CHAPTER EIGHT

The wheels crunched over the gravel, stirring up a haze of dust as the cruiser came to a halt. Rachel Blackwood stepped out into the arid expanse. The coroner's studio, an unassuming structure, squatted under the vast Texas sky, its bleached facade mirroring the barren desert that stretched beyond.

"Place looks like it's baking in its own oven," Ethan commented, shielding his eyes from the glare.

"The only thing missing is the vultures," Rachel replied, her boots kicking up fine silt as they made their way to the entrance.

Her phone vibrated. Sheriff Dawes' name flashed on the screen. She hesitated, thumb hovering over the decline button.

"Again?" Ethan asked, eyebrow raised.

"Persistent," she muttered, silencing the call with a swift tap. The sound of the ringtone replaced by the crunch of gravel beneath their feet.

"Going to keep putting him off?" Ethan's voice cut through the silence that had settled between them.

"Until I have something to report." Her words were terse, final, as she slipped the phone back into her pocket.

"Fair enough," he conceded, pushing open the door to the coroner's office.

The coroner's office was an antiseptic world starkly contrasted against the rugged desert outside. Rachel's eyes adjusted to the fluorescent lighting, taking in the figure who stood like a sentinel among the stainless steel and white tile.

"Ranger Blackwood," the woman greeted, her voice as crisp as her lab coat. Dr. Susan Marquez was meticulous by nature, every strand of her salt-and-pepper hair anchored in a tight bun that seemed to pull her eyebrows into a perpetual state of alertness. Her glasses perched halfway down her nose, magnifying sharp, hawk-like eyes that missed nothing.

"Dr. Marquez," Rachel nodded in acknowledgment, her gaze meeting those scrutinizing eyes.

"Ma'am," Ethan tipped his hat slightly.

"Two victims," Rachel prompted without preamble. "Heather Sinclair and Jenna Amos."

"Ah, yes," Marquez said, turning on her heel to lead them deeper into her domain. "Can't say much about how they were left." She glanced over her shoulder. "But I did find something curious."

"Curious?" Rachel echoed, her interest piqued.

"Indeed," Dr. Marquez stopped beside two gurneys shrouded in solemnity. Pulling back the sheet from the first, she revealed the pale, lifeless legs of what once was Heather Sinclair. She pointed to a series of small, raised bumps - scars upon the calf. "See here?"

Rachel leaned in, her detective's eye taking in the details. "Scars?"

"Similar marking on Jenna Amos," Marquez said, revealing the second set of legs with the same pattern. "Old. Healed. They're tribal, most likely. From childhood, I'd wager."

"That's odd… neither of them are Native. Possible they're more recent?"

"No. At least a decade old. The epidermal regeneration is too complete for recent scarring."

Rachel felt a chill of realization. The tribal marks, the beads... It was more than coincidence now. There was a connection, one that traced back to the native tribes. And possibly to their main suspect, Scott Hawkeye.

Rachel strode to the head of the gurney, her gaze sharpening.

"Cause of death?" she asked, her voice steady as her eyes met those of the coroner.

"Ms. Sinclair," Dr. Marquez began, motioning to the first body, "had her neck slit. Clean, precise." Her hand mimicked the cut's path, a silent swish in the air. "No hesitation."

"Premeditated," Rachel murmured, processing the information with a clinical detachment that years on the job had honed.

"Looks that way," Marquez concurred. She moved to the second gurney. "Jenna Amos, however," she said, pausing over the matted hair darkened by dried blood, "blunt force trauma to the head. The ferocity..." She trailed off, shaking her head.

"Crime of passion?" Rachel ventured, already noting the contrasting nature of the attacks.

"Very possibly," the coroner replied.

"Amos was killed first," Rachel said. "Maybe it was an accident. Triggered the second murder?"

"Possibly. That's not my area of expertise."

Ethan, who'd been examining the room, turned back towards them. "Dr. Marquez," he interjected, his tone shifting the focus. "Anything about turquoise? Any found on or near them, or at similar scenes?"

"Turquoise?" Marquez echoed, her brow furrowing. "No, nothing of the sort here. And I can't recall any recent cases with it either."

"Any significance in Native American culture you're aware of?" Ethan prodded further, his curiosity evident.

"Turquoise is sacred in many tribes," Marquez offered, her words slow, thoughtful. "A symbol of healing, protection. But its role varies widely among different peoples. To pinpoint—" she sighed lightly, "you'd need someone far more versed in the nuances than me."

"Understood," Ethan nodded, exchanging a look with Rachel.

"Thank you, Doctor," Rachel said. "Can we see Heather Sinclair's personal effects?"

"Of course," the coroner replied, leading them to a metal table where a series of clear plastic bags lay arranged by name.

Ethan stayed with the coroner, murmuring questions that Rachel half-heard as she focused on the task at hand. She picked up the bag marked 'Sinclair', feeling the weight of the life it represented—a life cut brutally short. Her fingers worked quickly to open the seal.

Inside, Heather Sinclair's wallet felt heavy in Rachel's hands. She unfolded it, revealing the compartments stuffed with the detritus of everyday existence. Receipts. The paper trail of a life. She sifted through them methodically, her eyes scanning for anything out of place.

"Any chance they knew each other?" Ethan's voice filtered through from behind her, but Rachel's attention remained fixed on the receipts.

"Nothing so far to suggest a connection," Marquez answered.

Rachel's fingers paused on a slip of paper, its edges frayed from time or worry—or both. A receipt from Artifacts. Her pulse quickened slightly. This was no ordinary purchase; Jenna's boyfriend had mentioned this store. A bracelet. She studied the date, then the itemized list. Expensive, too expensive for a casual buy.

"Dr. Marquez," Ethan said, his tone pulling Rachel back from her thoughts, "could the trauma inflicted on Jenna have been done in self-defense?"

"Hard to say without more context," Marquez admitted.

"Context," Rachel muttered under her breath. This receipt was context—a clue, a piece of the puzzle they were desperately trying to assemble. She slipped the paper into her pocket, a lead they would surely follow.

"Anything?" Ethan glanced over, catching the tail end of her discovery.

"Possibly," she replied, not lifting her gaze from the remaining items. "Thanks, Dr. Marquez," Rachel said, tucking the wallet back into the evidence bag.

"Of course, Ranger Blackwood. Morgan." The coroner nodded to them both, her expression solemn yet professional.

The desert heat clung to their skin as they stepped outside. Grains of sand crunched underfoot, mirroring the restlessness that settled over Rachel.

"Rae, what's on your mind?" Ethan asked, his brow furrowed as he watched her.

"Rae? That's new."

"Yeah, well… it fits. You're just a ray of sunshine, aren't you?"

She scowled at him.

He grinned. "See—there it is. That sunny disposition."

She rolled her eyes but didn't take the bait. "Gonna cancel our date if you call me Rae again."

Ethan looked momentarily wounded by this, so she quickly added, "Just kidding."

"You called it a date," he said, pointing.

She felt her cheeks warm, and she hid a sudden grin threatening to betray her inner thoughts.

She shook her head, her thoughts sobering as they moved back to the waiting vehicle. She pulled out the receipt she'd pocketed earlier. "This could be the link we've been searching for."

Ethan leaned in, examining the paper she handed him. "Artifacts," he read aloud, the name rolling off his tongue with a hint of curiosity.

"Jenna's boyfriend mentioned it," Rachel reminded him, her gaze now distant, surveying the vast expanse of the horizon. "And now Heather Sinclair too?"

"Coincidences don't sit well."

"Because they're rare."

Ethan nodded slowly. "So, we head to the reservation next? It's getting late."

The car door slammed shut, a definitive echo in the quiet desert air. Rachel's hand was on the ignition when the shrill ring of her phone pierced the silence. She glanced at the screen—Sheriff Dawes again.

"He's not going to leave you alone, is he?" Ethan's voice was tinged with concern, eyes fixed on her as he settled into the passenger seat.

"Missed three calls." The words were flat, her gaze locked onto the phone's glaring light.

Ethan leaned back, the fabric of his seat whispering with the shift. "He's getting antsy."

"Can't blame him," she said, finally pressing the button to silence the call. The screen went dark, the weight of urgency momentarily lifted.

Ethan pressed, watching her closely. "What's that about?"

She met his stare, a brief flicker of something unreadable in her eyes before she turned the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life, a rumble that matched the growing restlessness within her.

"Later," she said, more to herself than to Ethan. Her hands gripped the steering wheel, the leather cool and smooth under her touch.

"Okay, then." Ethan's voice held a note of resignation. He knew better than to push when Rachel's walls went up.

Headlights cut through the twilight as they pulled away from the coroner's, the shadows of streetlights and cacti stretching long across the desert like skeletal fingers. Rachel's mind was already racing ahead to the reservation, to Artifacts, to Scott Hawkeye.

Sheriff Dawes would have to wait.