CHAPTER NINETEEN

Sleep was for another soul.

Rachel was still on the move. Three hours north of her previous location, she’d returned to the place it had all started.

She wished she hadn’t dived into Atticus’ history. Hadn’t learned about the abuse under his parents’ harsh hands. He’d tried to become a priest but hadn’t made it far. According to one medical report, Atticus suffered from something called scrupulosity—a form of ethical OCD that had tormented him from a young age.

And according to some of the audio messages they’d found on his phone, he thought he was pleasing the divine by exacting mercy killings. Mercy on the wounded. Mercy on the sinful. All of it ending in death.

And then his self-righteous, morally absolute parents had been killed by a cartel. The fascination with that form of organized crime had driven him over the edge when Robert Morris had brought them in as business associates.

The scrupulosity had taken over, coupled with the trauma and a righteous vengeance… and now… So many dead.

And it had almost ended in Ethan’s death.

She bit her lip, forcing her mind to refocus.

Rachel pushed through the dense underbrush, her breaths coming in sharp, painful gasps. Each step sent a fresh jolt of agony through her battered body, but she gritted her teeth and pressed on. The dark woods closed in around her, the thick canopy blocking out the moonlight and casting eerie shadows across the forest floor.

She followed the faint trail left by her aunt's passage, her keen eyes picking out the subtle signs of disturbed foliage and snapped twigs. The coppery scent of blood mingled with the earthy aroma of the forest, a constant reminder of her own injuries and the violence that had brought her to this point.

Rachel's mind raced as she moved deeper into the woods, her thoughts consumed by the revelations that had shattered her world. Her aunt, the woman who had raised her, was somehow connected to her parents' deaths. The betrayal cut deeper than any physical wound, fueling her determination to uncover the truth.

The trail grew fresher as she advanced, the broken branches and scuffed earth indicating her aunt's increasing desperation. Rachel's heartbeat thundered in her ears, adrenaline coursing through her veins as she anticipated the confrontation to come.

Her hand tightened around the grip of her gun, the cold metal a reassuring presence against her palm. Years of training and experience had honed her instincts, preparing her for the dangers that lurked in the shadows.

As she pushed through a particularly dense thicket, Rachel caught a flicker of movement ahead. She froze, her muscles tensing as she scanned the area for any sign of her aunt. The forest seemed to hold its breath, the only sound the distant hooting of an owl and the soft rustle of leaves in the night breeze.

Rachel crept forward, her footsteps nearly silent on the forest floor. She could feel the anticipation building in her gut, a coiled spring ready to unleash at the slightest provocation. Her senses were heightened, attuned to the slightest change in her surroundings.

She emerged into a small clearing, the moonlight filtering through the branches overhead to cast a ghostly glow across the scene. And there, at the far edge of the clearing, stood a small, dilapidated shack, its weathered walls and sagging roof barely visible in the darkness.

Rachel's heart skipped a beat as she caught a flicker of movement from within the shack, a shadow passing across the grimy window.

Steeling herself for whatever lay ahead, Rachel advanced cautiously towards the shack, her gun at the ready. The truth, no matter how painful, was within her grasp.

Rachel approached the shack with measured steps, her boots barely making a sound against the damp earth. She kept her body low, using the shadows as cover, her eyes constantly scanning for any signs of danger.

The shack loomed before her, a decrepit structure that seemed to lean precariously to one side. The wooden walls were rotting, the roof missing shingles, and the window panes were cracked and coated with grime. It looked like a place where secrets went to die.

She paused at the corner of the shack, pressing her back against the rough wooden planks. The movement inside had ceased, replaced by an eerie stillness that set her nerves on edge.

Rachel's mind raced, trying to anticipate what awaited her inside. Her aunt, the woman who had raised her, who she thought she knew better than anyone. But now, doubt crept in like a poison, tainting every memory, every shared moment.

She took a deep breath, the damp, musty scent of the forest filling her lungs. Her fingers tightened around the grip of her gun, the metal cool and reassuring against her skin.

With a final steeling of her resolve, Rachel stepped around the corner and approached the shack's door. It hung slightly ajar, a sliver of darkness beckoning her forward.

She reached out with her free hand, her fingertips brushing against the rough, splintered wood. The door creaked open with the slightest pressure, revealing a yawning void within.

Rachel's heart pounded in her chest, adrenaline coursing through her veins. She knew that whatever waited for her inside would change everything, would shatter the fragile illusions she had clung to for so long.

But there was no turning back now. The truth, no matter how painful, was the only path forward.

With a final, steadying breath, Rachel stepped across the threshold and into the unknown.

Rachel's eyes adjusted to the dim interior, her gaze immediately drawn to the figure standing in the center of the room. Aunt Sarah, her posture tense, a cast iron skillet gripped tightly in her hands.

"Aunt Sarah." Rachel's voice was steady, belying the maelstrom of emotions swirling within her. "Put the skillet down."

Aunt Sarah's eyes narrowed, her knuckles whitening as she tightened her grip on the makeshift weapon. "Rachel. You shouldn't be here."

Aunt Sarah looked every bit the native woman: weathered and worn, but proud. Unyielding. Her dark hair hung loose, cascading over her shoulders. An echo of her people's spirit reflected in her eyes.

"I need answers." Rachel took a step forward, her gun trained on her aunt. "About my parents. About what really happened to them."

Aunt Sarah's jaw clenched, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her features. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Rachel's heart constricted, a wave of anger and betrayal crashing over her. "Don't lie to me. Not now. Not after everything."

Aunt Sarah slowly lowered the skillet, her gaze never leaving Rachel's face. "Your parents... It was an accident. That's all there is to it."

"No." Rachel shook her head, her voice rising. "There's more. There has to be. And you know something."

Aunt Sarah's shoulders sagged, a weariness settling over her. "Rachel, please. Let this go. Some things are better left in the past. Who’s been lying to you?”

She pictured the interrogation room. Pictured the men she’d tracked. She knew her aunt better than anyone.

How hadn’t she seen it before?

Aunt Sarah's eyes flashed with a hint of desperation. "I loved your parents. I would never do anything to hurt them."

"Then tell me the truth." Rachel's voice cracked, the weight of years of unanswered questions pressing down on her. "I deserve to know."

Aunt Sarah's gaze darted around the room, as if searching for an escape. "It's not that simple, Rachel. There are things... Things you don't understand."

Rachel's grip tightened on her gun, the metal biting into her palm. "Then help me understand. Because right now, all I can think is that you've been lying to me my entire life."

Aunt Sarah's shoulders slumped, a flicker of resignation crossing her face. "Your parents... They weren't who you thought they were."

Rachel's heart skipped a beat, a chill running down her spine. "What do you mean?"

Aunt Sarah hesitated, her gaze dropping to the floor. "They were involved in things. Dangerous things. Things that got them killed."

Rachel already knew this. Her aunt knew she knew it. A stall tactic. But stalling for what? Rachel’s senses were now on high alert. “What kind of things?"

Aunt Sarah shook her head, a bitter smile twisting her lips. "It's better if you don't know. Trust me."

"Trust you? How can I trust you when you've been keeping secrets from me all this time?"

Aunt Sarah's eyes met Rachel's, a flicker of regret shimmering in their depths. "I was trying to protect you, Rachel. To shield you from the truth."

“You weren’t. I know my mother was involved with White Cloud. I know they staged a heist. I know the money is missing, and someone double-crossed my mother. Was Dawes involved? He’s always loved you—did you use that? Is that why he’s been helping you?”

Sarah’s eyes narrowed.

“Tell me the truth !”

Aunt Sarah sighed, her shoulders sagging in defeat. "Your parents... They were thieves, Rachel. They got involved with the wrong people, and it cost them their lives."

“Were you one of those wrong people?”

Rachel’s sharp eyes caught a subtle shift in Aunt Sarah's expression. The flicker of relief, the way her eyes darted to the side, the tension in her jaw easing ever so slightly.

Stalling. For a reason.

The trail left for a reason.

Just then, the door to the shack burst open, the sudden intrusion startling them both. Sheriff Dawes stood in the doorway, his gun drawn and pointed directly at Rachel. "Drop the weapon, Ranger," he ordered, his voice cold and authoritative.

Rachel's mind raced, adrenaline surging through her veins. Dawes' presence confirmed her suspicions – this was a setup from the start.

She kept her gun trained on Aunt Sarah, her eyes flicking between her and the sheriff. The tension in the room was palpable, the air thick with the weight of unspoken secrets and betrayals.

"I said drop it," Dawes repeated, taking a step closer. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be."

Rachel's jaw clenched, her resolve hardening. She'd come too far to back down now.

Aunt Sarah's expression was unreadable, a mix of regret and resignation. "Please, Rachel," she pleaded, her voice trembling. "Just do as he says."

But Rachel knew better than to trust her aunt's words. Not anymore. She'd been fooled once, and she wouldn't let it happen again.

She suddenly moved, fast. Going low and whirling around.

In a flash, gunshots erupted, shattering the tense silence. Rachel and Dawes fired simultaneously, their bullets whizzing past each other in a deadly crossfire. The confined space of the shack amplified the deafening blasts, the acrid smell of gunpowder filling the air.

Rachel's shot splintered the wooden wall behind Dawes, while his bullet embedded itself in the doorframe mere inches from her head. Splinters rained down on her, but she didn't flinch, her focus unwavering.

Seizing the moment of chaos, Aunt Sarah lunged at Rachel, her arms outstretched, desperate to overpower her. But Rachel's instincts kicked in, her training taking over. She sidestepped the tackle, using her aunt's momentum against her.

She flung her towards Dawes.

Dawes had been aiming for another shot.

He fired just as Sarah slammed into him.

Rachel’s aunt released a shout of pain. Blood blossomed across her shirt, a sudden stark contrast against the faded fabric. Dawes stumbled back, his aim thrown off by the collision.

With a fluid movement, Rachel redirected her aim, her sights settling on Sheriff Dawes. His eyes widened as he realized his precarious position, his gun hand trembling.

Rachel fired.

Her bullet ripped through Dawes' shoulder, spinning him around and slamming him into the wall of the shack. He grunted in pain, his gun slipping from his fingers and clattering onto the wooden floor.

Aunt Sarah, dazed and bleeding, collapsed at Rachel's feet. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her hands clutched at her wound. Her eyes locked on Rachel’s with a pleading look.

Rachel lowered her gun, turning her attention to Aunt Sarah.

"Rachel," she wheezed out. "It was... a mistake. Your parents... They weren't supposed to die."

A wave of bitterness washed over Rachel. She knew that now. Her parents had been collateral damage in someone else's game. And Aunt Sarah had known all along.

Rachel gazed at her aunt one last time before stepping away and pulling out her radio to call for medical assistance.

"Dispatch, this is Ranger Blackwood," she reported in a steady voice. "I need an ambulance and backup at my location immediately."

A familiar voice crackled through the speaker. "Roger that, Blackwood. En route.”

Rachel stood there, her body so very, very tired. It felt as if she’d been searching for something her entire life only to have it snatched away in the final moments.

She slumped down at her aunt’s side, applying pressure to the wound.

But she already knew it was too late.

It was all just so, so late.