CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

They’d returned to the crime scene. It was the way of the hunter, to find the scent and pursue it.

Rachel Blackwood stepped out of her unmarked vehicle, the soles of her boots crunching against the gravel scattered across the asphalt. The flashing red and blue lights from the police cruisers cast an eerie glow across the crime scene, illuminating the grim faces of the officers milling about. A bitter, metallic tang hung in the air, mixing with the acrid smell of exhaust fumes from the idling engines.

She surveyed the area, her keen eyes taking in every detail. Yellow police tape cordoned off a section near the base of the Corpus Christie bridge, where a white sheet draped over motionless forms. Rachel's jaw clenched, a familiar sense of resolve settling in her gut.

She turned away from the corpse, though, and instead moved towards the bridge. This particular predator was now solidifying in her mind, and she felt as if she had a better idea of who she was chasing.

She turned towards the bridge. The highest structure.

He’d shot Rebecca Morris from a vantage point not far from the crime scene. He liked to look down on his victims, to watch them like some gargoyle eyeing a threat. Like a vulture hovering over its prey.

The concrete beneath her feet was cold and unyielding as Rachel stepped under the Corpus Christie bridge. The air hung heavy with the stench of stagnant water and decay. Graffiti marred the walls, a chaotic jumble of colors and shapes that seemed to mock the tragedy that had unfolded here.

Rachel's eyes scanned the gloom, searching for any sign of the killer's passage. A discarded cigarette butt, a scrap of torn fabric, anything that might point her in the right direction.

But now they had a new lead.

A man in a red cap with green car.

Enough?

Enough to go fishing. She’d decided it was the best move. Late? Perhaps. But would a grieving mother be getting much sleep?

She’d have to see.

Reaching into her pocket, Rachel pulled out her phone and dialed a number she had hoped never to use. The line rang once, twice, before a woman's voice answered, tight with grief and anger.

"Hello?"

"Mrs. Morris? This is Ranger Blackwood.”

A sharp intake of breath, then a pause. "What do you want?"

Rachel hesitated, weighing her words carefully. "I know this is a difficult time, but I need to ask you some questions. About potential suspects."

"Suspects?" Mrs. Morris's voice rose, edged with hysteria. "You mean the monster who did this to my baby? You—you arrested my husband!”

Rachel sighed. “We’ve confirmed his alibi, Mrs. Morris.”

“Then why is he still being held!”

Rachel skirted past having a conversation about the bomb on the yacht. She refocused.

"I can’t disclose that right now, Mrs. Morris," Rachel said gently.

“You’re destroying my family!”

"I'm trying to repair the damage, ma'am." Then, before any protest could be lodged, she continued, "I need you to think carefully. Is there anyone who might have had a reason to harm Rebecca? Anyone with a history of violence or instability?"

The line went silent for a long moment, and Rachel could almost hear the gears turning in Mrs. Morris's head. “I… don’t know.”

“I’m sending you a picture. A white man in a red cap. He drives a green sedan. Tell me if he looks familiar.”

Rachel sent a screenshot from the security footage at the hospital, holding her breath as the image buffered.

A long silence lingered on the other end, broken only by the ragged sound of Mrs. Morris's breathing. "Yes," she finally whispered, her voice hoarse. "I know him... He used to work for my husband."

Rachel's heart pounded in her chest as she pressed for more information. "What was his name?"

"Atticus Silver."

Rachel's heart stilled at the name. "What was his role in your husband's company?"

"He was our accountant... for a while, anyway." Mrs. Morris’s voice wavered, uncertainty flickering through her tone. "But there... there was something strange about him. Almost... eerie. My husband fired him quite some time ago."

"Why was he fired?" Rachel's gaze sharpened on the shadows beneath the Corpus Christie bridge, her mind racing to connect the dots.

Mrs. Morris hesitated before responding, her voice coming out as little more than a whisper. "He acted... odd, after some time. Kept doctoring the books..."

Rachel blinked. Doctoring the books? Motive, then... she had motive now too. "Did he have any access to the information regarding your husband’s meeting with Rebecca and the cartel?"

“Cartel?”

“Mrs. Morris. Please. Now’s not the time to cover for your husband. We already know about Diego Sanchez.”

A long sigh. Then, "Yes," Mrs. Morris admitted reluctantly. "He would've known about it. But he was fired months before that meeting took place." She paused. “He… he had this weird sense of justice… Or like, like he felt like he was on a mission from God.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, when… he found out what my husband had done… chosen to do, he started making threats. Said how he was trained as a priest. How God needed him to do the merciful thing.” She wrinkled her nose. “His exact words were, ‘what’s more merciful’ than freedom from sin?”

Rachel frowned. “He was a priest, then?”

"He said he was, but I looked into it. He was let go before ordination."

“So… you think he wanted to harm your husband because he sinned by getting in bed with the cartels?”

The woman released a long breath. “Something is wrong with that man.”

Rachel's heart pounded in her chest. She had a name now. A face to put to the monster who had torn apart so many lives.

"Thank you, Mrs. Morris. I know this wasn't easy for you. I promise I'll do everything in my power to find him."

She ended the call, her mind already racing ahead to the next steps. She needed to run a background check on Atticus Silver, dig into his past and see what skeletons he had in his closet.

Rachel's fingers flew across the keypad on her phone, her eyes locked on the glowing screen. Atticus Silver's name yielded hit after hit, each result painting a darker picture of the man she now suspected of murder.

Born in El Paso. Parents killed in a cartel shooting when he was just a child. Bounced between foster homes and juvenile detention centers. A troubled past that seemed to follow him into adulthood.

She clicked on an article from a local newspaper, dated five years prior. "Former Priest Fired from Hospital Amidst Controversy," the headline read. Rachel scanned the text, her brow furrowing as she absorbed the details.

Atticus had been working as a chaplain at a hospital in San Antonio, providing spiritual guidance to patients and their families. But there were whispers of inappropriate behavior, of Atticus taking a particularly keen interest in terminally ill patients.

The hospital had launched an internal investigation, and Atticus was promptly dismissed. He seemed to vanish after that, resurfacing only recently as an accountant for the Morris family.

Rachel leaned back in her chair, her mind racing. What had driven Atticus to leave the priesthood and pursue a career in finance?

She thought back to Mrs. Morris's revelation about Atticus's knowledge of the meeting with the cartel. Had he seen an opportunity for revenge, a chance to strike back at the very people who had taken his parents from him? Or to protect… Rebecca from the same fate as his parents?

She shivered.

The pieces were falling into place, but Rachel knew she needed more. She had to find a way to connect Atticus to the murders, to prove that he was the one behind the wheel of that green sedan.

She nodded. Atticus was the one to look into.

Rachel pulled out her phone, scrolling through her contacts until she found Ethan's number. She hit the call button, but it went straight to voicemail. A flicker of unease stirred in her gut.

She tried again. Still no answer.

"Ethan, it's me. I've got a lead on our suspect. Call me back as soon as you get this."

Rachel ended the call, her fingers tightening around the phone. Something wasn't right. Ethan always answered his phone.

She looked around, her senses on high alert. The crime scene was nearly deserted now, just a few stragglers from the forensics team packing up their gear. No sign of Ethan.

She broke into a jog, heading towards the parking lot where she had last seen him.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she wove between the parked cars, scanning for any sign of Ethan's familiar silhouette. Nothing.

Then she saw it. Ethan's car, parked at the far end of the lot. The driver's side door was ajar, and there was a dark stain on the pavement beneath it.

Rachel's blood ran cold. She drew her gun, moving cautiously towards the vehicle. "Ethan?"

No response. She edged closer, her finger hovering over the trigger. The stain on the ground was red and slick. Blood.

And the car was empty.

No sign of her partner.

Ethan was nowhere to be seen.