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"Let's go."
"Where to?"
"Track that number she called near midnight. See if the owner of that number knows what happened to Anna."
"Lead on, then," Ethan said, and together they stepped into the simmering twilight of the reservation and towards the parked unmarked sedan. "Looks like our caller is a Walter Boyd. Heard of him?"
"No. But he's outside the rez."
Ethan frowned as they slipped into the car.
Rachel began to drive, moving fast, time seeming to flit by the same as the desolate, desert landscape.
The Texas landscape watched the arrival of clouds, shadows stretching like fingers across the arid expanse. An old sedan kicked up a trail of dust as it barreled down the dirt road towards a solitary house perched on the edge of the reservation. Rachel's grip tightened on the steering wheel; her eyes, hawk-like, never wavered from the horizon.
"Boyd's place coming up," Ethan Morgan said, consulting the GPS as if they could miss it.
"Got it," Rachel replied, her voice low but edged with steel.
The sedan skidded to a halt, gravel crunching under its weight. They stepped out, boots sinking slightly into the earth, still warm from the day's relentless sun. Before them stood Walter Boyd's home, a dilapidated single-story structure with peeling paint and a roof that seemed to sag with the burden of secrets.
"Looks like he doesn't get many visitors," Ethan observed, eyeing the rusted-out mailbox hanging askew.
"Or he doesn't want any," Rachel countered, scanning the perimeter. Her thoughts were a rapid-fire sequence—entry points, potential threats, escape routes.
They approached the front door, the wooden planks groaning beneath their steps. Rachel's hand paused over her holster, her other raised to knock. But a sound stopped her cold—a shuffling from within.
"Boyd!" she called out, her voice carrying authority and an unmistakable note of urgency. "Texas Rangers. We need to talk."
Silence answered, thick and stubborn. Rachel exchanged a glance with Ethan, who nodded once. Her fist rapped sharply against the door.
There was no response.
Both of them stood on either side of the door.
Rachel glanced back, and frowned. Another sedan was barreling towards them, kicking up dust.
A police cruiser.
"Shit," she muttered.
Ethan followed her gaze and scowled. "Think he's following us?"
"Let's just hurry," she muttered.
She knocked on the door again, louder this time. "Mr. Boyd, this is the Texas Rangers. We need to speak."
The shuffling from within grew louder, accompanied by a heavy thud. Rachel and Ethan exchanged a wary glance, the tension palpable. The police cruiser was approaching swiftly, and she could feel her anxiety ratcheting up, but Rachel had often found herself with a scope to her eye, watching as a scene played out, and this was no exception.
Rachel tensed; her teeth set tightly. She pounded on the door. "Mr. Boyd, we know you're in there."
"Go away!" a voice called.
"We need to speak with you, sir!" Rachel returned.
A pause. "I don't know anything."
"We haven't even told you what this is about," Ethan returned.
