CHAPTER FIVE

Rachel paced back and forth at the staging ground of the search camp. Tents were set up as officers could be heard coordinating the desert search. Evening had passed, and now night fell heavy across the sky.

The desert starscape above was stunning, sparkling diamonds scattered across the black velvet backdrop of the night. But Rachel had no time to admire nature’s beauty. Not tonight. Not when a killer was out there somewhere, hiding, bleeding.

She stopped and turned to Ethan. His face was fixed in a grim expression, his eyes reflecting the urgency of their situation. They both knew the stakes. They both understood that every second they wasted gave the sniper more time to escape, allowed the trail to grow cold.

"We're losing him," she muttered, her eyes scanning over the satellite images of the desert spread out on the makeshift table before them.

"I know," Ethan replied, his voice low and controlled. "But we can't rush this. We need to be methodical."

Rachel glanced at him sharply. Ethan was right; of course he was. But it didn't make the waiting any less agonizing. The urge to storm into the desert, to chase after their quarry with guns blazing was strong.

She turned back to the satellite images, forcing herself to focus on the task at hand. She searched for anything that looked out of place - tire tracks, footprints, anything that might indicate where the sniper had gone after he escaped from his kill.

“Nothing,” she murmured. “ Nothing .” She glanced at Ethan. “What are we hearing from the chopper?”

Ethan winced, likely suspecting this would only further sour her mood. “Nothing good,” he said. No sign of him.”

“Dammit,” she said but caught herself before adding anything further. Rapidly, her thoughts were being swept from Aunt Sarah and Chief Dawes. The two of them were old friends and now on the run together. She couldn’t shake the image of Rebecca Morris, lying pale and bloated in the desert sun, puncture wounds from a rattlesnake in her ankle and the gunshot mortally piercing her.

“This asshole is a sadist… but he knows the desert,” Rachel surmised. “He chose the perfect spot for his kill. Escape routes in every direction, plenty of cover... He’s been planning this."

Ethan nodded, grim agreement etched into his features. "The desert is a killer's best friend. It hides tracks, obscures sightlines, swallows up sound... It's the perfect hideout."

Rachel turned her gaze back to the map. Her thoughts swirled, a maelstrom of frustration and fear. The sniper was out there somewhere, wounded but alive. He'd already proven himself capable of murder, and there was no reason to believe he wouldn't kill again.

“He was bold,” she said. “Taking shots at us?”

“Maybe we were the real targets,” Ethan pointed out.

She frowned, hesitating. “Maybe. Is Rebecca’s family at the station yet?”

Ethan nodded. “Waiting to be interviewed. But…”

“What?”

“Sounds like they’re acting strange.”

She turned to Ethan. “Strange how?”

He shrugged, glancing at his phone where an assisting ranger had been updating them on the Morris’ arrival.

"Defensive. Closed off," Ethan elaborated, his brow furrowed as he scrolled through the messages. "They're not cooperating as much as we'd expect considering their daughter just...well, you know."

Rachel gave a curt nod, her eyes narrowing in thought. Families, she knew, could be unpredictable in their grief.

"Have they been told about the...nature of her death?" Rachel asked gruffly.

Ethan nodded, his lips pressed into a tight line. "Yeah, they know. They're claiming they have no idea who'd want to hurt Rebecca."

Rachel sighed, spinning back towards the map. Her fingers traced over the stretch of desert land where Rebecca's body had been found. The wound from the snakebite would have immobilized her, left her helpless to whatever came next.

It was the gunshot that stirred deeper questions within her. A rattlesnake bite was one thing—it could be chalked up to bad luck or recklessness, but a gunshot?

She frowned. “A sadist… but… what if…”

Ethan studied her.

“What if that’s backwards?”

“How so?”

"What if he was taking her out of her misery? What if the snakebit was… that was seen as a horrible way to die. Right? What if he got cold feet? What if he shot her to speed up the death?"

“You’re saying he showed her mercy by shooting her? Doesn’t explain the snake. Tying her out here. Doesn’t explain shooting at us.”

“Two killers?”

“Two personalities?” Ethan said. “It’s possible…”

Rachel sighed. She glanced once again at a picture of the cartel pendant found near the body. A red herring?

“So what now?” Ethan asked. “The search could take all night.”

“Could take all week,” Rachel murmured.

Part of her wanted to tip back her white hat, to march forward and join the search parties. But another part of her knew that the best use of her time was to approach this from multiple angles.

Staring at the pendant, she slipped it into her pocket. "I'm going to meet with the family," she said, her gaze settling on Ethan. "And I'm going to push them a little bit."

Ethan raised an eyebrow. "You think they're hiding something?"

"I think they're scared," Rachel replied. "Something's going on. Maybe they know more than they're letting on. Or maybe... maybe they know exactly who's behind this, and they're afraid for their lives."

Ethan nodded, understanding, lighting his eyes. Families often held secrets and hidden fears that only came to light under the harsh glare of a murder investigation.

"Alright," he agreed, stepping back from the map. "I'll coordinate here. See if we can find the bastard.”

Rachel reached out, placing a steady hand on his shoulder as he turned to leave. "

Ethan, remember," she cautioned, her gaze meeting his. "This guy's injured but still dangerous. Assume he's armed and ready for a fight."

He offered her a tight nod, a hint of a smile touching his lips despite the grim situation. "Thanks, Rae. I'll keep that in mind."

She watched him go, then turned back to the map once more. Every instinct screamed at her to join the search, to hunt down the man responsible for Rebecca's death, but she knew she had a different role to play now.

Two angles. A two pronged approach.

Racing off into the desert wouldn’t help anyone. But finding out what the Morris’ knew? It could change the game.

She let out a slow, leaking sigh, and then adjusted her hat and marched away from the coordinated search efforts.

***

Rachel watched the Morris’ from a distance, studying their body language. She saw the way Rebecca’s mother clung to her husband, her face a mask of frozen grief. Father stood tall despite the weight of despair that visibly hung from his shoulders. He was doing his best to hold himself together - for his wife's sake no doubt.

But as she watched Mr. Morris closer, she realized it was something else. He wasn’t quite trying to comfort his wife. Rather, he stood coldly at her side, wearing a deep frown. He occasionally arose from the chair he’d been given in the interview room, and he would pace back and forth.

He had the appearance of a well-to-do career man:

sharp suit, polished shoes, well-groomed hair. Yet, despite this carefully crafted exterior, Rachel could see the cracks beginning to show. His fists were balled up at his sides, his jaw set tight. There was a fire in his eyes that didn't match the quiet despair of someone simply mourning a loss.

Still, she knew better than to jump to conclusions. Appearances could be deceiving.

With a deep breath, she pushed open the door to the interview room.

The couple looked up as she entered, their eyes filled with apprehension and grief, but also something else. A type of discomfort, perhaps?

Again, she decided not to jump to any conclusions.

Rachel greeted them with a nod of her head, her expression reflecting her serious intent. She knew her appearance could sometimes be off-putting. Especially as she had a bandage wrapped around her arm, and she wore her dusty flannel shirt. Her white hat was tipped back along the strand of turquoise beads to drape under the brim, grazing her cheek.

Rachel took a seat across from the couple, the metal chair scraping against the concrete floor as she pulled it out. She placed a manila folder on the table between them, her movements deliberate and precise.

"Mr. and Mrs. Morris," she began, her voice even and professional. "I'm Ranger Blackwood. I appreciate you coming in to speak with me today."

Mr. Morris gave a curt nod, his eyes darting from Rachel to the folder and back again. "Of course," he said, his voice tight. "Anything to help find out what happened to our daughter."

Rachel noted the way his hands gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white. She glanced at Mrs. Morris, who sat silently beside her husband, her eyes downcast.

"I understand this is a difficult time for you both," Rachel said, her tone softening slightly. "I want to assure you that we're doing everything we can to get to the bottom of this."

She opened the folder, revealing a stack of documents and photographs. As she began to spread them out on the table, she watched the couple's reactions closely.

Mr. Morris leaned forward, his eyes scanning the papers with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. Mrs. Morris remained still, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. The photos were of Rebecca’s car and of the desert road leading to the crime scene. None of the actual crime scene photos were on display.

Rachel cleared her throat, drawing their attention back to her. "I'd like to start by asking you a few questions about Rebecca," she said, her gaze steady. "Can you tell me about her work as a journalist?"

Mr. Morris shifted in his seat, his jaw clenching. "She was always sticking her nose where it didn't belong," he muttered, his voice low and bitter.

Rachel raised an eyebrow, her interest piqued. She leaned forward, her elbows resting on the table. "What do you mean by that, Mr. Morris?"

Mrs. Morris remained slumped in her chair, her shoulders hunched and her eyes fixed on the floor. Her once vibrant blonde hair now hung limp and dull around her face. The lines around her eyes and mouth seemed deeper, etched by worry and exhaustion.

Rachel studied her for a moment before turning her attention back to Mr. Morris. "Can you elaborate on what you meant about Rebecca sticking her nose where it didn't belong?"

Mr. Morris let out a sharp exhale, his fingers drumming against the table. "She was always chasing stories, even if it meant putting herself in danger or hurting her family."

Rachel nodded, jotting down a quick note. "And what kind of stories did she typically pursue?"

There was a pause, and then Mrs. Morris spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. "She liked to expose corruption. She said it was her duty as a journalist."

Rachel leaned forward slightly, her eyes locked on Mrs. Morris. "Did her work ever cause problems for your family?"

Mrs. Morris glanced at her husband, who remained silent, his jaw clenched. She hesitated, then nodded. "Sometimes. She received threats. We were worried about her safety."

"When was the last time you spoke with Rebecca?" Rachel asked, her gaze shifting between the couple.

Mrs. Morris's hands trembled as she clutched a tissue, her eyes pleading with Rachel. "Please, just tell us what happened to our daughter. How did she die?”

Rachel maintained a composed expression, her voice gentle but firm. "I understand your concern, Mrs. Morris, but I'm afraid I can't disclose any details about the investigation at this time. We're doing everything we can to find answers."

Mrs. Morris's shoulders slumped further, a choked sob escaping her lips. Rachel's attention, however, was drawn to Mr. Morris, who sat rigidly in his chair, his hands balled into fists on the table.

His eyes, dark and stormy, flickered with an emotion Rachel couldn't quite place. Anger? Resentment? She studied him intently, noting the tension in his jaw and the vein pulsing at his temple.

The air in the room felt thick, suffocating. Rachel's instincts told her there was more to Mr. Morris's demeanor than just a father's concern for his missing daughter.

She leaned forward slightly, her voice calm and measured. "Mr. Morris, I can't imagine how difficult this must be for you. Is there anything you'd like to share about Rebecca, anything that might help us understand her situation better?"

Mr. Morris's eyes snapped to Rachel's, a flicker of defiance in his gaze. He remained silent, his lips pressed into a thin line.

Rachel held his stare, unwavering. The seconds ticked by, the only sound in the room the soft ticking of the wall clock and Mrs. Morris's muffled sniffles.

Finally, Mr. Morris spoke, his voice low and controlled. "Rebecca made her choices. She knew the risks of her job, the enemies she made. She didn't care about the consequences, about how it affected her family."

Rachel nodded slowly, her mind processing his words. The resentment in his tone was palpable, hinting at a deeper rift between father and daughter.

She glanced at Mrs. Morris, who seemed to shrink further into her chair, her eyes fixed on the floor. The dynamic between the couple was strained.

Rachel leaned forward slightly, her elbows resting on the metal table. "Mr. Morris, I understand that Rebecca's work may have caused some difficulties for your family. Can you tell me more about that?"

Mr. Morris's jaw clenched, his fingers curling into fists on the table. "Difficulties? That's an understatement. She nearly ruined us, dragging our name through the mud with her so-called investigations."

Rachel's eyes narrowed, her instincts as a ranger telling her there was more to the story. "What kind of investigations?"

Mr. Morris scoffed, shaking his head. "She went after powerful people, poking her nose where it didn't belong. And for what? Some misguided sense of justice?"

Mrs. Morris's head snapped up, her eyes wide with alarm. "Robert, please..."

But Mr. Morris ignored her, his attention focused solely on Rachel. "She didn't care about the consequences, about the damage she caused. She was selfish, reckless. And now look where it's gotten her."

Rachel sat back in her chair, her mind racing. The tension in the room was thick, the air charged with unspoken secrets and long-held grudges.

She studied Mr. Morris's face, taking in the lines of anger and frustration etched into his features. There was something more than just a father's concern behind his words, a bitterness that spoke of a deeper wound.

Rachel's gut told her that the key to unlocking the mystery of Rebecca's disappearance lay in the tangled web of her family's history. She would need to proceed with caution, to peel back the layers of resentment and hurt to uncover the truth.

But for now, she had to keep Mr. Morris talking, to gather as much information as she could. She took a deep breath. She leaned forward, her elbows resting on the cold metal table. She fixed Mr. Morris with a steady gaze. "I understand that there may be some difficult history between you and your daughter. But I need you to be honest with me. When was the last time you spoke with Rebecca?"

Mr. Morris's jaw clenched. He glanced at his wife, who had gone pale, her hands trembling in her lap. "It's been... a long time. Years, maybe. She cut us out of her life, decided she didn't need her family anymore."

Rachel noted the bitterness in his tone, the way his words dripped with resentment. "And why was that? What happened between you?"

Robert Morris' eyes flashed with anger. "She betrayed us. Betrayed everything we stood for. She went after my business, my reputation. Wrote those damn articles, stirred up trouble where there was none."

Mrs. Morris reached out, placing a hand on her husband's arm. "Robert, please. This isn't helping."

But Mr. Morris shook her off, his voice rising. "No, she needs to hear this. Our daughter was a traitor. She turned her back on her own family, on everything we gave her. And for what? To play at being some kind of hero? To make a name for herself, no matter who she hurt in the process?"

Rachel watched the exchange, her mind whirring. The pieces were starting to fall into place, the picture of a family torn apart by secrets and lies.

She turned back to Mr. Morris, her expression neutral. "I understand that you're angry, Mr. Morris. But I need to know more about these articles Rebecca wrote. What exactly did she uncover? And who was hurt by her revelations?"

Mr. Morris hesitated, his eyes darting back and forth between Rachel and his wife. For a moment, Rachel thought he might refuse to answer. But then he sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

Mr. Morris pulled out his phone, his fingers jabbing at the screen with barely contained rage. "She went after my business partners, my clients. Anyone she thought might have a skeleton in their closet. She didn't care about the consequences, about the lives she was ruining."

He thrust the phone at Rachel, the screen displaying a series of articles with bold, accusatory headlines. "There. See for yourself what our daughter was capable of."

Rachel scrolled through the articles, her eyes widening as she took in the scope of Rebecca's investigations. Corruption, fraud, abuse of power - it seemed no one was safe from the young journalist's probing gaze.

Mrs. Morris's sobs grew louder, her face buried in her hands. "Please, Robert. Don't do this. Don't drag our family through the mud."

But Mr. Morris ignored her, his attention fixed solely on Rachel. "She was sleeping with her sources, you know. Using her body to get what she wanted. She was no better than a common whore."

The words hung in the air, harsh and unforgiving. Rachel felt a surge of anger on behalf of the absent Rebecca, a woman she had never met but whose fierce determination she couldn't help but admire.

She set the phone down, her gaze level as she met Mr. Morris's eyes. "I'll need copies of these articles, Mr. Morris. And any other information you have on your daughter's work."

He nodded, his jaw clenched tight. "Take whatever you need. But don't say I didn't warn you, Ranger Blackwood.”

“Warn me? About what?”

Mr. Morris just shrugged a single time.

Rachel took a steadying breath, the weight of the Morris family's turmoil settling heavily on her shoulders. She turned her attention back to Mr. Morris, her voice level but insistent. "Mr. Morris, I need you to tell me more about these articles. Who exactly was affected by them?"

Mr. Morris huffed, his eyes darting away from Rachel's probing gaze. He fiddled with his phone, seemingly reluctant to divulge more information. After a long moment, he spoke, his voice low and strained. "Some business associates of mine. People who had invested in my company. Rebecca's articles... they painted them in a bad light. Accused them of insider trading and other illegal activities."

Rachel leaned forward, her interest piqued. "And were those accusations true?"

"No!" Mr. Morris's response was sharp, his hand slamming down on the table. "They were baseless lies, meant to ruin good people's reputations. Rebecca had no proof, no evidence. She just wanted to stir up trouble."

Rachel nodded slowly, she kept her face expressionless and her tone impassive, adopting a veneer of stoicism. “I need specific names, please.”

He looked trapped, but then, at a glance at his wife's teary eyes, he released a long, pent-up breath and said,

"Fine. There were three of them. Mallory Standish, an old oil man from Lubbock. Charles Thorne, a tech investor from Austin. And Elias Grant; he owns real estate all over the state.”

Rachel made quick notes of the names, jotting them down on her pad with precision. She did not miss Mr. Morris's tone when he mentioned the last name, Grant. A slight hardening of his voice, a tiny furrow in his brow.

"Tell me more about Elias Grant," she prompted.

"He's... he's just a business associate," Mr. Morris responded hastily, a little too hastily.

Rachel saw how his wife looked away at the mention of Grant's name, pulling at the edges of her cardigan nervously. She stored away this observation for later reference.

"Do any of these people have reason to harm your daughter?" Rachel asked. There was no accusation in her voice, just a plain question needing an answer.

"No!" Mr. Morris exploded suddenly, surprising both women in the room. "They had nothing to do with Rebecca's disappearance! They're good people! It was all her fault! She brought this on herself!"

Mrs. Morris let out a soft sob, head bowed low as if trying to escape the harsh truth of her husband's words.

Rachel double-checked the three names she’d written down.

Rachel watched Mr. Morris silently for a moment, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his hands clenched into fists on the table. She was well versed in reading people, their body language often more truthful than their words. His anger was still palpable, but there was something else now, something that hadn't been there before. Fear.

"Why are you frightened, Mr. Morris?" Rachel asked softly, allowing her voice to drop into a gentle lull.

The room went quiet save for the muffled sobs of Mrs. Morris. Mr. Morris’s eyes darted towards his wife and then back to Rachel, his hardened demeanor crumbling.

"I'm not... I'm not afraid." He stammered out, refusing to meet her gaze.

"You're lying," Rachel said flatly. She held his gaze steadily, the silence in the room stretching on.

Mr. Morris opened his mouth to argue but closed it again, swallowing hard. He ran a hand through his hair, looking suddenly older and more tired.

"I didn’t want her to get involved with Elias Grant," he finally admitted in a whisper so low Rachel barely heard it.

"Elias Grant?" she prompted.

"He’s... powerful,” Mr. Morris muttered, “And dangerous."

"Dangerous how?" she pressed her fingers tapping lightly on the table in a steady rhythm, a subtle signal of her growing impatience.

Mr. Morris hesitated again, clearly wrestling with the knowledge he held. His eyes flicked worriedly towards his wife who was now quietly watching him, waiting for him to speak up.

"He's involved in some things… things he shouldn't be," Mr. Morris finally muttered, his eyes darting back to Rachel, as though pleading for understanding.

Rachel’s eyes narrowed, her mind working quickly to process this new information. “I see,” she said, her voice flat and measured.

She took a moment to observe Mrs. Morris who kept quiet through it all, her hands clasped tightly on her lap, her gaze fixed on the cold, bare table. A dozen questions bubbled in Rachel's mind, but she knew better than to ask them all at once.

After a beat of silence, she asked, "Did Rebecca know this about Grant?"

Mr. Morris grimaced. "I... I don't know," he admitted. "She never mentioned him by name."

"But she was investigating him?"

Mr. Morris swallowed hard, clearly uncomfortable with the line of questioning.

"I… I guess so.” He fumbled with his hands as he spoke.

“And you think Grant found out?” Her eyes were fixed on Mr. Morris, observing his every micro expression.

“I don’t know…” He trailed off again. The silence stretched out between them, filled only by the distant hum of the air conditioning unit and the occasional sniffle from Mrs. Morris.

Rachel shifted in her chair, leaning back slightly as she absorbed the information before her. She regarded Mr. Morris with a steady gaze, her piercing eyes taking in the sweat on his brow and the tremble in his hand as he clenched and unclenched his fingers.

Three names.

But a fourth was obvious.

Morris himself.

Had one of them killed his daughter?

Only time will tell. But now, at least, she had a solid lead. She could only hope Ethan also had found something out in the search of the desert.