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The reservation loomed, a siren call to the part of her soul that could never rest. Her parents' specters might haunt her, but Rachel Blackwood was finally getting answers that had eluded her for decades.
Would her boss give her the leave to visit the reservation?
This wasn't how things were done, but she'd earned more than a little leeway with her partner and supervisor.
She tensed, then raised her phone, placing a call of her own.
CHAPTER TWO
The car kicked up a sluggish cloud of dust as it trundled down the reservation's parched road. Through the window, Rachel Blackwood watched the landscape unfurl—a tapestry of barren fields and forgotten stories. The sun was relentless, its rays like probing fingers, exposing every crack and blemish of the land. She felt a pang of discomfort as she took in the scene, the starkness reminding her of old wounds that never quite sealed.
"Quite the view, huh? Reminds me of those Westerns my dad used to watch—just needs a tumbleweed or two," Ethan quipped from the driver's seat. His voice had the buoyancy of someone who could find a silver lining in a thundercloud.
He spoke with a southern accent that hinted at his roots in a countryside not far from here. Rachel had grown up without a family, while Ethan, on the other hand, had grown up with more than his share--one of the youngest in a large family. Five kids? Eight? She'd forgotten but didn't want to ask again.
Any time she asked Ethan about his family, he could prattle on forever about his mother's cooking, or his brother, Sal's favorite fishing hole back in the "holler."
Rachel didn't respond; she just nodded slightly, her gaze remaining fixed on the outside world. Her silence was her sanctuary, a place where the dust couldn't reach.
"Hey, Rach, you think Greywolf still has that massive German Shepherd? What was his name...Thunder?" Ethan continued, his cheerfulness cutting through the heavy air inside the car.
Rachel's eyes narrowed slightly at the mention of her old mentor, her jaw tightening, but she kept her thoughts to herself. The corners of her lips twitched, almost imperceptibly. She respected Ethan's resilience, his way of filling the void with words when the quiet seemed too loud. But today, the quiet was her ally, and she wasn't ready to relinquish it—not yet.
"Ah, Thunder," Ethan sighed, mistaking her silence for remembrance. "Good ol' dog. Just like us, eh? Chasing down leads."
Rachel glanced at Ethan, acknowledging his attempt to lighten the mood. She appreciated it, even if she didn't partake. The car slowed, approaching the crime scene, their shared purpose drawing near once more.
She could feel the coarse grains of sand lifted by the wind, silently scraping against the glass, an abrasive whisper that matched the unease knotting her stomach.
"Look at that," Ethan Morgan said, his voice slicing through the thick silence that Rachel had wrapped around herself like a shield. "You ever see so much nothing and everything at the same time?"
His cheer was as relentless as the sun bearing down on them, an incongruent soundtrack to the scene that lay before her; dilapidated homes stood like relics, quietly testifying to a resilience that was both necessary and taken for granted. Rachel shifted in her seat, the leather creaking under her.
"Rachel?" Ethan's eyebrows arched high above his bright eyes, a stark contrast to her own furrowed brow and the stoic set of her jaw. But he didn't wait for her to answer, never did. "I bet it's even hotter out there than it is in here," he continued, tapping the dashboard where the AC sputtered a lukewarm apology.
"Can you imagine growing up here?" He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in rhythm with an unheard tune, filling the space with more than just his words.
"Every day," she murmured, the truth of it settling like dust in the air between them.
As they slowed, pulling along the side road that led to the crime scene, the reservation unfolded its story in silent vignettes—the sway of clothesline laundry dancing to a tune only the wind knew, a cluster of children kicking up clouds in their wake, the defiant green of stubborn weeds pushing through cracks in the pavement.
Rachel's gaze lingered on the children, their laughter carried on the wind. Their bare feet danced across the cracked asphalt. They were the heartbeat of the reservation, spirited souls bound by a heritage that pulsed through their veins.
Her attention shifted to the aging homes, each one with its own story etched into weathered walls. Faded paint peeled away like old skin, revealing layers of history that whispered secrets of triumph and struggle. The front porches sagged.
Through the car window, Rachel caught glimpses of elders sitting on worn rocking chairs, their lined faces etched with both sorrow and wisdom. They observed the passage of time with a stoic grace that seemed to defy the hardships they had endured. The past and present intertwined seamlessly in their eyes—a testament to a culture that refused to be confined or forgotten.
As they approached the crime scene, Rachel couldn't help but notice a shift in the atmosphere. The air grew heavy with anticipation, carrying echoes of pain.
She studied the landscape, taking in every detail with eyes hungry for understanding. Cacti stood tall and proud, their vibrant blooms defiant against the harsh desert backdrop. Mesquite trees stretched their gnarled branches towards the sky, offering fleeting patches of shade to those seeking respite from the unrelenting sun.
The smell of dust mingled with hints of mesquite smoke wafting from distant campfires.
"Must take some kind of tough," Ethan observed, his admiration genuine and unguarded as he navigated the car over the uneven road. "Say... how did you get the boss to agree to this? Not really in our purview, is it?"
"It is," Rachel said adamantly. "Especially with an official request."
"Was it? Official, I mean?"
