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Was he digging a grave?
Her voice, sharper than intended, cut through the hush of the cabin. But the sheriff didn't turn back.
"Rachel?" The voice was low, seasoned with years and smoke, and Rachel turned again.
Aunt Sarah stood in the frame of the kitchen doorway, arms folded, an unreadable expression painting her features. But her eyes held a knowing gleam, a shared secret glinting in their depths.
"Give me a minute, Aunt Sarah." Rachel's gaze flickered between the steadfast figure of her aunt and the diminishing form of the sheriff.
"Information doesn't wait for anyone, dear," Aunt Sarah said, her tone laced with warning.
"What was that text about?" Rachel insisted, her voice shaking.
"He's dead," Aunt Sarah said abruptly, tossing another log into the hearth. Her words felt like stones dropping into the still waters of Rachel's mind.
"Dead?" Rachel's voice was barely above a whisper. Her thoughts raced. "How?"
"Things happen out here in the wild," Aunt Sarah replied, her tone nonchalant, but her eyes told a different story—a flicker of darkness that wasn't there before.
Rachel's pulse quickened. She pictured her aunt, this stern figure of solitude, standing over the cartel man. What had she done? What had she learned? The questions clawed at her insides, desperate for release.
"Did you talk to him before it happened?" Rachel probed, her mouth dry, feeling the weight of each word. "I told you to leave him alone!"
"Talk is a gentle way to put it." Aunt Sarah settled into an armchair, the leather creaking under her resolve. She looked up, meeting Rachel's gaze squarely. "He was not a man accustomed to giving up secrets willingly."
An interrogation. Rachel's heart hammered against her ribs. Aunt Sarah had pushed, prodded for answers. Answers that could unravel the tightly wound mystery of her mother's past. And now...
"He's dead?"
"Yes."
"He's not..."
Rachel approached the door to the basement. She had to see for herself. She flung it open. She took the stairs two at a time. And stared.
The cold, gray wall was empty. The cold of the room seeped into her bones, and she turned sharply, moving back up the stairs with shaking steps.
"He's gone," Rachel said simply.
"You... killed him."
"He killed himself," Sarah spat.
"How?"
"He used the chain."
"I... I don't believe you. You've made me an accessory to murder!" Rachel's voice shook.
"Believe what you want. I'm telling you the truth."
Rachel could feel herself hyperventilating. She stared at her aunt with a horrified look in her eyes. She calmed herself, forcing her breathing to turn to a more regular pattern.
"You spoke to him. I told you not too."
"We had to speak. You can't control the wind, Rachel."
Rachel wanted to protest further, to yell, but it would've been like kicking a granite boulder. Her aunt was indifferent to Rachel's emotions.
