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And now, entering the precinct under the midday sunlight, she felt prepared. Ethan at her side, the two of them strode through the precinct, having rehearsed their roles in the upcoming interrogation.
The police station buzzed with the humdrum of early chaos, a symphony of ringing phones and muffled conversations. Through an open door at the end of the hall, guarded by a beat cop, Rachel's gaze was fixed on Silas, who sat slumped in the interrogation room. His bruised knuckles were a stark contrast against the cold metal table, his features shadowed by the downcast lighting. She noted the defiant tilt of his jaw, the way his eyes seemed to hold the weight of untold stories.
His face was also bruised thanks to more than one branch that had protested his intrusion the previous night as he'd fled the rodeo.
Ethan glanced at Rachel. "You still want me to take the lead?"
"He hates me," she said simply. "Let's try it your way."
He patted her on the back, leaving his hand trailing against her shoulder a few seconds more than might have been usual between colleagues, and then he entered the room.
She straightened her shoulders and followed after her partner, closing the door behind them as they stepped into the interrogation space.
"Silas, right?" Ethan's voice cut through the tension as he sauntered in, pulling up a chair opposite the sullen man. His smile was easy, disarming. "I'm Ethan. And you've met my partner, Rachel."
"Seen her around," grunted Silas, eyeing Ethan warily.
"Sorry about the cuffs," Ethan continued, gesturing casually as if discussing the weather. "Procedure, you know?"
Silas shifted, metal clinking. "Yeah."
"Mind if I ask—" Ethan began, leaning forward, elbows on the table, "about those bruises? Looks like you've had quite the night."
"None of your business," Silas muttered.
"Fair enough," Ethan conceded with a nod, his demeanor unfazed. He tapped a finger on the table, a rhythmic beat that filled the silence. "You're a tough guy, I can see that. Takes a lot to rattle you."
"Guess so."
"Thing is," Ethan said, voice low and confiding, "we're not here to rattle you, Silas. Just want to clear some things up."
Rachel observed as a flicker of curiosity passed over Silas' face. Ethan had a knack for this—turning walls into windows. She could almost hear the gears turning in Silas' head, considering Ethan's open expression, weighing his options.
"Clear what up?" Silas asked, cautious but engaged now.
"Let's start with where you were last night," Ethan suggested, his tone conversational, as if they were old friends catching up. "Before the rodeo, I mean."
"Was home," Silas replied, with a shrug that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Alone?"
"Yep."
"Anyone who can verify that?"
"Does it matter?" Silas challenged, but his defiance seemed hollow.
"Helps us help you," Ethan responded smoothly, his eyes never leaving Silas.
Rachel stayed silent, watching the interplay. This dance of words and wills was Ethan's forte. He had a way of peeling back layers without a knife—a gift that made him invaluable in rooms like these. It was all about trust, and somehow, Ethan instinctively knew how to build it, brick by invisible brick.
"Alright," Silas sighed, relenting slightly. "Neighbor might've seen me. Old Mrs. Carmody. Always sticking her nose out the window."
"Great," Ethan smiled, jotting down the name. "See? That wasn't so hard."
Rachel's gaze lingered on the two men before her, separated by a chasm of circumstance but bridged by an invisible thread of shared origins. Both Ethan and Silas had the dust of small Texas towns clinging to their boots, a silent testament to hardscrabble lives and sweltering summers that bonded men in ways cities could not comprehend.
"Ever been out to the old Blackburn Mine?" Ethan asked casually, leaning back in his chair with the ease of someone who wasn't caged within four walls.
