Billings was still half-asleep, the sky a sheet of cold ash over the city, and the precinct’s parking lot was the kind of quiet that made her breath sound too loud. She hugged her coat tighter and stepped inside, bracing for the cheap fluorescent hum that always felt like waking up inside a headache.

  The bullpen was dim, half-lit, mostly quiet. And Bruce was on the couch again. He lay with one arm thrown over his eyes, jacket bunched under his head, tie still on, shoes kicked off in two different directions like he’d lost the energy halfway through taking them off. A file lay open on the floor beside him. It wasn’t the sight itself that hit her—it was that this was the third morning in a row.

  Jac set her bag down and walked over, stopping beside the couch. She nudged his foot with her boot. “Looks like this is becoming a habit.”

  Bruce groaned into his arm. Slowly, he lowered it enough to squint up at her. His eyes were red-lined, his jaw unshaven, his whole expression pulled tight in a way she hadn’t seen before.

  He pushed himself upright, elbows on knees. “Morning.”

  “You look terrible,” she said, sitting on the edge of the coffee table. It wasn’t said to tease. It was observation.

  He didn’t smile. Didn’t bother to deflect either, just rubbed both hands hard over his face.

  “You’re still not going home?” she asked quietly.

  Bruce shook his head once, slowly. “Not yet.”

  Jac studied him. The exhaustion wasn’t just from lack of sleep—it was something heavier, something he was carrying in his shoulders and behind his eyes.

  “Bruce,” she said carefully, “avoiding it isn’t fixing it.”

  He let out a breath through his nose, sharp. “It’s complicated.”

  “I figured.” She kept her voice gentle. “But you’ve been here for days. You barely eat. Barely sleep. Whatever’s going on… you can’t outrun it.”

  Bruce leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “Going home right now would just make everything worse.”

  “That’s fear talking,” Jac said before she could stop herself.

  He looked over at her then. Not annoyed—just tired. Tired down to the bone.

  “Maybe,” he admitted.

  She wasn’t going to push him. She knew enough about grief and guilt and pride to know pushing only made people retreat deeper. She just needed him to hear the truth from someone who wasn’t him.

  “You need to take care of yourself,” she said. “You’re no good to anyone like this. Not to this case. Not to Karen. Not to yourself.”

  His jaw clinched at Karen’s name.

  Before either of them could say more, the squad room door slammed hard enough to make Jac jump.

  Ritter barreled in.

  The captain looked like someone had shaken him awake with a threat. His hair was flattened on one side, his shirt wrinkled, his tie crooked. He carried two binders under his arm and a coffee he hadn’t had time to sip. He didn’t even see them at first—he just stormed straight to his desk and dropped everything onto it in a single clatter.

  “Rough morning?” Bruce asked dryly.

  “Don’t start with me,” Ritter snapped, then scrubbed a hand over his face. He exhaled shakily, the kind of breath that only came after someone yelled at you over the phone at an unreasonable hour. “I’ve been on calls since four. Mayor. Commissioner. Their assistants. Their assistants’ assistants. Everybody wants answers I don’t have.”

  Jac straightened, instinctively tugging at her clothes.

  Ritter gestured sharply with his coffee cup. “The whole city’s on edge. People are calling in sightings of shadows. Parents are pulling kids out of school. My officers are getting harassed in grocery store parking lots for updates. And meanwhile, the news cycle is spinning this into a damn horror movie.”

  Bruce crossed his arms. “Carl. We’re doing what we can.”

  “I know,” Ritter snapped back, then immediately ran a hand over his face again, softening his tone. “I know. This isn’t me coming down on you. This is me being strangled from above.” He looked between the two detectives.

  “I need movement today,” Ritter said. “Anything. A direction. A scrap. If the mayor calls again and I don’t have something, he’s going to start breathing down your necks personally.”

  Jac nodded. “Yes, Captain.”

  He pointed at them with the folder. “Good. And don’t wait for me to assign. Pick a direction and move.” With that, he turned and retreated into his office, slamming the door shut behind him.

  Silence settled again, thick and uncomfortable.

  Jac exhaled slowly. “He’s going to combust.”

  Bruce rubbed the bridge of his nose. “He already has.”

  They moved toward their desks. The precinct lights flickered overhead, casting long shadows across the stacks of paperwork they hadn’t touched in days. Jac pulled a file toward her, stared at Duck’s crime scene photos, and felt the familiar cold twist in her gut. It wasn’t getting easier—none of this was.

  Bruce flipped through his own file, frowned, then shut it. “This is pointless,” he muttered.

  Jac looked over. “What is?”

  “All of this.” He gestured at the paperwork. “We’re staring at the same dead ends, hoping they magically turn into leads.”

  “So… what are you suggesting?”

  Bruce pushed away from the desk and stood up. “We need a change of pace.”

  Jac blinked. “We?”

  He grabbed the keys to the unmarked car. “Come on.”

  Bruce drove without saying much, fingers drumming on the steering wheel, eyes flitting to the mirrors more often than the road ahead. Jac sat in the passenger seat, watching him out of the corner of her eye. He looked taut, wired, like someone bracing for impact long before anything hit.

  The first call came in before they even made it out of the downtown loop: a possible break-in off Broadwater. Not their case, but half the patrol units were tied up with crowd control near the morning commute, so they were closest.

  The house was small, windows old and drafty-looking, the yard half-frozen even though winter hadn’t settled fully. The homeowner—a middle-aged woman in slippers—stood on her porch wringing her hands, breath puffing out in frantic bursts.

  Jac did most of the talking. Bruce hung back, scanning the street, shoulders tense.

  “It was probably raccoons,” the woman insisted, showing them the torn screen and tipped-over potted plant. “Or… I don’t know, a teenager maybe. Someone looking for something to steal.”

  Jac nodded, took notes. Bruce barely said a word.

  When they left, Jac glanced over as Bruce got into the car. “You okay?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he said, too quickly. He shifted into drive. “Next call.”

  The second call was messier. A domestic dispute—exes fighting over a stereo, clothes thrown everywhere in the living room, some broken picture frame on the floor, two people yelling so loudly Jac’s ears rang.

  Bruce held them apart, voice low, firm. Jac gathered statements, noticing the way he didn’t flinch at the chaos, didn’t even register the raised voices. This kind of scene didn’t touch him at all. But a parked car in a dark lot? That had him wired.

  The third call was a convenience-store grab-and-run. Two teenagers with hoodies darted in, snatched candy, cigarettes, and beer, and sprinted out. The owner, a tired man with a thick mustache, kept apologizing for having called them.

  “I know you’re busy with… more important things,” he said. “I just—this is the third time this month.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Jac took the report. Bruce kept glancing outside. Antsy.

  The fourth call was a taxi driver robbed at gunpoint. The cabbie was jittery, talking fast, describing the assailant’s jacket in circles.

  Again, Jac wrote it all down. Bruce stood beside her almost vibrating. By the time they were back in the car heading nowhere in particular, she finally asked: “What are you looking for?”

  Bruce didn’t answer at first. His fingers tightened around the steering wheel. He checked the mirror again.

  “Have you noticed that sedan?” he asked.

  Jac leaned slightly to glimpse the mirror. A dark car followed at a steady distance. Not too close, not too far. It looked like any other car in Billings.

  “I see it,” she said. “But lots of people drive dark sedans.”

  Bruce didn’t look convinced. “It was at the house call, too. Down the street.”

  “You sure it’s the same one?”

  “No.” He checked the mirror again. “But I’m going to be.”

  They drove another block. The sedan stayed put, same distance, same lane.

  “Maybe they just live in the neighborhood,” Jac offered.

  “Maybe,” he said, but his jaw ticked. He made a sudden right turn. The sedan turned right too, half a second later.

  Jac’s fingers curled against her knee.

  Bruce made another quick turn—left this time, taking them down a quiet street lined with bare trees and empty yards.

  The sedan continued to follow, turn for turn.

  Jac felt her pulse tick up. “Okay,” she whispered. “That’s… something.” She didn’t want to believe it, but maybe Bruce was onto something.

  Bruce slowed down, eyes narrowing. “Yeah. It’s something, alright.” He pulled over abruptly at the curb.

  The sedan kept going for another thirty feet, then stopped. Engine running, smoke funneling from the tailpipe.

  A cold ripple went over Jac’s skin.

  Bruce killed the engine. “Come on.”

  Jac swallowed hard. “Bruce—”

  He unclicked his seatbelt. “If this is what I think it is, we’re not waiting to be cornered.”

  She hesitated only a second before following, the pair exiting the car in unison. The air was cold enough to sting the inside of her nose.

  They approached from opposite angles, fanning slightly like they’d practiced the maneuver a hundred times, even though they never had. The sedan’s windows were tinted dark, reflecting the pale sky and the bare branches overhead.

  Bruce’s hand went to his gun. Jac’s followed almost instinctively. Every step tightened the atmosphere. The world seemed to narrow to the sedan, the reflection of their own shapes in the glass, the way their breaths fogged in thin streams.

  Bruce called out first, voice sharp, cutting through the quiet street: “Police! Step out of the vehicle!”

  No response.

  Jac shifted her weight, pulling her coat tighter around her gun hand.

  Bruce’s voice rose, harder this time. “Driver! Now!”

  The sedan stayed still. She heard her own breathing in her ears. Then there was movement. A slow shadow inside the car, a hand lifting.

  Jac’s pulse slammed once, hard.

  The driver’s side door cracked open. A man stepped out. Not a killer. Not someone fleeing. Not even someone scared. A man with one hand raised, the other holding a notebook.

  Young—mid-thirties. Scruffy but photogenic, his hair mussed like he’d run his fingers through it all morning. Leather jacket over a wrinkled button-down. Eyes bright, alert, too tired and too curious at the same time.

  Jac recognized him a moment too late. Bruce recognized him the same instant she did.

  The man blinked between their drawn guns. His voice came out strained, but not terrified—more like someone trying desperately to stay professional.

  “Whoa—Detectives, hey—hold on—” His free hand shot up. “Don’t shoot. Please. It’s just me.”

  Bruce lowered his gun a fraction. “Lancaster?”

  The man gave a quick, sheepish nod. “Yeah. Chet Lancaster. Q2 News.”

  Jac exhaled hard through her nose, lowering her weapon an inch. “Are you out of your mind?”

  Chet held his hands even higher. “Apparently!”

  Bruce holstered his weapon with a sharp motion. Jac followed, her heart still thudding against her ribs.

  “What the hell are you doing following us?” Bruce demanded.

  Chet smoothed his jacket, regaining enough reporter composure to offer a weak attempt at a smile. “Trying to do my job.” He gestured vaguely at his notebook. “People are scared. They want answers.”

  Bruce looked ready to strangle him. “You don’t tail detectives. Where do you get off stalking murder investigators?! You don’t follow unmarked units through half the damn city!”

  Chet winced. “Okay, in hindsight, it was a bad call. I can see that.”

  “In hindsight,” Jac said, “you almost got shot.”

  He swallowed and nodded vigorously. “That part is abundantly clear to me now.”

  Bruce stepped closer, voice low and cold. “Now,” Bruce muttered, rubbing his chin. His stance had loosened considerably. “If you pull this stunt again, I’ll have you and your cameraman cuffed. Jac is going to record it.”

  “I understand,” Chet said quickly. “Message received. Loud and clear. Crystal.”

  Jac let out a long breath. She could feel the adrenaline wearing off, leaving a shaky hollowness behind.

  Chet lowered his hands slowly. “Look… I wasn’t trying to interfere. I swear. I just thought if I followed the detectives working the case, I might find something the public needs to know.”

  Bruce muttered something under his breath Jac didn’t catch. Then Bruce pointed down the street. “Get in your car. Go back to the station if you want official updates. Don’t follow us again.”

  Chet nodded earnestly. “Absolutely. Never again. Lesson learned.” He sat back in his sedan, slamming the door. The engine revved, and he pulled away faster than a man who claimed professionalism probably should have.

  When he was finally out of sight, Jac let out a slow exhale. “Jesus.”

  Bruce rubbed his forehead. “He’s a damn idiot.”

  She looked at him, studying Bruce like he was one of the perps. His hands were still shaking. And that was when she understood; it wasn’t the case wearing him down. It wasn’t Ritter. It wasn’t the mayor or the city or the press. It was everything. All of it. Stacked up until it pushed him into a version of himself she’d never seen before. She felt something tighten inside her; a kind of ache.

  He unlocked their car with a heavy sigh. “Come on. Let’s get back to the office.”

  Jac followed, realizing for the first time that today’s change of pace wasn’t to help her stay steady. It was to keep him from falling apart.

  Back at the precinct, the mood wasn’t much better. Phones rang more than usual. Ritter strode past their desks twice without looking at anyone, muttering to himself and slapping files onto surfaces as if the weight of them might splinter the wood. A few officers whispered near the coffee pot. Others kept their heads down, burying themselves in reports they had no real stake in. Jac and Bruce sat at their desks trying to fill out paperwork they had ignored for days.

  Jac tried focusing on her notes. She really did. But her hands still trembled slightly from the adrenaline of the gun draw, and every time she lifted her head, the bullpen felt too quiet in the wrong places, too loud in the others.

  Bruce wasn’t any better. He worked in short bursts—write three lines, stop, stare at nothing. Write two more, stop again. He’d never admit it, but she could tell his nerves were still raw. His knee bounced under the desk. His jaw clenched whenever Ritter’s phone rang. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck every few minutes like the muscles wouldn’t loosen.

  At one point, Bruce stood abruptly and walked to the copy machine, staring at it like he’d forgotten what copies were and why they mattered. Then he turned around, walked back, and sat down again without speaking.

  Jac watched him silently. She wanted to say something—to offer… anything—but the words kept sticking to the back of her throat. Everything between them today felt like a fragile thread, stretched thin but holding.

  Late morning drifted into early afternoon. A ringer called at a little after three. Jac answered the phone at her desk.

  “Detective Vincent?” The voice was thin, breathless, someone trying to talk through fear. “This is Luke. Luke Ringer.”

  Jac straightened. “Mr. Ringer. We’ve been hoping to hear from you.”

  “I can’t talk long,” he said quickly. “I—I didn’t want to call back. Not after seeing the news this morning. But I—I think I changed my mind regarding a few things. We need to meet.”

  “When?” Jac asked.

  “Tomorrow,” he said. “Early. I’ll choose the place.”

  She wrote it down as he gave it to her; a diner she’d heard of but never eaten at. A quiet one, off the main roads. The kind of place a man could slip in and out of without anyone noticing.

  “Come alone,” he added. “Not a lot of patrol cars. Just you and your partner.”

  Jac’s throat tightened. “Mr. Ringer, if you’re frightened—”

  “I am frightened,” he snapped. “Two people I knew are dead. And the other one who shared information with me is gone. Just gone. If I show up and something’s off, I’m walking away. Do you understand?”

  Jac closed her eyes for a second. “Yes.”

  He hung up without saying goodbye.

  Jac sat still for a long moment.

  Bruce watched her carefully. “That was him?”

  “Yeah.” She swallowed. “He wants to meet tomorrow.”

  “He gave a place?”

  “He did.” She handed him the notepad. “10 a.m.”

  Bruce read it, then sat back, tired eyes closing briefly. “All right. Good. That’s something.”

  Jac nodded, but the conversation replayed in her mind, the panic in Ringer’s voice, the barely-contained desperation. She wasn’t sure tomorrow was going to bring the answers anyone wanted. They finished the day in silence, buried in forms and case notes, Ritter’s footsteps passing like a storm cloud every so often.

  By the time Jac clocked out, the sun had started to dip. The precinct windows turned soft gold, then dimmed toward evening. She thought about asking Bruce if he was going home tonight—really going home—but one look at him said he wasn’t ready to hear that question again.

  She slung her coat over her shoulder. “See you tomorrow.”

  Bruce nodded, eyes on his paperwork. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

  Jac left the precinct, the cold air hitting her in the face like a slap. She walked home, boots crunching softly on the sidewalk.

  Her apartment felt too quiet when she opened the door. The answering machine blinked with two messages. Her stomach dipped, but she hit PLAY anyway.

  Beep.

  “Hi baby, it’s me.” Her mother’s voice—warm, soft. “You never called me back last night. I’m worried about you. Call me if you get a minute. Love you.”

  Beep.

  Jac exhaled slowly.

  “Hey… this is Melody.” The bartender’s voice made Jac’s heart catch unexpectedly. Light, soft, a little teasing. “Got your message—sorry I missed you. I’m working nights all week. You know how it is. But stop by the bar sometime when you get off! I’m sure I’ll see you. Take care of yourself, okay?”

  The message clicked off.

  Jac stood in the silence of her apartment, staring at the machine. She played the message again. Then again. Then shut it off quickly, embarrassed with herself even in private.

  She took a breath and picked up the phone, her fingers hovering over the buttons. She didn’t know what she wanted to say. She didn’t know if she wanted to say anything. The day had left her knotted up inside. Bruce falling apart. Ritter collapsing under the pressure. Ringer’s voice cracking on the phone. And now this; this tiny flicker of warmth in the middle of a cold week.

  Melody’s machine picked up. “You’ve reached—”

  Jac swallowed.

  “Hi,” she said, unsure. “It’s, uh… Jac. Vincent. I just wanted to say thanks for the message. And… yeah. I don’t know. I guess I’ll talk to you sometime.” She cringed as she hung up. Then she grabbed her running shoes.

  Outside, the sky was a blanket of low grey, the streetlights humming as the cold evening wind swept through the blocks around her building. She started jogging, breath fogging in front of her, pulse easing out the tangled knots of the day.

  Her feet hit the pavement, steady and grounding. She didn’t think about the case, Ringer, about Bruce or Karen or the shredded pieces of their lives or even Melody’s voice echoing in her machine. She just ran.

  Past the quiet houses. Past the dim, flickering storefronts. Past the places where shadows clung to corners and the city felt too big and too small at the same time.

  It didn’t make the loneliness go away. But for a few minutes, it stopped her from drowning in it. She kept running until her lungs burned. Then she slowed, turned back toward home, and let the cold wind carry the rest of the night away behind her.