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She could feel Ethan's presence like a silent sentinel at her back.
The man's lips twitched, the ghost of a smirk that didn't reach his cold eyes. "Talk, then."
Rachel turned her attention back to the women. "I need to know about Anna Longshadow."
Silence stretched, taut as a wire. Rachel's mind raced, calculating angles, reading body language. She knew the dance of interrogation, the push and pull of give and take. And she was ready to lead.
The air in the trailer was thick with apprehension, laced with the faint tang of tobacco and fear. Rachel perched on the edge of a rickety chair, her posture alert. Across from her, the women shifted uneasily, glancing at the handler, then away—caged birds too familiar with their keeper's gaze.
"Anna Longshadow," Rachel said softly, the name slicing through the silence.
She let the name hang between them like a specter, watching the flicker of recognition—and something darker—cross their faces.
"Knew her?" Ethan's voice was terse, his eyes probing.
A nod from the red-haired woman nearest to Rachel, her makeup a mask that didn't quite hide the quiver of fear in her lips. "Yeah."
"Longshadow," Rachel pressed on, "Anna Longshadow."
One by one, she met their gazes. Each is a story untold. Each a key to unlocking the night Anna last saw.
"Talked about leaving," one murmured, eyes darting to the floor.
"Leaving?" Ethan leaned in.
"Better money," the woman whispered, her voice a thread about to snap.
Rachel edged closer, her senses honed. Information was currency here. Hope and desperation traded in equal measure.
"Meetings?" she asked, each word deliberate, cutting through falsehoods and fears.
"Sometimes." A hesitant admission. "She had meetings... but this was different."
The red-haired woman was talking now, and the three others just looked scared, keeping their silence. So Rachel focused on the talker.
"Anna had a meeting? What sort?"
The air in the trailer was stale, clinging to Rachel's throat like a second skin. The three other women before her were statues of silence. Eyes hollowed by too many nights spent chasing oblivion. Ethan tapped a rhythm against his thigh, a Morse code of impatience.
"Border work," the red-haired one voice finally broke, a whisper flirting with courage. A girl with hair the color of rust, her fingers knotted together like roots seeking water.
"Smuggling?" Rachel ventured, her tone a scalpel peeling away layers. She pictured the truck driver smuggling cocaine. Was there a connection?
"More cash than this life." The woman’s eyes flicked to the side, then back, a quicksilver dance of fear and defiance. "Anna wanted out."
"Out?" Ethan echoed, his sandy hair catching the dim light as he leaned forward.
"Meeting someone," she continued, her voice barely above a breath. "The night she died."
Rachel’s pulse quickened. Ethan’s foot stopped tapping. The trailer seemed to contract around them.
"Who?" Rachel asked, the single word sharp and loaded.
"Didn't say." The woman's eyes were darting now, like a cornered animal. "Just that it was big. Bigger than any street corner score."
Ethan scribbled in his notebook—quick, short strokes. Rachel studied the woman’s face, trying to etch it into memory. Every line, every scar. They were clues in human form.
"Did Anna mention a place?" Ethan prodded, with a calm that Rachel admired.
