CHAPTER SEVEN

The sun beat down on the cluster of weathered trailers, casting long shadows across the gravel. Rachel's boots crunched underneath her as she approached Jenna Amos' home, Ethan a silent shadow at her side.

She'd lived in a trailer more than once while being raised by her aunt. It had never been a particularly comfortable home, but it had been hers. This one was no different. An old Chevy truck sat in the driveway, its wheels sunk into the gravel. A ‘Beware of Dog' sign hung on the fence, though Rachel couldn't see any dogs.

She knocked on the door, the sound echoing through the quiet trailer park.

"You check up on her emergency contacts?" Rachel asked towards where Ethan was reading something on his phone.

"No real family to speak of," he said, his voice holding a pained note. "She lives with her boyfriend… Speaking of…" Ethan said, pointing.

Through a grimy window, Rachel glimpsed the boyfriend—sprawled on the couch, unconscious to the world with a fortress of amber bottles guarding his slumber.

Rachel rapped sharply on the door, three times. The sound echoed, cutting through the buzz of cicadas. Inside, the man jolted awake, bleary eyes widening as he registered the intrusion. He scrambled, sending a bottle crashing to the floor, liquid splashing over stained carpet.

"Rangers," she called out, voice carrying authority and an edge of impatience.

She spotted the man as he ducked, wincing. Just as quickly, he spotted them peering through the window.

His lips flapped in a curse too faint to hear, trying to rise to his feet while simultaneously tugging on some pants. He took a couple of steps and tumbled, striking his chin against the ground. But a few seconds later, he was on his feet again.

"Go away!" he shouted. "I already paid those taxes."

"We're Texas Rangers, sir," Ethan called back, always able to maintain decorum even with the most unusual suspects.

Another round of low muttering followed, then a few footsteps.

The door creaked open, revealing the boyfriend. His hair was a tousled mess, and his face was unshaven. Eyes darted from Rachel to Ethan, the smell of stale alcohol wafting from him like a noxious cloud.

"Can I help you?" he mumbled, clearly wrestling with the remnants of his inebriation.

"Ranger Blackwood. This is Ranger Morgan. We need to talk about Jenna Amos." Rachel stood firm, her gaze never wavering from his.

The boyfriend swallowed, the Adam's apple in his thin neck bobbing.

"Can this wait?"

"I'm afraid not."

The man blinked blearily and winced at the bright daylight. "I've been a bit sick. Come back tomorrow."

Rachel eyed the fallen bottles of booze and said, "We can do this here or we can do it at the station, but it's happening now. So what'll it be?"

Again, he looked on the verge of refusing, wincing at Rachel's words and awkwardly pawing at his ears. "Alright," he sighed, stepping aside with reluctance written all over his haggard face.

Rachel stepped into the cluttered living space, a narrow path winding through the chaos. Ethan hovered by the door, eyes sweeping the scene.

"Where's Jenna?" Rachel's words cut through the stale air, sharp and clear.

The presumed boyfriend shifted, his gaze skittering away. "Haven't seen her. She takes off sometimes."

"Jenna often go missing for days on end with no word, Miles?" Ethan's voice was steady. "Miles?"

The boyfriend, Miles, glanced at him. "Do I know you?"

"No, but we're going to talk anyway. Now focus, we're here about Jenna. When was the last time you saw her?"

"I don't know, man. Jenna's got her ways. Gets all prissy and drives off. Sometimes it takes a day or two," he muttered with a shrug, scratching at a day-old stubble. "But she always comes back."

Rachel's eyes locked onto something unexpected – a flash of turquoise circling his wrist. An incongruous adornment against the grim backdrop.

"Nice bracelet," she commented, nodding towards the piece of jewelry.

He glanced down, as if noticing it for the first time. "Oh, this? Jenna gave it to me."

"Special occasion?" Her question hung in the air, pointed.

"What? Nah. I mean, it was just... because." His response arrived after a pause, his ponderous words suddenly losing their edge as he forced a nonchalant tilt of his head. It was conversational, casual… too casual.

"Interesting choice. Turquoise, right?"

"I guess."

Rachel leaned in, her shadow falling over the coffee-stained table that separated them. "When exactly was the last time you saw Jenna?" she pressed, voice steady.

"Look, I told ya, I don't keep a diary," he snapped back, irritation creeping into his slurred words. His eyes darted around the room, avoiding her piercing gaze.

"Easy, we're just talking here," Rachel said, though her stance remained unyielding. She observed him closely, searching for any telltale sign of deceit—a twitch, a too-quick denial, anything.

"Talk then," he retorted, folding his arms defensively across his chest. The bracelet slipped slightly, exposing a thin line of pale skin beneath.

"Your neighbors say it's been quiet around here. Unusual for Jenna," Rachel said, narrowing her eyes slightly. Silence hung heavy for a moment. This was a lie, but sometimes, deception was required to shake predators from the underbrush.

Ethan shifted uncomfortably at her side.

"Jenna's loud when she's here, sure. So what?" He glanced toward the door, as if considering an escape.

"Two days of silence is a lot, don't you think?" Ethan chimed in, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed.

The boyfriend let out a scoff, then dropped his gaze to the floor, wincing as he looked away from the empty bottles littering the space. "I've been... out of it," he admitted grudgingly. "Decided to relax a bit, okay? Maybe she had enough and took off. She doesn't always stop to yell at me when she gets bent out of shape about something… Shit, or maybe she did?" Miles stopped himself, staring into space as his disordered mind tried to organize his memories.

"Two days?" Rachel asked, her tone insistent yet controlled.

"Could be more," he muttered, rubbing his forehead as if trying to erase the throbbing reminders of his indulgence.

"Could be," Rachel echoed, her mind racing through the implications. She made a mental note of his state—too wrapped up in his own fog to notice Jenna's absence.

Rachel's gaze fixated on the turquoise bracelet enveloping the boyfriend's wrist, a stark contrast against his pale skin. "That's Jenna's?" she asked, her voice steady as steel.

"Yeah," he answered, twisting the bracelet around his wrist. "Like I said. A gift."

"Did she get it from the reservation? Does she go there often?" Rachel probed, her eyes locked onto his, unblinking.

"Sometimes," Miles replied, shifting uneasily in his seat. "There's this shop... Artifacts. Guy named Scott Hawkeye runs it."

"Scott Hawkeye," Rachel repeated, filing away the name like a bullet in the chamber. "We'll check it out. Thanks."

She paused, scanning the trailer's cluttered landscape before continuing. "Mind if we look around?"

He hesitated, then shrugged—a defeated gesture. "Guess not. Just—just be quick, alright?"

"Appreciate it," Rachel said, nodding once with gratitude but her eyes remained sharp, analytical.

He led them through the narrow hallway, past walls papered with peeling concert posters and framed photos tinged with sun fade. They arrived at Jenna's room, the door hanging ajar.

"Here," he mumbled, pushing the door wider.

Rachel stepped over the threshold, her boots treading softly on the worn-out carpet. The room was small, cluttered—a mirror to its owner's troubled life. A bed shoved against the wall, a dresser burdened with knick-knacks, and a nightstand drowning in old bills and receipts.

Her eyes swept the space methodically, catching on a glint of blue-green. Turquoise beads spilled across the wooden dresser, some rolling onto the floor. Rachel crouched, gathering them in her palm. They were cool to the touch, smooth, each one a silent witness.

"Jenna made jewelry," Miles mumbled, his gaze flickering away. "Sold it sometimes."

"Is that so?" Rachel murmured, placing the beads back onto the dresser, leaving no trace of her touch.

She scanned the room again, looking for something out of place, something that screamed 'clue.' But the room was stubbornly mute, offering nothing but the mundane details of Jenna's absence:

an unmade bed, a half-empty coffee cup, a dog-eared novel left open. The only sound was the soft hum of an old air conditioner struggling against the encroaching warmth.

Rachel took a final look at the room before nodding towards Ethan. "We're done here. Thank you," she addressed Miles, her tone brisk but not unkind.

Miles merely nodded, his jittery energy replaced by something akin to exhaustion—or perhaps resignation.

Rachel gave the room one last glance before stepping out into the narrow hallway. Every detail had been etched into her memory—every bead, every speck of dust. She may not have found the smoking gun, but each little piece could be part of a larger puzzle; she knew that better than anyone.

"Thanks for your cooperation," Rachel said, though her eyes were already moving past the boyfriend, calculating their next move. "We'll be in touch if we need anything else."

"Whatever," he muttered, already retreating to the sanctuary of his beer bottle fortress.

Outside, the sun was setting, casting long shadows across the trailer park. Dust swirled in the air as Rachel walked down the rickety steps, the metallic clang of her footsteps a stark goodbye to the scene behind her.

Rachel's boots crunched on the gravel, her pace brisk as she put distance between herself and the trailer. Ethan kept up, his gaze sweeping the perimeter, always alert. They reached the relative privacy of their cruiser, the setting sun painting the sky in hues of orange and purple.

"Those beads," Rachel started, her voice low. "They're our best lead."

"He gave the store's name was Artifacts," Ethan said, the establishment's name hanging between them like a clue begging to be followed. "Scott Hawkeye?"

"Right." Rachel nodded. "The turquoise beads at both crime scenes might be the connection we're looking for."

"That… or the coroner," Ethan said suddenly. "Just got a text. She has the prelim report."

Rachel hesitated. Information was always the best ammunition before confronting a potential suspect. She nodded. "Coroner first. Then Hawkeye."

"Okiedokie, lemon smokey," Ethan said cheerfully, slipping into the car.

Rachel followed, glancing at the single turquoise bead she'd taken from the room. She studied where it rested cold and polished in her hand.

It was the only connection they had.

It would have to pay off.