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She pulled out her phone, intending to document the scene, but hesitated. Deep down, a part of her wanted to keep this secret, to hold it close. Yet she knew she couldn't do this alone. She'd need backup, a plan, someone to watch her six.
"Blackwood to Morgan," she whispered into the radio, static crackling in her ear before his voice came through.
"Go ahead, Rach."
"Found something. Mineshaft out in the woods off the West trail," she said, urgency sharpening her words. "Footprints leading inside. Fresh. And there's a mark... Silver."
"Same as the one on the boots."
"Exact same."
"Wait for backup, Rach. I'm on my way." Ethan's voice was steady, but she could hear the undercurrent of concern.
"Copy that. But hurry."
She clipped the radio back onto her belt, her gaze lingering on the entrance. The mineshaft exhaled a breath of cold air, raising goosebumps on her arms. She shivered, not entirely from the chill.
Inside her, excitement warred with trepidation. This could be it—the break in the case they had been waiting for—but she knew the dangers lurking in the dark could be more than just the physical.
Rachel took a deep breath, steeling herself against the unknown. Her hand closed around the flashlight with the familiarity of a seasoned explorer, the beam cutting through the black like a lifeline.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The beam from Rachel's flashlight trembled slightly as she stepped over the threshold into the tunnel's yawning mouth. Beside her, Ethan's light was steady, a fixed point in the enveloping darkness.
"Feels like trespassing," Ethan murmured, his voice a low hum in the cool, still air.
Rachel nodded, feeling the weight of the shadows that clung to them. The ground beneath their feet crunched with the debris of neglect. She could almost taste the mustiness, the damp earth mingling with something more ominous.
"Careful," Ethan said, as Rachel's foot caught on an unseen obstruction. He reached out a steadying hand, but she righted herself before he could make contact.
"Thanks," she replied, though her focus remained on the path ahead. Her senses were heightened, attuned to every subtle shift in the darkness.
Sunlight, a stranger to this place, managed to find its way through fissures in the ceiling. The light sliced the gloom, casting angular patterns that danced with each dust mote they disturbed. It was as if time itself had fractured.
She tensed, having rounded a bend and gone still.
"Ethan," she said softly, her voice trailing off into the dark.
Rachel noticed the shelters first, their patchwork forms clinging to the tunnel's aged walls like barnacles to the hull of a ship long stranded at sea. Cardboard and tarpaulin draped over bent skeletons of metal and wood—the crude architecture of necessity. Even in the weak light, it was clear they were on the verge of collapse; every gust of wind sent tremors through their fragile frames.
"Look," she murmured, directing Ethan's gaze with a nod. She stared, stunned at the scene. The inhabitants were almost part of the scenery—figures wrapped in layers of soiled clothing, their faces obscured by shadows or the hoods of their makeshift cloaks.
"Hey," Ethan said, his voice low, respectful, holding back his own surprise. "We're not here to cause trouble."
Eyes flickered toward them, reflecting more than just the flashlight's beam. Fear. It welled within those eyes, raw and palpable. Rachel could feel it, a silent echo of her own childhood uncertainties. She understood the instinct to shrink away, to become invisible when the world seemed too eager to overlook you.
"Any of you know Chey Whitehorse?" she ventured. Her words were steady, but there was an edge of urgency.
This was not what she'd been expecting to find in this place, but now new loops were circling, ready to be bound together.
A rustling sound came from one of the shelters as someone shifted, wary. A pair of hollow-eyed children peeked out, their expressions taut with unspoken questions. Rachel caught her breath, a shard of empathy piercing her professional veneer. What was this place? A homeless outpost here in the mineshaft?
Why hadn't anyone told her of this place?
“We just want to help,” she murmured.
There was a reluctant shuffle from within the depths of the tunnel, the sound of someone stirring against their better judgment. A figure emerged halfway, their features gaunt, etched with the hardships that this place had engraved upon its denizens.
