CHAPTER TWELVE

The dusty road crunched beneath the tires of their unmarked car as it rolled to a halt, facing the newest crime scene where Cheryl's boyfriend's body had been discovered.

Rachel Blackwood's gaze sliced through the chaos of police officers and the flash of red and blue lights, settling on the grandeur of the Hargreaves estate. Looming. Silent. Accusing.

"Looks like the whole department's here," Ethan muttered, his eyes scanning the perimeter.

She stepped out, boots hitting the ground with purpose. The air carried a chill, the kind that seeped into bones.

She strode towards the body, a shroud of yellow tape marking its sanctity. Jake Shields lay on his back, eyes open to the Texas sky. He would’ve been a handsome man if he’d been alive, with

his sharp jawline and smooth features. His hands, she noticed, were rough, though. The hands of a laborer. Now, he was a grim testament to the brutality of his death, his body sprawled in an undignified pose on the manicured lawn of the enormous estate.

A slash across his throat—a violent grin in the stillness of death. No flailing arms. No clenched fists. Serenity in the horror.

"Throat's cut clean," Rachel observed, voice stripped of emotion. "No signs he fought back."

A figure cut through the cluster of uniformed officers, moving with an air of authority that parted the sea of blue. Rachel recognized the coroner, Dr. Sierra Hart, by her white coat and the purpose in her stride.

Dr. Hart had worked with Rachel on cases in the past, especially those that took them to southern Texas.

"Ranger Blackwood," Dr. Hart greeted, voice steady and even.

“Dr. Hart.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your aunt,” Hart said quietly.

Rachel frowned. “That news making the rounds?”

“If someone takes a shot at one of our own…” Hart shrugged, trailing off. Her hair was dyed, judging by the pale roots under a reddish fringe.

Her eyes studied Rachel. Speculative, cautious eyes that somehow made Rachel think of a crow in how dark they were and the way

they flickered furtively around, gathering information.

"Thank you," Rachel nodded, her voice succinct. "What can you tell me about the body?"

Dr. Hart nodded, her gaze turning to the sprawled figure of Jake Shields. Her gloved hands sifted through the tools in her bag before she pulled out a small flashlight. She clicked it on and bent down to examine the body, the bright beam focusing on the gruesome wound at his throat.

"Judging by the state of rigor mortis, I'd estimate he's been dead for more than thirty hours," Dr. Hart said, her voice measured as she took note of the signs of lividity on the corpse.

"Thirty hours," Rachel echoed, noting down the time frame in her mind.

"That seems about right," Ethan chimed in beside her, his gaze focused on the body as well. He crouched down next to Dr. Hart, glancing at Jake's hands before his eyes landed on something peculiar.

Dr. Hart nodded, her face a mask of professionalism. She embodied her role—clinical, composed. Her dark hair was pulled back into a no-nonsense bun, and her glasses sat perched on a wide nose. Gloved hands rested on her clipboard, a barrier between her and the carnage.

"Exact time will be confirmed post-autopsy, but the rigor progression suggests the window accurately," Dr. Hart continued, her eyes skimming her notes.

"Understood." Rachel's reply was terse, her brain already leaping ahead to piece together the new timeline. She glanced at the coroner, noting the precision in her gaze, the way she held herself—shoulders back, chin level. This was a woman familiar with death, unshaken by its grimness.

"Keep me posted on any new findings," Rachel said, locking onto Dr. Hart's measured gaze.

"Of course, Ranger Blackwood." Dr. Hart gave a curt nod, then turned back to her work, leaving Rachel to the sound of rustling leaves and distant murmurs.

Rachel watched for a moment, noting the efficiency as Dr. Hart directed her team, every move deliberate, every action steeped in years of experience. Then, Rachel crouched beside the body, her gaze sharp as she scanned Jake Shields' lifeless form.

Rachel's eyes lingered on the corpse's bare feet—pale against the dark soil. "His shoes. They're missing."

"Looks intentional," Ethan mused, squatting opposite her. His hand hovered over a notebook, ready for any sliver of information. "The rest of the clothes are fine."

"Could be," Rachel admitted. She stood, her knees protesting the movement. The absence gnawed at her. No scuff marks. No debris. Just clean socks on a dead man.

"Maybe they were taken after," Ethan suggested, his brows knitting together in contemplation.

"Maybe." Rachel's mind raced. A thousand scenarios played out in quick succession. Theft? Unlikely. Personal? Possibly. A message? Perhaps. She needed more.

Rachel circled the body, her boots pressing into the damp earth with a purposeful tread. The morning air hung heavy with the scent of dew and decay. She crouched beside Jake Shields' lifeless form, her fingers hovering over the hem of his trousers, eyes tracing the line where fabric met skin.

“Why would anyone steal the shoes?” Ethan murmured.

Rachel frowned, considering this puzzle.

"To hide evidence, perhaps?" She suggested, her eyes never leaving the corpse. "The killer might have cut himself. Maybe blood reside on the sole of the shoes."

Ethan grunted, jotting down the theory in his notebook. "It still doesn't make sense. If Jake didn't put up any resistance—"

She stood abruptly, dusting her hands off on her pants and turning to Ethan. "What if it's...the soil?"

Ethan looked up at her, brow furrowed in confusion. "The soil?"

Rachel began to explain, her tone steady despite the gnawing uncertainty in her gut. "Unique soils can be as good as any fingerprint. The killer might have wanted to hide the soil on the boots. Back in my big game hunting days, soil trails were some of the most useful in tracking a creature. We could find the exact region the animal came from just by examining the soil on their hooves or claws."

Ethan's eyes widened in understanding. "So you think the killer took Shields' shoes to hide where they'd been."

Rachel nodded, looking back at Jake Shield's body. "It's a theory. The boots could've held some telltale trace of the killer."

A moment of silence passed between them as Rachel and Ethan studied the scene, mulling over this new hypothesis. The lawn, previously a picturesque backdrop for Hargreaves' grand estate, now felt tainted with mystery and death.

"Tell forensics to check the clothing folds and toes for soil deposits," Rachel instructed, her tone authoritative. "If there's any residue left... we need to know."

Rachel turned to glance towards the Hargreaves’ mansion. Figures in the windows.

Lawyers, no doubt. Maybe even Jasper himself.

She wondered what the tycoon’s son was thinking. Did he want to protest his innocence? Did he assume they were now gunning for him?

Rachel would let the locals interview Jasper again. It was too obvious. Far, far too obvious. Jasper was a very careful man. Speaking with him, she’d found him intelligent, cautious.

To deposit a body outside his own home, thirty hours later?

And then an anonymous, untraceable tip directing the cops right to it?

This was a setup.

But who was behind it?

"Shoes can tell stories," she murmured, repeating her original train of thought, breaking the silence. "Soil caught in the treads, scuffs from running or stumbling—it's evidence. Our killer might've known that. Which tells us something about him… he knows the land."

Ethan stood close by, his frame casting a long shadow that fell across the scene. He watched Rachel, waiting for the next piece of her thought process to materialize.

"Without the shoes," she continued, "it's harder to trace his last steps. But soil doesn't just vanish. It clings."

Her gaze fixed on Jake's exposed feet. No superficial debris marred the skin.

"Check his clothing. Every fold." Rachel’s voice held an edge, commanding but not harsh. "If the killer was thorough enough to take the shoes, there might still be traces left behind. Soil deposits. Residue."

"Got it." Ethan flipped open his notebook once more. His hand moved quickly, penning down her orders.

"Be meticulous. Tell the team I want a full sweep. Between the toes, under the nails, any crevice where dirt could hide."

"Will do." Ethan’s affirmation was swift, decisive.

Rachel gave a curt nod and rose to her full height, her mind already racing ahead. Every detail mattered. This rare soil, this missing link, could be the thread that unraveled everything.

Ethan turned on his heel and strode away to relay her instructions to forensics, leaving Rachel alone with the body. The crime scene was quiet except for the occasional crackle of the police radio or the shuffle of an officer's footsteps on the grass.

Rachel crouched down beside Jake Shields' remains, her eyes scanning every inch of the body before her. The hem of his trousers was caked with mud—a dark, dense layer that spoke of wet earth and heavy steps. She reached out, her gloved fingers lightly touching the fabric, feeling the grittiness of the soil embedded in the weave.

This soil wasn't native to the area; she'd bet her badge on it. It was too dark, too rich for the dry Texas terrain. Local soil crumbled to dust beneath your boots; it didn’t cling like this. A rare type, possibly from a different part of the state or beyond. Imported. Deliberate.

She straightened up, her gaze lingering on the muddy hem. A clue. A silent witness to where Jake Shields had been before he died.

"Damn," she muttered under her breath, the word barely a whisper. She pulled out her phone, ready to begin the search for the origin of the soil. The answer lay out there, somewhere.

Rachel stood for a moment, the weight of her boots sinking slightly into the ground beside Jake Shields' body. Her eyes narrowed as she contemplated the muddy evidence clinging to the dead man's trousers. She had seen soil like this before, not here in the arid landscapes that sprawled around Jasper Hargreaves' imposing estate, but in the damp, loamy grounds of East Texas forests where she had once tracked deer with her aunt.

Those early mornings came back to her now, the chill in the air, the whisper of leaves, and the distinct shades of earth that told stories of the land. The dark soil under her fingers was rich with moisture, unlike the dusty terrain of their current location near the coast. The differences were subtle to an untrained eye, but to Rachel, they were a glaring anomaly.

"Imported," she said aloud, the word cutting through the silence. The realization settled with a heavy certainty.

Who would import soil like that to south Texas? What would grow in it?

Rachel's boots crunched on the gravel as she stepped away from the body, holding her phone up. The device felt cold and solid in her palm—a lifeline to the answers that eluded her at this windswept crime scene. She scrolled through her contacts, her thumb-stopping on a name that promised expertise. The screen lit up with the call's progress, each ring punctuating the silence that engulfed her.

"Blackwood here. Need a consult on soil samples. Rare type—might be imported. Sending details ASAP." Her voice was terse, the words clipped. The other end acknowledged with a brisk "Understood" before the line went dead.

She pocketed the phone and surveyed the estate once more. The mansion loomed, its shadow stretching like an accusation across the grounds. The police officers busied themselves with their tasks, their movements methodical, yet Rachel's focus remained beyond the immediate perimeter. She was already piecing together a new map of the investigation, one that sprawled out to unknown territory.

A gust of coastal wind tugged at her hair, but she barely noticed. Her gaze lingered on the hem of Jake Shields' pants—the muddy tell-tale sign of a narrative hidden beneath the surface. It was a tangible piece of the puzzle, something she could chase down while the coroner and techs scavenged for what they could from the body.

What had her aunt told her… the soil. Fir trees grew in it. What else? Why would someone import it south? She wracked her brain, trying to think

back to the details her memory held, trying to isolate those times when she'd observed this particular soil type. Her mind was a whirl of images – forests of fir trees, carpets of moss beneath the shade, patches of wildflowers sprinkling vibrant colors against the dark earth...

A sudden realization jolted through her. The soil wasn't just imported; it was cultivated. Cultivated and preserved. Someone had brought it for a purpose. And that someone had more than a passing connection with Jake Shields.

She turned to look at the mansion again. The Hargreaves' estate stretched before her eyes, a testament to wealth and power. Yet, she knew that within its confines were secrets waiting to be unraveled. She could almost feel them beckoning her, challenging her. A challenge she would gladly accept.

She knew of one crop in particular that relied on healthy, fertile soil. A sort of crop still frowned on in the deep south.

She hesitated, considering this. She typed in her phone’s search engine, what sort of illicit plants grow in loamy, rich soil?

She hit enter.

Her phone blinked back at her, loading the search results. There it was. The crop she suspected: Cannabis. It grew optimally in rich, well-drained loamy soil.

In her peripheral vision, she caught sight of the estate's sprawling garden. A manicured landscape peeping out from behind tall brick walls and iron-wrought gates. A garden that could easily hide a secretive crop if one knew where to look.

Rachel chewed on her bottom lip, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully as she stared at the opulent mansion looming in the distance. The missing shoes were a puzzle piece that didn’t fit yet.

But no… not the Hargreaves’. Their oil business was a multi-billion dollar enterprise. They wouldn’t sacrifice it for some marginal increase of an illicit plant. Already, Cannabis was less and less regulated, anyhow.

Not the Hargreaves. But someone who hated them.

Who would drop a body on their land?

Alice?

But that didn’t explain her testimony of someone having taken a shot at her.

So it was someone who knew the land, knew its soil. Someone who hated the Hargreaves’, hated the Danvers’… Someone who’d killed Cheryl, Jake.

“Someone with roots in the land,” Rachel whispered to herself, eyes narrowing.

If she found the soil, she’d find the killer. She turned, calling, “Ethan! I have an idea!”