CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Rachel paused, his pulse ticking in her temple. The upstairs bedroom's closet door loomed before her, the bloody handprint standing out like a trail sign marking the way.

She shot a glance towards the bathroom at her side and again felt as if she'd been gut-punched—chaos splattered across white tiles. Crimson smears painted the bathroom mirror, droplets spattered like gruesome rain against porcelain.

Rachel approached cautiously, her eyes and ears alert, her hand hovered over her holster, ready for what might come. And with a careful fingertip, she pulled the door open.

Rachel's breath hitched. Before her, a shrine of Native American memorabilia sprawled in the closet's dimness, each artifact meticulously placed as if honoring ancient traditions. Beadwork glinted. Feathers hung motionless in the stagnant air.

She stared at the scene. Some of the items she recognized by their Native names: a kachina doll with faded paint and threadbare feathers, a wampum belt woven with intricate patterns the vibrant hues of sunrise.

Her aunt Sarah had introduced her to their heritage when she was just a child, living on the reservation. The memory swirled to life; Sarah's weathered hands guiding hers, teaching her the meticulous art of weaving beads onto leather strips, the sharp scent of woodsmoke wafting from the nearby firepit, the distant echo of laughter from the other children playing outside their small home. It was a hard life but a simple one, steeped in tradition and community.

There were more items she didn't recognize here, symbols from other tribes maybe. Rachel reached out and gently traced her fingers over an obsidian knife lying discarded on a sandstone slab. A shiver ran down her spine; was this the weapon responsible for painting the grisly scene in the bathroom?

Rachel knelt, her gaze sweeping over the shrine. The dim light threw shadows across the artifacts, deepening the grooves and crevices of carved bone and wood. She leaned closer, eyes narrowing, pulse quickening. Crimson stains blotted the floorboards—fresh blood amidst the dust.

"Damn," she breathed.

Her fingers hovered above the dark droplets, not touching. Memories of Aunt Sarah receded, replaced by the cold clarity of the present.

And that's when the stench struck her.

A powerful, fetid odor was swirling into the bedroom as if attempting to flee the closet. It was more concentrated, more rotten than the abandoned dinner below. Perhaps the close confines of the closet, the damp and the heat, had created a fouler decay in whatever was giving off that stench.

A small tapestry hung from the clothing hanger, blocking her view of what lay behind .

And suddenly, Rachel felt a chill along her spine. She reached out with tentative fingers and swept past frayed edges of the Native American tapestries, the crimson spray casting them in a sinister light. She held her breath, her skin electric with tension.

And there, on the ground, deep in the closet—further back than a closet should've gone—she spotted them.

Sandstone slabs, cold and silent sentinels, cradled death within their embrace. Two bodies, life snuffed out, sprawled before her. One female, one male. Hundreds of wounds carved into flesh spoke of overkill, rage... madness. Blood had pooled, black in the dim light, seeping into the porous rock beneath.

Her throat tightened, but Rachel's resolve stayed ironclad. She stepped closer, her boots sticking slightly to the floor, the coppery scent of blood filling her nostrils. The marks were chaotic, frenzied—each an exclamation of violence that had echoed through these walls.

"Control, breathe," she reminded herself, her calm a shield against the horror.

"Blackwood to Morgan," she said, keying her radio with a gloved hand. Her voice betrayed none of the chaos churning inside her. "Ethan, you need to see this. Double homicide. It's bad—very bad. Get here fast."

"Copy that, on my way," Ethan's voice crackled through, steady and reliable.

"Be careful," she added, eyes never leaving the grotesque tableau. "This is a whole new level of sick."

"Roger that," he replied.

The radio clicked off. Rachel's gaze lingered on the bodies.

Her eyes flicked from one corpse to the other, her mind grappling with the incongruence. The woman—clad in traditional Native garb, vibrant and now stained—lay foreign against the backdrop of Lucy Thompson's suburban life. It didn't add up. The flowing dress, the intricate beadwork; none of it tallied with the software developer Rachel had been looking for.

"Lucy?" Her whisper was a ghost in the stillness, disbelief etching her voice.

The man sprawled beside the woman commanded her attention next. Broad-shouldered, dark-haired, his features were familiar but distorted by death, and by the blood and stab wounds. Miguel, she surmised, recognition dawning on her like a slow, cold sunrise: Lucy's husband.

"Damn it," Rachel muttered, the weight of their deaths pressing down on her.

Flaps of skin hung loosely where hair met forehead, an act of savagery masquerading as scalping. It was wrong, all wrong.

"Who are you?" she murmured to the silent room, the question aimed at the unseen monster who had done this.

Her hand was steady as she drew her camera from its holster. The shutter clicked, methodical and unflinching, as she captured every horror in digital amber. Blood patterns on the wall, the lay of limbs, the dead eyes staring at nothing—they were all now evidence, pixels to be analyzed, truths to be unearthed.

"Ranger Blackwood to Morgan," she said into her radio. "What's ETA on CSI?"

"Copy that, Blackwood. Five minutes. You doing okay?"

"Fine," she replied curtly, her voice betraying none of the roiling emotions within. There was no room for weakness, not in the face of such a task.

"Backup's en route," Morgan's voice crackled with static.

"Roger that." She pocketed the radio and continued her work, each photo a potential clue that could lead to a break in the case—or a dead end.

The clock ticked in her mind, time slipping away as she documented the nightmare. With each passing second, Rachel knew the killer was out there, moving further from her grasp.

The distant murmur of voices crept up the staircase. Rachel paused, her finger hovering above the camera button. Footsteps, a symphony of impending discovery, reverberated through the house's bones. She stilled, listening, dread curling in her gut.

"Check upstairs," a muffled command floated toward her from below.

The community guards had finally shown up.

About a month too late by the look of things. Likely, the denizens of these houses were private. And both the victims were remote workers who ran their own software development freelancing service. No one had known they were missing.

A month, though?

A month.

No mail. She hadn't seen any piled mail on the front stoop. Had someone been taking it?

The killer?

With a practiced eye, Rachel scanned the macabre tableau before her. Click. The camera whirred, trapping the scene behind its lens. She pocketed the device and edged toward the doorway, movements whisper-quiet.

"Anybody there?" A shadow loomed at the bottom of the stairwell. Flashlights danced on the walls, creeping closer with each heartbeat.

She scowled. Too late.

They were far, far too late.