Jac didn’t remember arriving home. Later, she would try to recall the turns Bruce took, the traffic lights they must have stopped at, the way her hands felt from the warmth—but all she carried with her into the apartment was the image of Luke Ringer folding inward as if the wrung like a dish towel. The scream echoing down the alley followed her like a shadow through the door.

  She shut it behind her, leaned against it for a long moment, and closed her eyes. Her breathing came fast, shallow. The room around her devolved into chaos, as if she’d stepped out of a war zone and into a stranger’s life. The quiet was too real. The heat running in the vents was too warm for a night, which froze her so, rendering her cognitively petrified. Her keys clattered into the dish on the table, and the small sound rang out like something breaking.

  Her jacket was still on her back. Her gun and badge hung lopsided at her hip. She didn’t take any of it off. She just stood there staring into the dimness of her living room, waiting for her mind to return to her body. It didn’t. Not fully. What little she could muster still felt scattered and disorganized.

  When the phone rang, the sound cut through the fog like a blade. Jac jumped and scrambled for it, her heart pounding. For one wild, foolish second, she thought it might be Melody. She didn’t know why. Maybe because she wanted to hear a voice that wasn’t shouting or crying or giving orders. Maybe because she wanted something human to pull her back from the alley.

  She lifted the receiver.

  “Hello—”

  “Jacqueline?”

  The hope broke cleanly in her chest. She swallowed hard. “Hi, Mom.”

  Helen’s voice softened immediately, in that way only mothers could manage, a tone that felt like hands gathering the pieces of someone who’d fallen apart. “Baby, what’s going on? You’ve been avoiding my calls.”

  “I’ve been working,” Jac said, too fast. “Long shifts. I meant to call back.”

  “You don’t sound alright.”

  Jac closed her eyes. Behind her eyelids, she saw Ringer running, saw him on the ground, saw the impossible way his chest had caved. Her ears began to ring. “Just tired,” she managed.

  “Jac,” she said more firmly, “I saw the news. That alley where that poor man died—is that the case you’re on?”

  Jac pressed her hand to her forehead, rubbing the spot between her eyebrows. “We were… we were nearby.”

  “You were the first there.”

  Jac didn’t answer. Silence was answer enough.

  Her mother sighed through the phone, not exasperated, not dramatic—just weighted, the sound of a woman who’d been the wife of a police officer long enough to know what silence meant. “Sweetheart, talk to me.”

  “I can’t. Not the details. You know that.”

  “I’m not asking for a briefing. I’m asking if you’re alright.”

  And because lying to her mother was harder than facing a six-foot alley corpse, Jac let out a shudder of breath. “No,” she whispered. “I’m not.”

  For a moment, neither of them spoke. Jac listened to the background sounds from Helen’s end of the line—the hum of her kitchen, the faint clink of dishes being dried, the comforting domesticity of a life far away from body bags and police tape.

  Helen finally said, “Sit down.”

  “What?”

  “You sound like you’re standing. Sit down.”

  Jac blinked, but her legs moved on their own, carrying her to the couch. She lowered herself slowly, elbows on her knees, phone pressed against her cheek.

  Helen exhaled, a long steadying breath. “Alright. Let me tell you something about your father.”

  Jac’s heart tightened. Her mother didn’t bring up Jack very often—not because it hurt, but because she believed memories should be preserved, not handled like heavy stones.

  “He would’ve known exactly what to say to you tonight,” Helen went on, voice softening. “But I’ll do my best.”

  Jac stared at the floor.

  “Your father worked a case once,” Helen said, “long before you were born. They thought it was a drug ring at first. Just the usual ugliness. But after weeks of surveillance, they found out it was a front for something much worse. A human trafficking operation.”

  Jac sat up straighter, breath catching.

  “He was part of the team that took it down,” Helen continued. “He helped rescue the victims. They got the men running it. They were praised for it. ‘Heroes,’ the papers said.” A soft, sad laugh. “But I remember the night he came home afterward. He sat at the kitchen table, staring at his hands like he didn’t recognize them.”

  Jac felt her throat tighten.

  “He told me, ‘If all you look at are monsters, sooner or later that’s all you’ll think people are.’” Helen paused, letting the words settle. “He didn’t want that for himself. And he wouldn’t want that for you.”

  Jac pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, swallowing a sound.

  “Baby,” Helen said gently, “don’t let this case decide what kind of person you become. Don’t let it teach you the wrong lesson.”

  Jac inhaled shakily. “I just… I keep thinking we’re trying to protect people, but everyone we talk to ends up dead.”

  “That isn’t your fault.”

  “It feels like it is.”

  Helen’s voice softened even further. “Jacqueline, listen to me. The world needs people like you. People who still think folks are worth saving. If you lose that, you lose the best part of yourself. Hold onto it. Hold onto the part of you that sees people, not monsters.”

  Jac nodded, tears burning her eyes though none fell. “Okay.”

  “I love you,” Helen said. “Please don’t forget that.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Call me tomorrow.”

  “Okay, I will.”

  Jac hung up the phone, sat in the quiet, and let the words settle over her like a blanket she didn’t feel worthy of. She breathed in, breathed out, slow and deliberate, until she trusted her legs enough to move.

  She needed air. She needed movement. She needed to outrun the image of Ringer’s crushed ribs and the feeling of being hunted by something she couldn’t name.

  She changed into running clothes and stepped out into the cold Montana night.

  The air slapped her awake. She started with a jog, then pushed herself harder, running past darkened houses, Christmas lights still strung but unlit, down empty streets and past shuttered storefronts. Her breath puffed out in clouds. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She didn’t think—she just ran, the pavement slapping under her shoes in a steady rhythm that bordered on desperate.

  When she finally stopped, she found herself on a quiet overlook above the river, the water a dark ribbon under the dull gleam of streetlights. She bent forward, hands braced on her knees, lungs burning.

  “I don’t want to be afraid,” she whispered into the cold. Not of the case, the killer, or what it’s doing to me.

  She straightened slowly, letting the night settle around her, letting the wind cool her sweat. She walked home under the glow of passing headlights, her legs unsteady but her mind quieter.

  Inside her apartment, the glow of the answering machine blinked gently, a small pulse of life in the dark room. Jac stared at it for a long moment.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  One message from her mother—older. Another new message from Melody.

  Her stomach twisted. She couldn’t listen. Not now. She turned off the lamps, kicked off her shoes, and went to bed. Sleep claimed her fast and heavy, like someone throwing a blanket over a fire.

  Jac woke before her alarm. For a moment she didn’t know where she was. The ceiling above her wasn’t familiar—not the color it usually was, not the texture. Her brain was still half in the alley, still hearing the scream, still seeing Ringer’s body tilt sideways as if the world had pulled him down. She lay still, heart thudding, until she recognized the quiet hum of her baseboard heater and the faint rattle of pipes that always came with the building’s morning shift. Her apartment. Her bed. Her room.

  She exhaled long and slow and pushed her hands over her face. She wasn’t rested. Not really. But the heavy sleep had knocked her out hard enough that she didn’t feel quite as brittle—more like a cracked plate rather than shattered glass.

  She rolled out of bed, got dressed without thinking, clipped her badge to her belt, and stepped out into a morning that barely felt real. The sun was trying its best behind the clouds, but it wasn’t enough. The city was gray, muted, as if still mourning what happened in that alley.

  Jac got to the precinct earlier than she expected. She found herself hesitating outside the glass double doors, bracing for the noise, the chaos, the pressure waiting on the other side. When she pushed them open, the warm, stale air of the department hit her, and for once it didn’t feel grounding. It felt suffocating.

  She walked past the front desk, nodded to the clerk, and headed toward the bullpen. That’s when she saw Bruce.

  He was already there. He stood by his desk, sleeves rolled up, flipping through a stack of printed pages and handwritten notes, scanning each one with a focus that was too sharp for this hour. He’d shaved. His shirt was clean. His hair was still damp. He looked like a man trying to look like he had slept at home.

  Jac slowed as she approached.

  “Morning,” she said.

  Bruce didn’t look up right away—just made a small grunt of acknowledgment, then finished reading the line he was on and finally lifted his eyes to her. “Morning.”

  He didn’t ask how she was. Didn’t ask if she slept. Didn’t ask if the images had replayed in her head all night long the way she knew they had in his. Instead, he tapped the stack of papers against his desk and said, “I’ve been digging.”

  Jac set down her things. “On what?”

  “Mick O’Conner.” He handed her the top page—city property listings. “Pulled the county records. Cross-referenced his businesses. You see this?”

  Jac scanned the page. A highlighted property stood out near the top. One of the buildings bordering the alley where Luke Ringer died.

  Her pulse tripped. “That’s… that’s the building next to the lobby entrance.”

  “Yep.” Bruce dropped into his chair. “Warehouse he’s owned for over a decade. Paid off early. No loans. No liens.”

  “You think he was there?”

  “I don’t know.” Bruce leaned back, rubbing a thumb along his jaw. “But his name is on more of these properties than I like. Doesn’t prove anything. But Ritter’s gonna love having a suspect with actual assets tied to the scene.”

  Jac frowned. “It’s circumstantial.”

  “Everything we have is circumstantial.” His voice sharpened, frustration bleeding through. “We need something we can move on.”

  He wasn’t wrong. But Jac couldn’t shake the feeling from last night, the way Ringer’s chest had collapsed inward like someone had punched the life out of him with impossible force. Mick was tough, sure, but he wasn’t superhuman. He wasn’t… whatever they were chasing. Still, they needed direction. And Bruce needed something that felt like progress.

  “Ritter signed off on warrants?” she asked.

  Bruce gave a humorless snort. “Ritter damn near begged the judge for them. City Hall’s breathing down his neck after last night. He’s greenlit searches on all of Mick’s properties—homes, garages, offices, warehouses, everything.”

  Jac nodded, bracing herself. “Let’s move.”

  Bruce collected the folders into a single stack, grabbed his jacket, and the two of them headed out.

  As they passed Ritter’s office, they heard his voice inside: frantic, sharp, almost pleading with whoever was on the other end of the phone. Jac kept walking. Bruce didn’t slow down either.

  Outside, the cold morning hit them like a slap. Patrol cars were idling in the lot, steam rising from tailpipes. Detectives and uniforms were already mobilizing for the searches. It felt like they were preparing for war.

  They spent the next hours in and out of buildings, garages, and dusty office spaces. Mick’s home was a disappointment—messy, lived in, unremarkable. But his legitimate businesses were more telling.

  One of his auto garages had an office with outdated furniture and a filing cabinet whose lock was snapped clean through. Papers inside were scattered and rifled—thoroughly searched, but not vandalized. Someone had been looking for something specific. Then another cabinet, same story. Another desk drawer. Another log.

  Jac knelt beside one of the broken drawers, fingertips brushing the splintered edge of the wood. “This wasn’t a smash-and-grab,” she murmured. “It’s too precise.”

  “Professional?” Bruce asked.

  “Or personal. Someone looking for names. Or addresses.”

  Bruce turned over a ledger. “Well… they found them.”

  Jac stood, breaking through pages. “Stall’s name appears in a dozen of these.”

  “Yeah.” Bruce blew out a breath. “We just need to figure out where he actually lived.”

  “He moved around a lot,” Jac said, reading the notes Mick kept. “Dates don’t line up. Weeks missing. No consistency.”

  “He was hiding,” Bruce replied. “And Mick didn’t care why as long as he paid.”

  With the scattered logs and receipts, they pieced together a rough list of known or probable locations where “George Stall” had lived, rented, or slept.

  Most places were dead ends—old addresses, building remodels, units now occupied by whoever had moved in since. But one stood out: a storage space listed repeatedly over several years.

  They drove there next.

  It wasn’t burned, not damaged like Halden’s or Tally’s places, but when they walked inside, Jac knew immediately: Someone had been here, and had cleaned it.

  No lingering trash, half-eaten food, no receipts, rolled-up blankets or notebooks or papers. Not even dust on the surfaces—it had been wiped, not sanitized like a crime scene, but stripped in a way that felt intentional. As if someone had come through with a memory of what might be incriminating. They knew exactly what they were looking for.

  Jac walked slowly through the empty space, her boots echoing. “This isn’t Mick.”

  “No,” Bruce murmured. “He wouldn’t bother wiping a place like this.”

  “It’s surgical,” Jac said quietly.

  Bruce’s jaw tensed. “We’re late to the party. Again.”

  They left the unit, frustration simmering between them, both silently acknowledging the same unsettling thought: none of this made sense if they were dealing with a normal killer.

  Back at the precinct, the ME had left a message requesting they come immediately. Jac and Bruce headed to the morgue.

  The ME’s face told the story before his words did. He looked exhausted. Haunted. Overwhelmed. He walked them through his findings—slowly, professionally—but there was no hiding the tremor in his hands or the strain in his voice.

  Ringer’s chest cavity had been crushed inward by a single pressure force. No mechanical indentations or hydraulic patterning. No tool marks of any kind. Just force. Pure, overpowering, singular force.

  He described the injuries on Halden and Tally too—each body bearing signs that defied common physics.

  Finally, he set his pen down and said quietly: “I don’t believe a single human being could be responsible for all of this.”

  Jac felt her stomach drop. Bruce didn’t speak at all. The ME didn’t elaborate. He didn’t have to. They left the morgue in silence.

  Outside, the evening had settled in, heavy and cold. Ritter stalked across the parking lot, shouting into his phone. Reporters hovered near the edges of the lot, trying to catch glimpses, cameras flashing whenever someone in uniform walked by.

  Jac stopped at the bottom of the concrete steps leading up from the service entrance, staring out at the chaos. In the swirl of headlights and police radios, her mother’s voice flickered through her mind—

  Don’t let this case make you forget what kind of person you are, Jacquline.

  Jac curled her fingers into a fist over her heart.

  “I’m still here,” she whispered. But she didn’t know for how much longer.

  Jac stood in the parking lot a moment longer, letting the cold settle into her lungs. It helped. It grounded her. The precinct behind her was a hive of panic and thinly held authority, Ritter barking orders at officers who were doing their best not to look terrified. Every camera crew in Billings seemed to have converged on the building. The air pulsed with radios, engines, and the throbbing hum of emergency lights. But out here—just a few steps removed—she could breathe.

  Bruce lingered beside her, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, face tight with thoughts he wasn’t saying aloud. He stared straight ahead, jaw shifting once. Twice. The exhaustion was still there, even under the clean shirt and shower. The tension lived in his shoulders now, in the way he hadn’t quite looked her in the eyes since they left the ME’s office. They stood together in the cold, neither speaking.

  Finally, Bruce said, “We’ll regroup tomorrow. Don’t stay out too late.”

  She gave him a small nod and watched as he crossed the lot toward his car.

  Jac waited until he was gone before turning toward the bus stop. Her body felt heavy. Not just tired—burdened. Like the last week had pressed its thumbprint into her bones.

  The ride home was silent. The number 12 bus was mostly empty, just a man hunched in a corner seat and a pair of teenagers staring at the floor. No one talked. No one made eye contact. It felt like the whole city was afraid to speak too loudly, as if acknowledging the murders out loud might invite something in.

  Jac stepped off at her stop and trudged toward her apartment building. The streetlights buzzed overhead with a sickly yellow glow. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked once and then fell silent.

  When she reached her door, she hesitated. Two blinking lights glowed on her answering machine. She froze. Her heart leapt—Melody.

  She crossed the room and pressed the button.

  “Jac? It’s Melody.”

  Her voice was warm, steady, even playful:

  “Sorry I missed you earlier. I, uh—well, I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t calling back—anyway, hope you’re well. Call me if you feel like it.”

  Jac shut her eyes. The sound of Melody’s voice was a balm she didn’t know she needed. Even just that brief message—it cut through a layer of bleakness she hadn’t realized had settled over her.

  She swallowed, then reached for the second message.

  Mom: “Jac, sweetheart, it’s your mother. You’ve been distant. I know you’re working, and I know it’s bad—I can hear it in your voice.”

  A pause.

  “If you need to talk, just come over. Or call. Please don’t carry everything alone. That’s how your father broke. I don’t want that for you.”

  Jac lowered herself onto the edge of the couch, elbows on her knees, and stared at the floor. Her throat tightened unexpectedly. Her mother wasn’t dramatic, wasn’t prone to fear, either. But she’d lived through the shape of a man who had once been larger than life shrinking under the weight of years of violence and human cruelty. Helen had seen Jack die in pieces long before the heart attack ever took him.

  Jac blinked hard and wiped at her face. She needed air, so she grabbed her running shoes.

  Outside, the cold night bit at her immediately. She stretched her legs, inhaled deeply, and started down the sidewalk at a steady jog. Her breaths came out in white bursts, dissipating quickly into the February air. The rhythm of her footsteps was grounding—left, right, left, right—a beat that cut through the noise in her head. Helen’s words echoed, too, with every step.