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"Let me go!" The spiky-haired young man's plea was frantic, his body trembling under Rachel's firm hold. Eyes wide, darting to where Ethan loomed near.
"Can't do that," Ethan said, his tone flat but not unkind.
"Look, you don't understand." Tommy's words stumbled over each other, tripping in their haste to be heard. "Didn't know you were cops. A mistake is all."
"A mistake? So you ran?"
"I'm scared!" he retorted.
"Scared of what?" Rachel's mind raced, analyzing, searching for leverage in his fear.
"Everything," Tommy whispered, his breath hitching. "It's all messed up."
"Start making sense," Rachel demanded, though her grip softened just enough to let him breathe easier.
"This place is dangerous." Tommy's eyes flickered with the ghost of memories best left in darkness. His struggle ceased, replaced by a resignation that seemed too heavy for someone so young.
"We were told you knew Chey Whitehorse."
He breathed out, his eyes darting to the side as if expecting shadows to betray him. "I knew Chey. We're... we were close."
The youth beneath her seemed a stark contrast against the grime of the tunnel floor. The erratic light from Ethan's flashlight caught the edges of Tommy's spiky hair, each strand tipped with the remnants of faded green dye. His face, though smeared with the earth and sweat of their chase, bore an innocence marred by recent terror. His lips, chapped and bitten, trembled with each confession. He couldn't have been much past eighteen. Maybe younger.
"Close how?" Rachel pressed, the weight of authority pressing into her voice.
"Like... like she was my girlfriend-ish, okay?" Tommy's gaze flickered up to meet hers, a plea for understanding—or forgiveness—etched into his youthful features.
Rachel studied him; the sharp angles of his jaw, the frenetic pulse visible at his throat, the way his oversized jacket hung off his slender frame like a child playing dress-up in a world too perilous for games.
"Please," Tommy's voice cracked, his eyes searching hers for mercy. "I just wanna go home."
"Home's not where you're headed if you don't start talking," Ethan interjected, his silhouette rigid against the darkness.
Tommy's breath came in ragged pulls, his chest heaving like a bellows stoking a hidden flame. Rachel watched him, her eyes narrowing to slits as she gauged the truth in his jittery movements. She gave him space, a hunter allowing her prey a moment's illusion of safety.
"Chey and I," Tommy began, the words scraping out of him like gravel on asphalt, "we were... together. Dating, you know?" His gaze flicked to the side, avoiding her penetrating stare. "Jack needed us for... for prospecting."
"Jack? Who's Jack?" Rachel said sharply.
"Er... I mean... no one."
"Who's Jack?" Ethan chimed in, more firmly.
Tommy let out a lacking sigh. "Just... He worked with us, sometimes. needed the help."
"Help doing what?"
"What everyone here does," Tommy said quietly. "Prospecting."
Prospecting. The word clung to the stale air, thick with implications. Rachel's mind raced, piecing together fragments of Chey's life, each one a tiny shard of stained glass that refracted an ominous hue. Her thoughts churned, a silent storm beneath the calm surface of her demeanor.
"Would anyone have wanted to hurt Chey? This Jack guy?"
"Uh... No... No, Jack wasn't like that."
"Did Jack threaten her?" Rachel's voice was low.
Tommy's head tilted back, his throat exposed, vulnerable. "No, I mean... not directly." He shivered, though the tunnel held no chill. "But when he got mad, he'd go dark, real dark. Scary."
