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And her?
She was a stain on the earth.
And she wouldn't be the last one.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Rachel emerged from her vehicle, scowling in the direction of the crime scene.
The sun beat down on the cluster of officers huddled at the edge of the pop-up community, their faces etched with lines of frustration and fatigue. They wore their anger like a second uniform, tight across their shoulders and furrowed into their brows. As Rachel approached, she caught snippets of their hushed, terse exchanges.
"Should've been secured hours ago," one grunted, eyes darting to the lifeless figure ahead.
"Damn shame," another muttered, his jaw clenched so hard it twitched.
This time, it was personal. One of their own was dead.
Rachel nodded in acknowledgment, her boots scuffing the dry earth as she wove through the sea of discontent.
The victim lay on the ground in the shadow of an old mineshaft tunnel.
She spotted the corpse in a stain of red.
She reached the victim, a female officer lying motionless, her uniform a stark contrast to the dirt beneath her. Rachel crouched, her movements precise, respectful. The woman's pockets were untouched, awaiting an investigator's hand.
Ethan stood behind her, a frown etched across his features.
"Officer down... hell of a thing," she whispered, fingers slipping into the fabric folds to seek out secrets the dead could no longer speak.
"Anything?" Ethan's voice was low but urgent.
A crumpled receipt, a pen, a half-empty pack of gum. Each item was cataloged with care, each telling its own small story of a life interrupted. Rachel's mind worked methodically, sifting through the possibilities.
Then, her fingers brushed something hard.
Her breath hitched quietly, the only outward sign of her quickening pulse. She drew the object out carefully.
"Got something?" Ethan leaned in closer, curiosity momentarily overriding the somber mood.
"Maybe," Rachel hedged. The item caught on a zipper, and Rachel paused, trying to extricate it.
The sharp scent of sagebrush mingled with the coppery tang of blood, a discordant odor to the grisly tableau before Rachel. The desert wind whispered through the desolate tents of the pop-up community near the old mineshaft, flapping canvas like the wings of carrion birds. Her fingers tracing the fabric of the uniform pocket, probing.
Finally extricating fabric from the zipper, with a deft movement, Rachel pulled out a small sack, the material dusty but glinting where gold flecks caught the stray beams of sunlight. She turned it over in her palm, the contents shifting with a soft clink that drew a tight line on Ethan's brow.
"More gold," she murmured. "Same as Whitehorse's daughter.
"Damn," Ethan exhaled sharply, "That can't be a coincidence."
Before she could respond, the air cracked with a new tension, voices raised in agitation sliced the stillness apart. Rachel's head snapped up to the commotion unfolding at the fringes of the makeshift settlement. Four swarthy men marched with an air of grim determination, their sleek suits incongruous against the canvas backdrop. They were an escort, their focus fixed on the man they flanked—Councilman Whitehorse.
Rachel stared as the councilman drew near, kicking up dust with his expensive loafers as he strode between members of his security detail.
He arrived, a tempest of energy, his presence commanding the space as two groups of reporters--who had clearly come with him, likely at his invitation--swarmed around him like moths to a flame. Their cameras clicked and flashed, each bulb burst casting stark light over the grizzled faces of the prospectors who peered out from their tents. Councilman Whitehorse moved with the assurance of someone used to the spotlight, yet there was a serrated edge to his demeanor, a father's anguish sharpened by loss and accusation.
Ethan said quietly, "this is about to get complicated."
Rachel tucked away the bag of gold in an evidence bag, making a mental note to drop it with forensics when they arrive, the weight of it now a leaden promise of a new lead in her jacket. Her gaze followed the councilman, watched as his eyes surveyed the scene—the grief etched into the lines of his face, the storm brewing behind his stare. She knew that look, had seen it mirrored in her own reflection too many times. It was the look of someone who had lost something irreplaceable, someone ready to tear the world apart for answers.
