CHAPTER SEVEN

Rachel navigated the dark Texas highway, the hum of the engine a steady thrum in her ears. Each mile brought them closer to the motel, a nondescript sanctuary where they could regroup, refocus. Today had been a marathon of dead ends and long shots, but Rachel's mind buzzed with the kind of fatigue that only comes when rest feels like a betrayal to the task at hand.

She needed to speak with Alice Danvers, but she didn't want to spook the predator.

"Rae," Ethan said, his voice low, an attempt to slice through the silence that had settled between them like frost. She didn't glance his way, eyes fixed on the twin beams of headlights cutting through the night.

Her phone vibrated. A shrill ringtone pierced the cabin of the car, a demanding electronic chirp. Rachel ignored it, her thoughts locked onto the case — images of the crime scene, snippets of witness statements.

Ethan shifted in his seat, his body language uneasy. He pulled out his own phone as it began to sing its own insistent tune. He answered, "Morgan." His voice was a quiet rumble, his words clipped. Rachel felt his gaze on her for a moment before he turned away, his profile etched with concern in the passing glow of a lone streetlight.

"Understood," he said after a pause that stretched too long, too taut. He ended the call, the click of the disconnect sounding final, ominous.

“What?” she asked, noting the way he was now staring at her, his gaze intense.

“They were trying to reach you.”

“Who was?”

“Reservation cops.”

She glanced at him now, frowning. “What’s wrong? Why do you sound like that?”

Ethan extended the phone towards her, his fingers rigid around the edges. The screen blared a message in stark black letters against the white glow: Sarah Blackwood shot at. Still alive.

Rachel blinked, wondering if she was dreaming.

She hesitated, opened her mouth and closed it again.

Suddenly, a screech of tires. “Watch out!” Ethan shouted, tugging on the steering wheel as they’d veered into oncoming traffic.

Rachel reacted with instinct, regaining control of the wheel, her heart in her throat as the oncoming car sped past them, blaring its horn. Back in their lane, she realized her hands were shaking as they gripped the wheel. Swallowing hard, she looked at Ethan, his face was pale in the dim glow of the dashboard light.

His phone buzzed again, startling them both. He picked it up and glanced at the screen. "Your aunt has disappeared," he said, his voice strained. "They've sent units to track her down, but she's gone."

“Shot at?” Rachel demanded.

“Not shot. But shot at ?”

“Yeah. Looks like. Someone drove by her house,” Ethan said quickly. “They’re investigating.”

Rachel hissed through clenched teeth but didn’t answer. The road before them became a blur as her gaze hardened.

“Dawes may be hiding her," Ethan continued, watching Rachel closely.

She clenched her jaw and hit the gas harder, shooting a glance at him.

"Is she—?" Rachel couldn't finish the question, her throat constricting around the words.

"Fine. No injuries," Ethan filled in, his eyes steady on hers, relaying the severity and the relief in one word.

"They need to keep an eye on her," Rachel commanded, her voice a low growl as she gripped the steering wheel tighter, the leather creaking under her hands. "I need to know every update."

“You want to go see her?”

“If she disappeared, she’s disappeared ,” Rachel muttered. “If I try to track her down, it’ll just lead someone to her.” She shook her head, wondering if this was just justification, or if she really meant it.

Either way, exhaustion hung heavy.

Nodding, Ethan stored the number with a deft thumb swipe and tucked the phone away. Rachel's own cell lay discarded on the dash, its silence now a mocking taunt. She snatched it up, punching the familiar number for Sheriff Dawes. One ring. Two rings. Nothing.

"Pick up, damn it," Rachel muttered, redialing with a jab of her finger. The call went straight to voicemail this time. Frustration clawed up from her gut, setting her jaw in a hard line.

"Voicemail," she spat out, tossing the phone onto the passenger seat where it landed with a dull thud against the upholstery.

"Rae," Ethan began, his tone even, a counterpoint to the storm brewing inside her.

"Not now." The words cut between them.

Rachel's foot pressed down on the accelerator, the engine's response immediate, a surge forward into the night.

The dashboard lights painted Rachel's face in a sickly green hue as she navigated the dark, winding road to the motel. The silence between them stretched out, filled only by the hum of tires on asphalt and the occasional crackle of static from the radio.

"Rae," Ethan finally said, his voice low, "maybe we should head back. Or you could let someone else take over—"

"No." The word was sharp, a blade severing the suggestion before it could fully form. "There's no point. Dawes will keep her safe."

He nodded, though she barely caught the gesture in her peripheral vision. His concern hovered in the car like a tangible thing, but she pushed it aside. She focused on the road ahead, the yellow lines flickering under the headlights.

Rachel's thoughts churned. They had delved deep into the off-grid community's secrets, too deep. Her knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. A message. It had to be a message meant to rattle her.

She’d got into that stupid shooting contest. Trying to buy trust. She thought she had.

But mentioning the brothers, Joseph and John… it was going to cost her.

"Damn it." The curse slipped through clenched teeth. The implications settled like lead in her stomach. They weren't just dealing with illegal activities; this was personal now. Someone wanted to make her pay.

She remained in the surface level emotion of anger, refusing to delve much deeper. She couldn’t afford to. Her relationship with Aunt Sarah had been a rocky one, but the woman had raised Rachel. Had taught her much of what she knew.

"Rae, talk to me," Ethan urged, his voice cutting through the tension.

She didn't respond. There was nothing to say.

The engine growled, a low and constant rumble as Rachel pressed her foot harder against the gas pedal. The speedometer's needle crept up, edging past the legal limit. Her grip on the steering wheel tightened, each white-knuckled hand a vise of contained fury. The road stretched out before them, an endless black ribbon slicing through the Texan night.

Ahead, she spotted the small, squat shape of the motel against the backdrop of a gas station.

She frowned as they drew nearer.

The motel in question was a nondescript, two-story slab of concrete and glass. Neon lights flickered above the entrance, casting a garish glow over the parked cars. Rachel pulled into one of the remaining spaces, shutting off the engine. "Alice Danvers," she said, her voice low and hard, the CEO's name tasting sour on her tongue. "She's top of my list tomorrow."

She didn’t want to speak about her aunt, but she’d turned her notifications volume up. A text to Dawes, as she marched towards the motel entrance, yielded no results.

No reply. He was laying low.

Ethan nodded, his gaze following hers to the motel entrance. He knew better than to comment on Rachel's tone. Instead, he pressed his thumb to his phone screen, illuminating their faces with its harsh light. "I'll set a reminder for seven AM," he said as he tapped on the screen.

Rachel didn't respond. She was staring at the neon sign above them, its light fading in and out in a mesmerizing rhythm. Her thoughts were a whirlwind, colliding and overlapping in a cacophony of anger, confusion, and determination. She thought about the off-grid community and Alice Danvers. But mostly about her Aunt Sarah.

Rachel shook herself out of her thoughts and flung open the small motel's door. The metal groaned in response, but she ignored it. Tomorrow, she would find Danvers. She would find answers.