CHAPTER TWENTY

Gravel crunched underfoot as Rachel Blackwood and Ethan Morgan closed the distance to the mansion's imposing front door. The estate loomed ahead, its grandeur stark against the Texas sky, yet uninviting in its silence.

The house itself was immaculate, the garden doubly so. Like always, Rachel liked to examine a creature's habitat before encountering the creature itself. And in this case, the initial impression was clear: Bethany Meyers had an eye for detail.

Even in the dim light, the mansion's exterior was a testament to precision. The Victorian architecture hinted at a bygone era, yet its upkeep suggested a certain measure of timeless vigilance. The white marble fa?ade gleamed dully under the faint glow of scattered street lamps, and each embellished window displayed meticulously coifed curtains.

The garden was equally pristine, manicured with an artistic flourish that whispered art over nature. Red roses were pruned to near-perfection, their stark crimson blossom conspicuously against the dark greens of neatly trimmed hedges. A cobblestone path curved through the front yard, leading to a large antique fountain that centered the garden with its regal presence.

But what held Rachel's attention most was not the resplendent aesthetics or the calculated symmetry of it all. No, what struck her was the apparent solitude. The mansion and its garden were wrapped in an uninviting stillness, a fortress-like isolation that seemed to ward off any unwelcome trespassers.

Suddenly, a sharp movement caught her eye. Rachel's hand went to her hip, and she whirled around.

A large bird emerged from behind a trimmed hedge, a bird wearing a small, blinking black collar around its long neck.

"Is that… a peacock?" she whispered, relaxing.

Ethan chuckled. "Sure as hell is," he responded, shaking his head in disbelief. "This place is more like a zoo than a residence." He gestured to the statue of a lizard lazily sunning itself atop one of the hedges.

Rachel let out a small snort of laughter before turning her attention back to the house. The peacock, seemingly startled by their presence, let out an indignant squawk before strutting away, its colorful tail feathers shimmering under the dim streetlights.

Having reached the front door—a tall mahogany frame with a brass knocker shaped like a lion's head—Rachel rapped her knuckles against it, listening to the echo resound within the house.

And they waited.

A rustling sound came as the green-eyed peacock strutted across the cobblestone path surrounding the small, ornamental fountain, its plumage catching faint moonlight and casting iridescent colors that danced along with its unhurried steps. Rachel watched as it disappeared into a grove of olive trees.

Rachel shook off her observations, sternly reminding herself of their purpose there. She glanced at Ethan, whose eyes reflected a similar morose curiosity. She stole a quick glance back at the mansion and steeled herself for the confrontation ahead.

Rachel's hand lifted once more, this time knuckles straining. She rapped sharply on the polished wood. Her stance was relaxed but alert, eyes scanning the high windows for any sign of movement. Beside her, Ethan shifted his weight from one foot to the other, a quiet anticipation hanging between them.

Time stretched thin as they waited. The wind whispered through the trees, the only response to Rachel's knock. She held her position, patience etched into the lines of her face, a stillness that belied the keen sharpness lurking in her gaze.

"Texas Ranger," Rachel declared again, her voice cutting through the stillness. She let the badge clipped to her belt glint in the stray beam of moonlight, her authority needing no further embellishment.

The door's hinges groaned, a slow creak that seemed to resonate with the tension in the air. A sliver of space widened, and there she was—Bethany Meyers. Eyes wide, darting. A tremor in her fingers as they gripped the edge of the door like a lifeline.

The woman had gaunt features, and she wore a bright, pink bathrobe. Her wizened skin whispered her age, and the curlers in her thinning, silver hair were just as pink as her robe. She pulled her robe tightly around herself, shooting Ethan a reprimanding glare as if he'd been trying to sneak a peak at the shriveled goods.

But Ethan had already been staring at his feet, clearing his throat uncomfortably.

"Ms. Meyers?" Rachel's gaze locked onto those nervous eyes, reading the wordless story they told.

"Who are you?"

"Rangers," Ethan said.

"I heard," she replied.

"Er… that's who we are," Ethan said slowly. "May we speak inside?" His words were clear, tinged with a warmth that seemed to reach out through the cool air between them.

Rachel observed Bethany's stance, the rigid way she held herself—like a deer aware it was in a hunter's sights.

"Inside?" Bethany echoed, her voice threading through the small opening of the door, laced with caution. She clutched the chain lock like a talisman, the metal glinting weakly. "Not appropriate, is it?"

Ethan blinked. "I, er… ma'am, we're investigating a crime."

"Yes… yes, so what about all that... that mess over there? What's happening?"

Rachel took in the rapid rise and fall of Bethany's chest, her eyes flickering past Rachel to the scene beyond. "I'm here about something else, Ms. Meyers," Rachel said, keeping her tone level. "It's important."

"Important?" The word hovered, filled with Bethany's rising curiosity. "I saw police cars earlier. Is everyone okay? Was someone hurt?"

"Your concern is noted," Rachel replied, maintaining eye contact, her expression softened by understanding. "Right now, I need your help with an ongoing investigation. May we come in?"

Bethany's grip on the door faltered, a silent struggle playing across her face as she weighed her fear against her need for answers. Her eyes, wide and searching, fixed on Rachel once more, seeking reassurance in the steady gaze of the ranger before her.

"Ms. Meyers," Rachel cut in, her voice slicing through the barrage of questions with practiced precision. "We're not here about today's incident. We need to discuss what you witnessed three weeks ago."

Bethany's breath hitched, her barrage silenced by the shift in focus. The chain rattled faintly as she drew a sharp breath, the memory surfacing with visible effort.

"Three weeks?" Her voice wavered, her memory seeming to recede behind a veil of confusion and fear.

"Exactly," Rachel affirmed, giving an imperceptible nod. "It's imperative we talk about that day."

In the tense silence that followed, Ethan's gaze wandered, landing on a small crucifix perched atop a cluttered entryway table. Its presence was unassuming yet deliberate amongst the keys and mail.

"Nice crucifix," Ethan remarked casually, the words flowing naturally as he leaned slightly to examine the artifact. "My mother has one just like it. She always says it keeps her grounded."

Bethany glanced at the crucifix, then back at Ethan, a thread of connection winding its way through her uncertainty. "Your mother?" she echoed, the edge in her voice softening fractionally.

"Yeah," Ethan smiled, the gesture reaching his eyes. "Faith was a big part of our lives growing up. It's something that... brings us together, especially during tough times."

The subtle shift in Bethany's demeanor was almost imperceptible, but to a trained observer like Rachel, it spoke volumes. Trust, or the beginning of it, flickered in Bethany's eyes, the shared understanding of faith acting as a bridge over troubled waters.

The chain clinked, metal sliding through metal, and the door opened wider. Bethany Meyers' hand trembled as she pulled it away, her cautious gaze flickering between Rachel and Ethan. She stepped back, granting them passage into the dimly lit foyer.

"Thank you," Ethan said with a nod, his voice a gentle hum in the tense air. He crossed the threshold first, his posture relaxed yet observant.

Rachel followed, her boots silent on the polished wood. Her eyes swept the interior, cataloging exits, windows, the subtle signs of life within the mansion's walls. Bethany hovered by the door, biting her lip, her fingers twitching like she might at any moment snap the security chain back into place.

"Mrs. Meyers," Rachel began, her tone level but carrying an undercurrent of urgency. "We need to discuss what happened here three weeks ago. The gate guards told us you called them about an incident. Do you remember that? Anything you can tell us about that day could be crucial."

Bethony's eyes darted to Rachel's badge, then to her steady gaze. The woman drew in a deep breath, her chest rising and falling with the weight of recollection.

"Three weeks..." Bethany murmured, looking past them to some unseen memory. "It was just an ordinary day until..." She trailed off, lost for a moment in the past.

"Take your time," Rachel encouraged, her voice a blend of steel and velvet. She needed details, facts, but she knew the importance of patience in drawing them out.

Bethany nodded, exhaling slowly as she gathered her thoughts, her nerves, her resolve. "I was working from home that day," she started, her voice gaining strength as she spoke. "There was nothing unusual until..."

Rachel leaned in, every sense attuned to the woman's words.

Bethany's eyes flicked to the window, then back to Rachel. "The truck," she said, the words tumbling out with newfound clarity and a verbosity that reminded Rachel of a cheesy romance novel. "A red Ford F-150. Rust eating away at its wheel wells, paint faded like an old barn."

"You know trucks?" Ethan said, surprised.

She cackled as if delighted by this response, perhaps accustomed to it, like a well-worn, favorite parlor trick. "My son's a mechanic."

Rachel stepped closer, her body language open, encouraging. "Go on."

"Well, he's single. Good-for-nothing layabout, though. Quit that job as a mechanic. He's a wastrel."

"Er, not your son, ma'am. The truck."

"Ha. Never seen it before, and I know most of the cars around here." Bethany twisted a ring around her finger, a nervous tick. "It idled at the curb, engine grumbling. And then..." She paused, swallowed hard.

"Then what, Mrs. Meyers?" Rachel prompted, her voice gentle but insistent.

"Shouting," Bethany hissed, as if the word itself was distasteful. "Loud, violent—scared me half to death. I peeked through the blinds just in time to see this... this man, storming up to that nice couple's place."

"Anything about the man? What he looked like?"

"Big," Bethany said. "Bulky jacket, even though it wasn't cold. Hat pulled down low. But it was the truck that stuck with me."

Rachel's pulse quickened. A vehicle nobody recognized, a heated confrontation—it fit. It was a lead. "The plate, did you happen to get a look at the license plate?"

Bethany nodded, her gaze snapping into focus. "Yes. I have a thing for numbers. They stick up here." She tapped her temple.

"Can you remember it now?" Rachel asked, the urgency in her voice barely contained.

Bethany rattled it off without hesitation.

Rachel repeated, etching it into her memory. Her heart thrummed with progress. This was good—no, this was gold.

"Thank you, Bethany. That's incredibly helpful," Rachel said, her gratitude genuine.

Bethany's eyes flickered with a semblance of pride. "I gave them the plate number that same day. To the security team." Her voice cracked, the veil of composure slipping. "They patted my head, told me they'd handle it. Like I was some hysterical child seeing bogeymen."

Rachel watched the frustration play across Bethany's face, the dismissive treatment she'd endured igniting a flinty anger in the ranger's own belly. The security team had overlooked a crucial piece of evidence, and Rachel's disdain for their negligence bled through her otherwise impassive facade.

"Seems they were more interested in quieting me down than following up." Bethany's hands clenched into fists, the memory of being brushed off still raw.

"Your vigilance is what matters now," Rachel said, her tone sharpening with a resolve that mirrored the steel in her spine. "You've given us something actionable. That number could lead us straight to him."

Gratitude mingled with urgency in Rachel's voice as she leaned closer, bridging the gap that suspicion and protocol had set between them. "Bethany, you may have just cracked this case wide open."

Bethany's shoulders relaxed, a weight seeming to lift from her with Rachel's words of validation, and she nodded.

"Let's hope it's not too late," Bethany murmured, a shadow of concern passing over her features.

"Every second counts," Rachel acknowledged, her stance poised and ready for action. "And thanks to you, we're one step closer."

Rachel pivoted on her heel, a silent signal to Ethan. Without a word exchanged, they moved in tandem through the grand foyer, their boots echoing crisply against the marble floor. The air was thick with anticipation.

Outside, dusk smeared the horizon with streaks of crimson and mauve, the dying light painting the world a murderous shade that made Rachel's stomach turn. Her hand found the door handle of their unmarked car, and she glanced at Ethan, seeing her own focus mirrored in his eyes.

"Got the plate number?" he asked, voice low but clear.

"You did," she replied without looking. "In that little notebook of yours."

He smirked. "Aww, you really do need me."

"Don't let it get to your head. You're basically my secretary."

"Oof."

"Dispatch," Rachel's fingers danced over the radio, "this is Blackwood. Requesting a run on Texas plates—"

Ethan read off the sequence he'd jotted in his notebook, each digit punctuated by a shared breath held between them.

"Standby," the dispatcher's voice crackled over the line. They waited, the silence in the car stretching taut as a bowstring.

"Registered to a Charles Withersnow," the dispatcher finally returned, the name slicing through the static like a bullet.

"History?" Ethan's question hung in the charged space.

"Ex-con," the dispatcher replied. "Armed robbery. Two arrests. One prison sentence."

"How long?"

"Three months. Oh," the dispatcher said. "He just got out."

"When?" Rachel asked, eager.

"Let me check…" The voice trailed off. "Three weeks ago."

Ethan and Rachel shared a significant glance. Three weeks… right when the murders started.