CHAPTER TWO

Gravel crunched under their boots. A hot wind kicked up dust, swirling around the black and white patrol cars that had formed a barricade along the rural stretch of road. The midday sun bore down unforgivingly on the array of forensic vehicles scattered haphazardly across the scene, casting harsh shadows that seemed to amplify the severity of their task.

Rachel's eyes swept the area with the precision of a hawk, missing no detail. Her brow was furrowed, lips set in a hard line as she scanned each officer and technician working the perimeter. There was a weight to her presence, an unspoken gravity that spoke volumes about her mindset: all business, no nonsense.

"Quite the turnout, huh?" Ethan Morgan's voice cut through the drone of activity, light and almost conversational. He squinted against the glare, a half-smile playing on his lips despite the grim circumstances.

Rachel grunted in response, not breaking stride. She didn't bother to look at him; she knew what she'd see—Ethan's easygoing demeanor that somehow never compromised his effectiveness as a detective. It was a balance she had yet to understand. His sandy-hair was messy and he wore a dopey grin on his face, but none of that hid his attractive features. No, Ethan certainly wasn't bad to look at.

"County's been quiet for weeks," Ethan continued, undeterred by her silence. "Guess everyone's itching for a piece of the action."

"Or they're doing their jobs," Rachel replied, not as a rebuke, but just as a matter-of-fact. She stopped abruptly at the edge of the paddock, taking in the flurry of activity beyond the fence.

Ethan chuckled, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his jeans. "Fair enough. But you gotta admit, it beats paperwork." His hand trailed against her arm, his fingers brushing her skin.

She didn't retract.

It was a welcome distraction—a case with her handsome partner at her side.

Dawes would wait.

The sun beat down mercilessly, casting stark shadows over the dusty crime scene. The dry air scratched at them, sand and dirt kicked up by the passage of boots and tires. Rachel adjusted her sunglasses, scanning the area, her eyes sharp, missing nothing.

Not that there was much to see yet. The crime scene itself was blocked by the flurry of forensic techs.

She moved around the side of the fence to the wooden gate, and as she did, a glint of ink caught her attention—a sliver of black and blue just beneath Ethan's rolled-up sleeve. A tattoo was out of character for him, the little she knew of his past speaking to a more conservative upbringing. "That new?" she asked, nodding toward his arm.

Ethan glanced down, as if surprised to see his own skin. A sheepishness crept into his expression. "Ah, yeah," he murmured, tugging the fabric down in a swift motion. "Kind of a spur-of-the-moment thing."

"Never took you for the type," Rachel said, the corner of her mouth twitching upward ever so slightly. It was as close to a smile as she got on the job—Ethan's discomfort amusing her in a way she wouldn't admit out loud.

"Neither did I," he confessed, scratching at the back of his neck, the picture of unease.

"Doesn't seem like your family's brand of rebellion." Her voice was dry, but her eyes stayed on his face, searching for an explanation he didn't owe her.

Ethan shrugged, a wry tilt to his lips. "Guess we all break the mold eventually."

"Your brother's wedding was this weekend, wasn't it?" she asked, her voice low, almost lost amidst the chatter and radio static as they cross the property

"Yep," Ethan replied, his eyes on the horizon, but a hint of warmth seeping into his tone. "I played best man. Big turnout—almost felt like a precinct gathering."

"Speech go over well?" Rachel kept her eyes forward, watching a deputy string up crime scene tape.

Ethan chuckled, a short burst of sound. "I made this joke about how he finally managed to 'arrest' the love of his life. Got some laughs."

Rachel's eyebrow arched. "Funny," she said flatly, though her lips twitched in what might have been the beginning of a smirk. "Good to know you've got a fallback career in stand-up."

"Harsh, Rache," he quipped back, but there was no sting in his words. "You hear anything back from Dawes?"

She blinked. "Did I mention that to you?"

"Mhmm. Why? You regretting it?"

"I wasn't drunk was I?" she said, sarcastically. They both knew this was a rib—she hadn't touched alcohol in a very long time. For someone with so much self discipline, it annoyed her how little control she had if she started drinking. Having bought herself only a moment with her joke, Rachel cleared her throat and added, "Dawes wants to meet up."

"Need backup?"

She hesitated. There was a time, not long ago, when she would have ignored the offer. But Ethan… Ethan had been there for her. Was there for her.

She hesitated, studying his face. And then she smiled, a genuine, authentic, meaningful smile.

"That'd be nice," she said quietly. "I appreciate it. If I go."

"If? You thinking of bailing?"

Rachel just shrugged, and Ethan knew better than to push the point. But he did reach out, patting her in a comforting gesture on the shoulder.

Silence settled between them for a moment, comfortable and familiar, as they continued their approach.

The paddock gate groaned as it closed behind them of its own accord, the rusted hinges protesting. She stepped along the damper portions of the muddy terrain, her boots sinking slightly into the churned earth, remnants of equine residents long gone. Ethan followed, his eyes scanning the perimeter, alert to every shift in the landscape.

They moved under the shadow of an ancient oak, its branches twisting skyward. Beneath it, the scene unfolded—a discordant blend of nature and human intrusion. The ground was littered with evidence markers, each a mute witness to the chaos that had played out.

Cops milled around, their voices a low hum against the backdrop of the crime scene. Forensic techs were hunched over, collecting samples with meticulous care, while photographers documented every inch of disturbed soil, every broken blade of grass.

"Full house," Ethan observed, gesturing toward the gathering of uniforms and lab coats.

"Murder tends to draw a crowd," Rachel replied, her focus unwavering as she took in the grim tableau before them.

A forensics officer glanced up from his crouched position by a cluster of evidence markers. He nodded at Rachel and Ethan, recognition flashing across his features before he returned to his task.

The air was thick with the scent of turned earth and something else, something metallic and unnerving. She edged closer, her senses sharpening.

The grave itself was shallow, the earth around it packed down with deliberate care. Heather's body lay at its center, arms crossed over her chest in a semblance of peaceful repose. But there was nothing peaceful about this death.

"Look at the positioning." Rachel pointed to the way Heather's fingers were interlaced, the angle of her limbs.

"Almost like she's asleep," replied Ethan.

"Neck." Rachel pointed to the obvious laceration across the woman's throat.

Ethan let out a slow, echoing sigh, muttering darkly to himself and shaking his head in disgust.

Rachel crouched low, her gaze fixed on the glint of blue. Turquoise beads, scattered like tears around Heather's body, cut through the dust and dirt of the paddock floor. Not just any beads—each one polished to a deceptive innocence, their presence there inscrutable.

"Turquoise," she muttered.

"Significance?" Ethan asked, peering over her shoulder.

"Symbolic. Native tribes use them for protection, healing." Her hand hovered above the stones, careful not to touch. "But Heather wasn't Native American."

"Then why—"

"Could be a red herring." She straightened, eyes narrowing. "Or part of his fantasy."

Ethan scribbled in his notebook, lips pursed.

Heather lay centered in the makeshift grave, her arms folded with an unsettling precision. The body was positioned in what seemed to be a deliberate imitation of a ceremonial rest. Rachel's stomach tightened at the sight. Whoever did this tried too hard to make it look respectful—but the result was anything but.

"Her legs," Ethan gestured, "folded like that. It's unnatural."

"Intentional," Rachel corrected. "No sign of struggle here. He posed her after death."

"Staging," Ethan whispered. "Why?"

"Every detail's a choice." Rachel's voice was a blade, cutting through the fog of theatrics. "We need to understand the choices."

Rachel squatted beside the body, her fingers hovering a breath away from the turquoise beads spread around Heather's neck. Each bead caught the sunlight, winking with an ancient luster that spoke of sacred mountains and endless skies. The symbols etched into them were deliberate, intricate spirals and crosses, remnants of a culture that the killer had no right to claim.

"Those beads," Ethan said, crouching beside her. "They're not just for show."

"Symbols of protection," Rachel murmured, tracing the air above the designs. "In native belief, they ward off evil spirits."

"Guess the killer had a different kind of spirit in mind," Ethan replied, his voice edged with a bitterness that mirrored Rachel's own thoughts.

"Or he's toying with us," she said, standing up. Her gaze shifted from the beads to the horizon, the uneasy feeling in her gut growing stronger. "Using symbols of peace as part of his violence."

Ethan nodded, his playful demeanor now replaced by a grim understanding of the sick irony at play.

Rachel studied Heather's face. The woman would never have been described as beautiful, but in her sharp cheeks and strong jaw, she had

a certain quiet strength about her that now seemed sadly absent. Her eyes were closed, but Rachel knew the killer had taken the time to position them like that. A final gesture of respect, perhaps, or maybe just one more element of his twisted performance.

Rachel turned away from the grave and walked the perimeter, eyes sweeping the ground. No tracks marred the dusty earth except for Heather's tire treads, weaving a lonely path through the paddock.

"Something's not adding up here," she called out to Ethan, who followed her gaze to the unbroken ground. "No other vehicle came through."

"Could've come on foot," Ethan suggested, but Rachel shook her head.

"Out here? Not likely." She frowned, considering the isolation of the ranch. "He must have been with her. Or... he never left."

"Her husband said she was alone when she drove here." Ethan's brow furrowed.

"Maybe he lied," Rachel countered, "or maybe the killer hitched a ride undetected." She could almost picture it: Heather Sinclair, unsuspecting, sharing space with a predator hidden in plain sight.

"Or..." Ethan's voice trailed off, the possibilities multiplying and twisting like the patterns on the beads.

"Let's get the team to check the area," Rachel commanded, her tone leaving no room for debate. "I want a full sweep—look for tracks off-road, discarded cigarettes, beer cans, anything."

"Got it." Ethan pulled out his radio and began relaying orders to the search teams, his usual easygoing nature set aside for the urgency of the moment.

As the cops fanned out over the surrounding terrain, Rachel stood sentinel over the desecrated site, the weight of her heritage and her role as a Texas Ranger pressing down on her with every beat of her heart. This was more than a crime scene; it was a perverse theater staged by a killer who understood the power of symbols but not their sanctity.

Somewhere out there, amid the whispering grasses and the distant hills, a murderer waited.

Why were there no other tracks?

Her eyes turned to the old, dilapidated structure.

Her frown creased her face, and she moved towards the house.