Chapter 7 #2
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 death is 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 investigate these 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.
Jesse is in the leather armchair by the fireplace with a book open on his knee, but his eyes aren't on the page.
They're on me. His gaze is steady and watchful, and the look on his face is one I'm starting to recognize.
It is the expression of a man standing guard over something he considers his to protect, whether it wants protecting or not.
"I think Sheriff Harlan is worse than we thought." I turn in the chair to face him. "His name is on every single death report, and the language is identical, word for word across all four investigations. He's not even pretending to investigate."
Jesse closes the book and sets it on the side table. "What else did you find?"
"Annette Graves's daughter filed a formal complaint after the house fire.
She said her mother had been receiving threats before she died.
Harlan dismissed it himself, reviewed his own investigation, and closed it.
" I stand and stretch the stiffness from my back.
"I'm still digging through Uncle Robert’s files for financials, but the pattern alone is damning. "
Jesse rises from the chair. "Harlan has been operating unchecked for years. He's comfortable, and comfortable people get sloppy."
"They also get dangerous when they feel cornered."
"Then we don't corner him." Jesse's gaze holds mine. "We work through Carmichael's files, build the case tight, and coordinate with his team on timing. When the time comes, Harlan won't see it until the cuffs are on."
"Agreed." The word comes out steady and professional, and it's a small miracle given the way his proximity makes my pulse race.
He has crossed the room while I was talking, and now he's close enough that I can see the individual threads of silver at his temples and the fine lines at the corners of his eyes.
What he said to Knox changed something in me. The certainty in his voice when he told his brother I was staying, that it wasn't up for discussion, made it impossible to keep pretending this was just protection or obligation.
This man will go to war for me. Not because Uncle Robert ordered it and not because of a deal struck on the worst night of my life. Because he chooses to, and he would choose it again.
And that scares me more than the cartel ever could, because I'm not sure either of us is ready for what comes next.