Page 26 of Raven's Mark
"What I always tell him. That we'll keep our ears open." Knox's voice hardens. "That's all there is to tell."
The finality in those words could cut glass. Whatever nerve that name just hit, Knox has sealed it off completely.
"Understood." Jesse doesn't push. "Stay sharp. Both of you."
"Always." The line goes dead.
Jesse stares at the phone for a moment, then pockets it. His jaw is tight, and the scar along the bone stands out white against his skin.
I pour a second cup of coffee and settle at the kitchen island with the laptop Jesse gave me. Uncle Robert's encrypted files arrived overnight through the cabin's satellite connection, just as he promised, and the decryption key unlocks a folder dense with intelligence reports, surveillance photos, and incident documentation that includes the notes and images I uploaded from the Pritchard ranch. The sheer volume tells me Shadowland's team has been building this case for years.
Jesse moves around the kitchen, cleaning the coffeepot and checking his phone, giving me space to work while staying close enough to be present. His restlessness is controlled and channeled into small tasks, but I can feel the tension radiating off him like heat from sunbaked stone.
I'm halfway through the first file when his phone rings again. Jesse answers in the living room with his voice low, and he moves further from the kitchen.
But the cabin isn't large, and his voice carries whether he wants it to or not.
"I don't care what it costs." His response to whatever was asked is immediate and absolute, stripped of everything except certainty.
There is a pause. Then louder, harder.
"She stays, Knox. That's not negotiable. If Carmichael's game goes sideways, if the cartel finds the cabin, if Harlan kicks down the door with a warrant and a SWAT team, I don't care. She won't be alone out there with a target on her back. Not while I'm breathing."
Silence. A long one.
"I've been at war for her since the night I put her on that plane."
My hand is still on the laptop keyboard. Jesse Hollister just drew a line in the sand with his own brother, choosing my safety over his family's, over his freedom, over his life.
The weight of that hits me harder than I'm ready for, and I feel the walls inside me starting to crumble. Emotions rush at me so fast that I'm nearly overwhelmed.
With sheer willpower, I force my attention back to the screen. The files need to be examined and the intelligence added to what we already know, and right now focus is the only thing keeping me from walking into that living room and doing something reckless.
The first file details the death of rancher Dale Sanderson, who died eighteen months ago when his horse allegedly threw him and he struck his head on a fence post. The investigating officer's report is signed by Sheriff Wade Harlan. Cause of deathis listed as accidental blunt force trauma, and Harlan closed the case within forty-eight hours.
The second file covers Miguel Torres, a cattle rancher whose property bordered the old smuggling routes Bo Hollister mapped out decades ago. Torres died fourteen months ago in what Harlan's office classified as a hunting accident. He suffered a single gunshot wound, ruled self-inflicted when Torres supposedly tripped while climbing a fence with a loaded rifle. The incident report is signed by Harlan, and the case was closed in under three days.
The third is Annette Graves, a seventy-two-year-old widow who had been running her ranch alone since her husband's death two years prior. Eight months ago, she died in a house fire that Harlan's office attributed to faulty electrical wiring. The fire marshal's report noted the blaze started in the kitchen, but the investigation was perfunctory, with no accelerant testing conducted. Harlan signed off on the accidental determination within a week.
I pull up the three new reports alongside the Pritchard file Uncle Robert sent me before I left El Paso, and I start reading them line by line.
The language is identical. Not similar. Identical.
"Investigation reveals no evidence of foul play" appears verbatim in all four reports for Sanderson, Torres, Graves, and Pritchard. "Cause of death consistent with accidental circumstances" is copied word for word across each document. Even the formatting is the same, with the same paragraph structure, the same sequence of observations, and the same concluding recommendation to close the case without further inquiry.
No investigator writes four separate reports over eighteen months using the exact same phrasing unless those reports were generated from a template. Sheriff Harlan didn't investigatethese deaths. He processed them, stamping each one with predetermined language designed to close the case as quickly and quietly as possible.
The Graves file includes something the others don't. There is a formal complaint filed by the deceased's daughter, Karen Graves-Mitchell, alleging that the fire investigation was inadequate and that her mother had reported threats from unknown individuals in the weeks before her death. The complaint was filed with the Gillespie County Sheriff's Office, and Harlan dismissed it personally, citing insufficient evidence to warrant reopening the investigation.
A woman reported threats before her death, and the sheriff who ruled that death accidental also dismissed the complaint about his own investigation. The conflict of interest alone should have triggered an external review. Instead, it disappeared into a filing cabinet.
I open a new document and begin building a timeline, mapping each death against property sales and the smuggling corridors Beckett identified yesterday. Uncle Robert’s files should have financials on Harlan somewhere in this mountain of data. I just need to find it. In the meantime, I can start with what's publicly available in campaign finance records, property deeds, and any civil complaints or disciplinary actions.
The hours pass, and the cabin is quiet around me except for the tap of my keys and the birds outside the window. Jesse moves back into the kitchen at some point and sets a fresh mug of coffee beside the laptop without a word. His fingers brush my shoulder as he withdraws his hand. The touch is brief, almost accidental, and it sends warmth radiating down my arm.
I don't look up. If I do, he'll see what I'm thinking, and what I'm thinking has nothing to do with Sheriff Harlan or dead ranchers or cartel pipelines.
When I finally close the laptop and lean back, the afternoon light has shifted, casting long shadows across the kitchen floor.
