.

Her breath hitched. The color, the shape—it was identical to those she had catalogued at the other scenes. Her mind raced; this wasn't coincidence, it was a pattern. A clue that screamed connection.

"Damn it," she whispered, acutely aware of the gravity of her find. This bead was a silent siren, an omen of the darkness they were chasing.

Rachel's fingers brushed over the tools secured at her hip pocket. Her hands settled on the tension wrench, small and unassuming, yet crucial for what she needed to do next. She glanced back at the window, the unsettling stillness of the dining room taunting her from behind the pane.

"Time's not on our side," she muttered under her breath as she extracted the tool.

The lock before her was a mere obstacle, one she had overcome countless times in training and in the field. With a deft insertion of the wrench, she applied subtle pressure, her other hand working to pick the pins within.

Suddenly, the still morning air shattered with distant shouts. Voices, authoritative and urgent, sliced through the quiet suburbia. Rachel's pulse spiked, her movements ceasing momentarily.

Her phone vibrated against her hip. Ethan's message lit up the screen: "Guards on the move. Be quick."

Shit. Had a neighbor spotted her?

"Copy that," she whispered, her thumb flying across the keypad with a response. Pocketing the device, she refocused on the task at hand.

The tension in her shoulders wound tight as the voices drew nearer. Metallic clicks echoed faintly as she maneuvered the pins into place, her mind acutely tuned to the encroaching danger. Sweat beaded at her temple, but her grip remained steady.

"Come on," she urged herself silently, willing the lock to yield.

Another shout cut closer, the sound of boots on pavement now discernible. Time was a thread, fraying rapidly, each second bringing the guards closer to discovering her position.

"Almost..." Rachel breathed, applying a final nudge.

The lock clicked open, a hushed triumph in the face of mounting peril. She pocketed the wrench and eased the door open with a gentle push, slipping inside the darkened threshold. Behind her, the clamor of the oncoming guards crescendoed, their voices laced with adrenaline.

Inside the house, Rachel stood still for a heartbeat, allowing her eyes to adjust to the gloom. The bead on the floor glinted ominously.

Rachel darted inside away from the window as the window sill whispered shut behind her, falling on slick grooves. Her pulse hammered in her ears, a counterpoint to the distant shouts of the guards. She scanned the entryway, cataloging details: the opulent chandelier overhead, a scattering of glossy magazines on a mahogany table, an eerie stillness that hung in the air like fog.

Immediately her nose picked up the thick, moldering smell of some foulness inside the house, like mix of mold and old compost from a garden. It immediately set her senses on edge and Rachel found her hands tensing, readying herself for whatever she may find.

She moved, instinct guiding her through the lavish foyer. In the dim light, she took in the photos adorning the walls, faces frozen in time—a breadcrumb trail leading deeper into the house. Her training melded with the adrenaline coursing through her veins, each step measured and silent.

The plush carpet muffled her footsteps as she passed an ornate staircase, her gaze flickering over the intricate patterns woven into the fabric. The scent of decay lingered, a pungent mix of that now took on highlights of dry spices…

She glanced along the dinner table.

A thick layer of dust coated the polished mahogany. An array of fine china plates lay still set, some overturned, their untouched contents now a shriveled and desiccated memory of a meal. She peered closer at the mold-speckled remnants; whatever the dish was, it had been left uneaten for weeks, possibly months. The realization sent a chill down her spine.

Rachel knew how to analyze the remnants of carcasses on a hunt. Sometimes, to catch a predator, a hunter had to find its meal and decide how long ago it had left it. But this… she wasn't sure she'd seen anything like this.

The chairs were haphazard, one tipped over onto the floor. A glass laid shattered, its pieces glittering in the dim light. Multiple sets of silverware were spread in disarray across the tablecloth, which was stained with patches of darkened wine and crusted food.

Rachel's gaze fell upon a large roast at the center of the table. It was dried up and shriveled, a hollow carcass of what it once was—a symbol of celebration now a grim centerpiece to an abandoned feast. Time had done its work on this tableau, but Rachel noted something more chilling, the smell.

The scent hit her: a stale mix of rotting food and an underlying tang of something metallic. She stepped back reflexively, her hand covering her nose and mouth. Rachel's mind raced, combining these pieces into a stark portrait: this wasn't just an abandoned dinner—it was an entire life abandoned in haste.

Next to the plate, a glass tipped over on its side, a dried-out stain marking its last serving. Leftovers adhered in clumps to porcelain plates, remnants of vegetables starting to wilt. The stench was rancid, meat decomposing under the weight of time.

Rachel's eyes swept over it all—the abandoned meal, the wasted food. It was as if one moment they were here and the next—poof. Vanished.

She pushed away from the table and continued deeper into the house. The signs of life abruptly ending were disconcerting. The turquoise bead gleamed from where she'd left it by the door—a chilling omen in this spectacle of abandonment.

She felt a sudden chill as she moved towards what looked like an office space—papers scattered on Miguel's desk, computer still humming softly as if waiting for his return. Her senses prickled with discomfort at this eerie tableau—the quiet too loud, the solitude too heavy.

Then, the silence interrupted.

A floorboard creaked upstairs, halting her in mid-stride. Rachel's hand went to the sidearm holstered at her waist. She was not alone.