CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

The neon sign of the bar flickered, casting erratic shadows over the patrons inside. Rachel Blackwood's fingers curled around a chilled glass, condensation beading on her hand. Beside her, Ethan Morgan mirrored her grip, both of them silent amidst the low murmur of conversations and the occasional scrape of chairs against the worn wooden floor.

The bar was a refuge of sorts, a place where dim lighting hid the creases of fatigue etched into their faces. Rachel's back hunched slightly, shoulders bearing the weight of the day's burdens. Her eyes, usually sharp as flint, appeared dull under the bar's muted glow. Ethan, too, looked like he carried the world, his normally attentive gaze now lost in some distant thought.

Tired. They were both so tired.

Time stretched between them, filled only with the soft hum of an old jukebox playing a forgotten song. Rachel lifted her glass, the ice clinking against the sides. Ethan followed suit, the sound of their glasses meeting, punctuating the stillness that enveloped them.

"Cheers," she said, voice low and devoid of warmth.

"Cheers," Ethan echoed, his reply barely above a whisper.

They drank. The liquor hit with a familiar burn, tracing a path down their throats. In this moment, the drink was just another necessity, like the air they breathed, devoid of pleasure or celebration.

She didn’t drink much anymore. In fact, she tried to avoid it entirely…

But someone had tried to kill her. Twice. Someone had tried to kill her aunt.

Rachel set her glass down, the base thumping softly against the scarred wood of the bar. Ethan did the same, his movements deliberate, controlled. Each sip, each silent exchange, another step towards oblivion, away from the chaos that waited beyond the bar's door.

Ethan shifted in his seat, the worn leather squeaking under his weight. His gaze lingered on Rachel for a moment before he spoke.

"Going against Hargreaves tomorrow," he remarked, voice steady but low, as if reluctant to slice through the quiet of the bar.

Rachel's eyes flicked toward him, then away. She reached for her glass, fingers brushing against the cold surface. "Not tonight, Ethan."

“They found more than enough evidence. Doesn’t matter his wheeling and dealing. Half the law firms he uses are bailing as we speak.”

She shrugged. She found she didn’t care.

To Hargreaves, he was an important man.

To her, he was just another killer.

He'd killed Cheryl and Jake. Tried to kill Alice. Had killed the Barkers. They'd found other bodies on his property. Some of them go back twenty years.

One body, in particular, had been kept in decent condition. A known street thug who’d vanished decades ago.

Hargreaves had kept the corpse in a freezer. A sort of memento.

ATF and DEA were still sifting through all the things Hargreaves had his fingers in.

Ethan released a soft sigh. Rachel kept her peace. They returned to their silence, two figures marooned at the edge of the bar. The clink of ice in their glasses marked time, a languid counterpoint to the racing thoughts behind their stoic expressions.

Ethan's hand rested near his drink, fingers tapping an absent rhythm on the wood. Rachel stared straight ahead, her resolve a shield against the intrusion of the world outside.

The jukebox cycled through its repertoire, the melodies seeping into the space around them. Each song became a backdrop to the unvoiced stories that clung to the air like the scent of stale beer and polished mahogany.

"Mom asked about you," Ethan said, voice cutting through the hum of the bar. "She wants to meet you."

Rachel turned, surprise etching lines around her eyes. The request felt out of place, an oddity amidst their usual exchanges of case details and procedural updates. She observed Ethan, searching for the subtext often hidden in casual remarks.

"Your mom?" Her voice was steady, but the question carried the weight of implications she wasn't sure she wanted to explore.

Ethan nodded, a simple upward movement of his head. "Yeah. She's curious about the woman who’s got her son diving headfirst into danger.”

Rachel’s lips parted slightly. She considered the invitation, the notion of stepping into a part of Ethan's world that had nothing to do with crime scenes or victim statements. It was personal, a bridge across professional boundaries they seldom crossed.

"Is that something you want?" she asked, her tone even but probing. There was no accusation in her voice, only a genuine query for his intentions.

Ethan met her gaze, steady and unflinching. "I wouldn't have mentioned it otherwise."

Rachel hesitated. Her hand hovered above her glass, condensation beading on the surface like tiny reminders of the present moment—one she wished to escape, if only briefly. She took a gulp, the liquid's chill a stark contrast to the warmth emanating from Ethan's invitation.

"Sure," she began, her voice trailing into the clatter of glasses and murmurs of other patrons. Ambivalence threaded each syllable. It was an unfamiliar dance, this stepping closer into someone else’s life outside the confines of work.

She set down the glass, heavier now, empty. She caught the bartender's eye, a silent language passed between them. Two fingers lifted in the air—another round. The bartender nodded, reaching for bottles with labels that promised nothing more than temporary respite from the thoughts crowding her mind.

"Thanks," she muttered, more to herself than to Ethan.

Her gaze drifted to the array of bottles lining the shelves behind the bar. Each one a soldier in neat formation, guarding secrets drowned in amber and gold. Ethan remained quiet beside her, allowing the space between them to fill with the unspoken. Rachel appreciated the silence; it was a reprieve from the necessity of conversation, a companion to the solace she sought in the depths of her drink.

The bartender slid two fresh glasses across the polished oak, the ice cubes cracking as they settled against the liquid swirl of whiskey and cola. Rachel wrapped her fingers around one, the coldness seeping into her skin, grounding her. Beside her, Ethan shifted on his stool, his body language relaxed but attentive.

"Rae," he began, his voice a low rumble barely cutting through the hum of the bar. "You don't talk much about where you came from."

She glanced at him, her eyes hooded. A single breath escaped, carrying with it the weight of years she'd locked away behind a dam of silence. Shoulders rising then falling, she offered a shrug that seemed to carry the burden of unvoiced stories.

"Nothing to tell that's worth the air it would take," Rachel said.

Ethan's gaze lingered on her profile, watching the way the neon light from the bar's sign outside flickered across her face, casting shadows that played hide and seek with her stoic expression. His eyes softened, the lines at their corners deepening not with age but with empathy.

"Everyone has a story, Rae," he pressed gently, sensing the walls around her might just be ready to crack, even if only by a fraction. "Something shaped you into the ranger sitting beside me."

Rachel took another sip, feeling the burn trail down her throat, a fleeting distraction from Ethan's probing. She focused on the glass in her hand, the condensation beading and merging into tiny rivulets that ran down its side to pool on the coaster beneath. The cool wetness touched her palm, real and present, unlike the past she kept at bay.

"Shapes," she echoed, her tone flat. "Yeah, there were shapes."

"Your family..." Ethan ventured, his curiosity genuine, his approach cautious.

"Dead ends and dust," Rachel cut him off, her gaze still fixed on the drink before her. "Just like most cases we've seen."

He nodded, accepting the stop sign she put up.

Rachel's fingers traced the rim of her glass before she set the tumbler back on the coaster, her movements deliberate. The stop sign turned to more of a yield as she frowned, her brow furrowing. She opened her mouth, closed it again. Ethan just waited and listened.

"Parents died when I was young," she stated, her voice barely audible over the hum of the bar. "Aunt took me in. Wasn't much for warmth or comfort."

Ethan's eyes remained fixed on her, a silent invitation to continue. His posture was relaxed, but his attention was sharp, focused entirely on her.

"What was it like?" he asked quietly, leaning forward slightly. The question hung in the air, heavy with the potential of things left unsaid.

"Hard," Rachel said, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Lonely. You learn to rely on yourself. To not get in anyone's way."

Her words fell with a starkness, each one chiseled from the granite of her past. Ethan absorbed them, understanding the landscape she described without embellishment or evasion.

The bartender set down fresh drinks, the sound jarring in the cocoon of their exchange. Rachel picked up the new glass, the cool liquid a contrast to the heat that seemed to radiate from within her as she dredged up old memories. She took a slow, measured sip, the alcohol a momentary balm to the sting of the past.

Rachel's eyelids fluttered shut, a brief barrier against the world. Her breath hitched. "Lonely," she whispered, her voice a thread of sound in the dimness of the bar. "Sad." The words were doors opening to rooms long closed. "I missed my mother." Admitting it felt like breaking a seal on an old wound.

Her fingers traced the condensation on her glass, drawing invisible patterns. She exhaled a shuddering breath and opened her eyes. They shimmered with unshed tears, reflecting the scant light from above.

"Mom had warmth like Texas sun," Rachel said, her voice barely above the background murmur. "Dad, he was the laughter. Their absence... it left silence. Cold." She paused, her throat tightening.

"Christmas," she started again, the memory surfacing clear and stark. "We'd string lights, bake cookies. They'd sing carols off-key. Made it feel alright that we had little else." Her gaze drifted into the middle distance, lost in the past.

"Then one year, no lights. No cookies. No songs." A single tear breached her defenses, trailing down her cheek. "Just quiet. So much quiet." Her hand shook as she lifted the drink, the ice clinking like a chime in the stillness.

Ethan leaned forward, the wood of the bar creaking under his weight. His hand found its way across the rough surface, stopping just short of Rachel's own trembling fingers. The gesture was silent, a wordless offer of solidarity in the face of her pain.

"Rachel," he said, his voice low and steady. Each syllable was a brick, building a shelter for her grief.

She blinked, the motion pushing another tear down her cheek. She didn't brush it away. It felt like a betrayal to wipe the evidence of her heartache as if it were nothing but an annoyance.

Ethan nodded, his eyes never leaving her face. Concern etched lines into his forehead, a map of his own unease with seeing her so vulnerable.

"Anything you need," Ethan said. His hand inched closer, bridging the last gap until his fingers brushed hers. Heat from his skin seeped into her cold fingertips.

Rachel allowed the contact, the warmth a small anchor in the tumult of her emotions. She took a deep breath, the air filling her lungs like ballast, steadying her.

Her lips parted, then closed. Words were there, teetering on the brink, but silence held. Instead, she squeezed his hand, an acknowledgment of his support.

She leaned over, and this time, with a genuine sigh, she said, "I'd love to meet your family, Ethan."

The silence lingered again. Thoughts lifted like mist in the silence. She considered these words, her eyes narrowing. And for a brief instance, her mind drifted away to another space.

There was another person she wanted to meet.

The man who’d taken a shot at her aunt. At her. Joseph White Cloud was in prison, now.

And it was high time she go speak with him.

But for the moment, she couldn’t bring herself to separate from Ethan’s side.

She let out a slow exhale, reclining her head against his shoulder.