CHAPTER FOUR

Dust swirled as the black four-door sedan rolled to a halt before the towering wrought-iron gates of the estate. The midday sun bore down unforgivingly on the expanse of Texas land, its rays glinting off the car's polished hood. Rachel Blackwood stepped out, boots crunching on the gravel drive, Ethan Morgan unfolding his tall frame from the passenger side.

The sound of electric motors cut through the stillness as a golf cart trundled towards them, kicking up dust in its wake. Two guards, uniformed in beige and green, sat at the helm, expressions unreadable behind mirrored sunglasses. They brought the vehicle to an abrupt stop, tires crunching to a standstill.

"Gate's busted," the larger guard announced, his voice devoid of warmth. "Got to leave the car."

"Only enough room for one," added the other, jerking his thumb towards the back seat of the cart, barely wide enough for a single person.

“Convenient,” Ethan muttered under his breath.

Rachel couldn’t help but agree.

Ethan shot a glance at Rachel, a silent conversation passing between them.

"Fine," Rachel said tersely. Her hand rested momentarily on the butt of her service weapon, reassurance in its familiarity. She moved towards the cart, senses heightened, mind cataloging every detail—the guards' stance, the sweat glistening on their brows despite the breeze, the subtle tension in their shoulders.

"Keep your eyes open," she instructed Ethan over her shoulder, her tone carrying the weight of authority and concern mingled into one.

“Hang on,” he muttered. “You sure?”

She glanced back. “Wait… I misread your look.”

"Which look?"

“You gave me a look.”

He snorted. “My look said we should wait. ”

“Oh. Well…” she trailed off. “My look said, I’ll go. You stay.”

“Why am I always the one staying?” Ethan asked, sounding a bit petulant. But she knew he was just worried on her behalf.

She smiled sweetly at him, reaching out and patting him on the cheek.

Then she turned. “Just keep an eye out. I’ll be fine. We’ll be quick.”

Ethan muttered darkly as she approached the

golf cart, the guards facing her with stony expressions. One of them was taller, built like a linebacker with bulging arms and a neck that seemed to blend into his skull, his nametag read 'Bruno'. The other guard was leaner, but there was an unmistakable firmness about him that suggested he was not to be trifled with - his nametag identified him as 'Thomas'.

She hoisted herself onto the back seat of the golf cart. Narrow fingers adjusted the beads in her hair, the native turquoise sparkling under the relentless Texan sun. Rachel's gaze lifted to take in the house as they pulled away from Ethan and her car.

The golf cart's wheels crunched gravel under its weight as Rachel scanned the horizon. The Texas sun hung low, a giant eye casting long shadows across the estate. She sat rigid, the fabric of her jacket pulling tight across her shoulders.

"Name's Hank," grunted the guard driving the cart, nodding toward his nametag with a grim set to his mouth.

"Dan," said the other, his eyes fixed ahead, hands folded over a utility belt that strained against his waist.

She glanced at their nametags which read “Thomas” and “Bruno,” wondering if they were providing last names or just playing with her.

Rachel noted the names, etching them into memory. She shifted, the holster at her hip pressing against the cart's edge. The grand house loomed closer, its windows like blind eyes to the world outside.

"Power outage fried the gate system," Dan “Bruno” offered, unsolicited. Rachel nodded once, acknowledging the words but not the sentiment. She knew the dance of conversation and interrogation well—each word weighed, each response measured.

"Big place for just one person," she commented, voice even.

"Mr. Jasper likes his space," Hank replied without looking back. “His father lives here when not on business trips.”

“Mr. Jasper likes his space,” Dan repeated as if he hadn’t heard Hank say this very thing.

A rehearsed line?

Strange. This whole place was strange.

"Does he now?" Rachel's gaze never wavered from the approaching facade.

They turned a corner sharply, the breeze catching strands of Rachel's dark hair, pulling them free from their confines. The estate unfurled before them, manicured lawns giving way to the opulence of old money.

"Here we are," Dan announced as they came to a stop with a jolt that sent a jarring shiver up Rachel's spine.

She stepped off the cart, boots sinking slightly into the soft earth, her presence an intrusion on the stillness of the grounds. The house stood silent, a monolith of wealth and power.

The grandeur of the estate gave way to an expanse of green, the lawn stretching out like a sea of meticulous landscaping. Rachel's eyes narrowed as she scanned the area, every sense attuned to the task at hand. The guards led her not towards the stately entrance of the house but around its side, where the vastness of the property revealed itself in all its glory.

A man stood in the distance, posture relaxed, a golf club swinging with rhythmic precision. Jasper. He drove another ball into the horizon, his focus unbroken until the small vehicle and its passengers invaded his solitary game.

"Ranger Blackwood," he greeted, voice devoid of surprise as he turned to face them. His tone held the weight of old Texas money, cultured yet detached.

"Mr. Hargreaves," Rachel acknowledged, stepping off the cart with deliberate slowness. She approached, her boots firm against the earth, each step a measured advance into the lion's den.

She studied his appearance.

He was an imposing figure, tall and broad-shouldered with a chiseled jawline that spoke of generations of privileged breeding. Dressed in a white polo shirt, khaki pants, and spotless white gloves, he looked like his photo in the society pages, albeit more weathered and less polished.

His hair was slicked back, showcasing a receding hairline that contrasted starkly with his youthful face. His eyes were a cold blue, the kind of color associated with glaciers. Jasper looked every bit as unyielding and impenetrable as ice.

Rachel walked towards him, her boots sinking slightly into the manicured lawn. She studied him as she approached, taking in everything from his meticulously creased pants to the golf club gripped firmly in his gloved hand.

"Mr. Hargreaves," she responded curtly. "I understand you were expecting me."

Jasper just shrugged, his movements fluid beneath the Texas sun. "Father's away," he said simply. When he spoke, he rarely met her gaze or anyone else's, instead staring out at some unseen point.

Rachel didn't miss the implication. His father owned everything - land, money, power - but it was Jasper who occupied this gilded cage while his father was away.

“This is about the murder?” Jasper said, his tone devoid of emotion.

"You've heard?"

“I did.”

"Cheryl was quite a lady," she began, her words slicing the air between them. "Her passing must weigh heavy."

Jasper's eyes fixed on Rachel, the hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "Life has its course, Ranger. We mourn, we move on." The nonchalance in his voice felt practiced, like armor against any prying beneath the surface.

"Breakups are tough," Rachel continued, watching for the smallest crack in his facade. "Especially with someone so... connected."

"Connections can be overrated," Jasper responded, his gaze steady. He picked up another golf ball, teeing it up with calculated casualness. "Sometimes, they complicate things unnecessarily."

Rachel noted the choice of words, storing away each inflection for later analysis. She watched him closely, reading the lines of his body language, the controlled stillness that spoke volumes more than his careful speech.

"Complications can lead to drastic actions," she pressed, her voice a low thrum of authority.

"Or simple resolutions," Jasper countered, meeting her stare. He swung the club again, the ball launching into the distance, a tiny white speck against the canvas of the sky.

Jasper retrieved another ball from the polished leather pouch at his hip. The sun glinted off the metal of the club as he positioned it with a precision that left no room for error. Rachel observed the man, noting the meticulous way he prepared for each swing. His demeanor was as impeccable and guarded as the manicured lawns surrounding them.

"Cheryl's family's company," Rachel ventured, her words deliberate, "they're quite influential. That must have put a strain on your relationship."

Jasper's swing followed through, uninterrupted by the question. The ball arced into the blue expanse, disappearing from sight. He turned to face her, his expression unchanging, "Business is business, Ranger Blackwood. Personal matters remain personal."

"Even when the lines blur?"

"Especially then."

Rachel watched him. No tremble in his hands. No shift in posture. She cataloged these observations silently. Jasper placed the club on the grass, wiping his palm on the fabric of his pants—a dark, expensive material that didn't show a hint of dirt or sweat.

"Lines seem clear to you, then," she said, her voice level.

"Crystal." Jasper's eyes met hers, revealing nothing but the reflection of a man who knew how to keep his world ordered, his secrets locked tight.

Rachel Blackwood stood a measured distance from Jasper, her boots firm on the ground, her eyes intent.

"Where were you last night, Jasper?" Her question sliced through the silence that followed a golf ball's flight.

Jasper lined up another shot, his back to her for a moment. "Here," he answered, voice steady. "I practice my swing at night. Helps me think."

"Alone?"

"Always." The club swung. Another ball took flight, soaring over the vast field.

"Security cameras would have this?" Rachel's words were deliberate, each one carefully plucked and presented.

She’d noticed the cameras, of course. She had a habit for picking them out. Seventeen, she’d counted so far. And that wasn’t including the door cam on the garage.

"Of course." He glanced over his shoulder, a half-smirk playing on his lips. "Not much escapes their gaze."

"Then you won't mind if I take a look." Her request hung between them, a challenge wrapped in courtesy.

"Be my guest." Jasper nodded toward a guard stationed nearby. "Rick, show Ranger Blackwood to the security office."

The guard, a tall figure in a crisp uniform, nodded curtly. Rachel gave Jasper a nod of thanks, her face unreadable, her mind racing. She turned, following the guard's lead towards the grand house, away from the chill of Jasper's indifference.

Why had he agreed to meet?

But then, the answer hit her.

To size her up. Same as why she’d come.

They were both playing a game.

The corridor stretched long and sterile, punctuated by closed doors with frosted glass panels. Rachel's steps echoed against the linoleum, her gaze fixed on the guard's broad back as he led the way. They stopped at a door marked "Security" in stark black letters.

"Here we are," Bruno said, his voice a low rumble. He pushed the door open and stepped aside for Rachel to enter.

The room was cramped, filled with screens that cast a flickering glow over stacks of monitors and recording equipment. A desk sat in the center, cluttered with papers and a keyboard gleaming under the harsh fluorescent light. Bruno slid into the chair and woke the computer with practiced ease.

“What was your name again?” she asked.

“Rick,” he said.

“I thought it was Hank.”

“Nah. That’s the other guy.”

“Nametag?”

“Oh? Bruno. Last name.”

She frowned. Now she knew he was playing with her. Men that worked for the obscenely wealthy always seemed to think they had a special shield against the law.

She sidestepped the irritation.

"Footage from last night," Rachel stated, not a question but a command.

"Pulling it up now." Hank aka Thomas aka Rick's fingers tapped on the keys.

"Busy night?" Rachel asked, watching his face for any telltale shift.

"Always is," he replied without looking up. "Gotta keep eyes on everything."

"See anything unusual?"

"Nothing gets past us." So-called Rick's tone held pride, confidence. "We run a tight ship."

"Jasper?"

"Mr. Jasper keeps to himself. Don't meddle in security affairs."

"Convenient," Rachel murmured, more to herself than to the guard.

Rick glanced at her then, the briefest connection. "He pays well for us to handle things. No need for him to get involved."

"Of course." Rachel folded her arms, her stance all business. Every word, every pause weighed and measured. She watched the screens come to life, revealing the shadowy outlines of the estate at night. Her mind churned, filing away each piece of information.

"Here," Rick announced, pointing at a timestamp. "You can see Mr. Jasper out there. Just like he said."

"Practicing his swing," Rachel said flatly, eyes glued to the screen where the figure of Jasper appeared, small and distant.

"Yep. Alone." Rick leaned back, a gesture meant to convey finality.

"Thank you, Rick." Rachel's voice held an edge, sharp enough to cut through the hum of electronics.

"Looks like Jasper's alibi checks out," Rick insisted, satisfaction laced with a hint of challenge.

"Seems so," Rachel replied, her gaze not leaving the screen. She watched the figure drive ball after ball into the abyss of the night. Alone. A perfect alibi. Too perfect?

"Anything else?" Rick's question hung in the air, waiting.

Rachel stood up, the metal chair scraping against the concrete floor with a harsh, grating sound. Her eyes met Rick's briefly.

“Any idea who might’ve done this?” she said suddenly.

Rick seemed taken aback, his assured composure breaking for the first time. He blinked, an uneasy silence filling the room before he finally responded. "I... I don't know."

Rachel nodded, watching as he fidgeted underneath her gaze. "Wasn't Jasper, you think?"

Those words hung heavily between them. Rick cleared his throat, his confident posture returning. "Mr. Hargreaves... he doesn't get his hands dirty."

A statement loaded with implications. Rachel nodded again, her gaze not wavering from Rick's face. She was well aware of what such words meant. Men like Jasper Hargreaves had enough money and influence to keep their own hands clean while others did their dirty work. If Cheryl's death involved Jasper in any way, it was unlikely that he himself would be directly connected.

Rick hesitated. “He wouldn’t have hurt Cheryl. He loved her…”

For a moment, that man's voice took on a sincere quality.

She studied him. “You’re sure about this?”

“Positive,” he murmured. “He truly loved her. When she left him, he was devastated. I shouldn’t be telling you this… but Jasper isn’t a bad sort. He’s ambitious, and cold… but he’s not evil.”

The guard rambled this all off rapidly, and then hesitated, looking embarassed that he’d spoken at all.

Rachel nodded, taking it all in. "I see," she said, her voice neutral. "Anyone else you can think of who might have wanted to hurt Cheryl?"

The guard hesitated, his gaze darting momentarily to the screen before returning to Rachel's steady stare. "No one comes to mind. Cheryl was... well-liked."

Rachel studied him for a moment. "If you remember anything else, Rick, that might be helpful in this investigation, you let me know."

Inwardly, though, she wasn’t so sure. Men like Hargreaves didn’t get their hands dirty, and what were the odds, that late at night, he’d be so visible to the camera.

Almost as if he’d known he would need an alibi.

She needed to dig deeper. Look closer.

She nodded to herself, smiling at Rick but revealing nothing she was thinking. “See you later, Bob,” she said.

The guard grinned. “It’s Timothy.”

She rolled her eyes and turned, moving to exit the small room. Over her shoulder, she called, “I need a copy of that footage. Send it to the number I called from.”

And then she left, moving hastily back towards where Ethan was waiting for her.

Part of her wanted to go back and confront Jasper more firmly, but now she realized he’d brought her here just to play. The fake guard names. The busted gate. Isolating her away from her partner… Jasper thought he could win by playing this way.

But Rachel had her own games she could play.

And right now, her reticle was targeting Jasper Hargreaves and his multi-billion dollar family business.