Jac stepped off the bus with her collar pulled tight, the early-morning cold cutting straight through the fabric. Billings didn’t usually wake up loud. It was a ranch town, a working town—slow to rise, slow to move. But this morning something electric hummed in the air. Two marked cruisers sped past her on Division Street, lights flashing, tires hissing against frost. A third followed seconds later. She could hear more sirens farther away, overlapping like a distant storm.

  She walked faster. When she pushed through the glass doors of the station, her breath still clinging to the collar of her coat, she realized immediately that something had gone very, very wrong.

  Half the precinct was empty. The other half was chaos. Officers moved in a fast tide toward the exit, clipping badges to belts, shrugging into jackets, loading evidence kits and radios with frantic hands. Phones rang off their hooks. Ritter’s voice sliced across the room like a cracked whip.

  “No—NO—I already told him the same thing at THREE damn A.M.—I don’t care if he’s the Mayor, tell him I’m working—if he wants results, he can let me get them!”

  His hair looked like he’d run his hands through it until it stuck. His tie was crooked, shirt wrinkled, the circles under his eyes nearly black. Ritter always looked stern. But today he looked hunted.

  A patrol officer tried to hand him a clipboard; Ritter shoved it back. “I said OUT. Everyone not on evidence tech, MOVE. Columbus Estates is crawling with media already. We need to look like we know what we’re doing before the whole town eats us alive!”

  Another officer passed Jac, almost knocking her off balance.

  “Jac!” someone called from across the room, but it was swallowed by the frantic movement.

  She stepped forward, searching for Bruce. She didn’t see him—only Ritter barking orders like his life depended on it.

  “Vincent!” Ritter shouted, spotting her at last. He jabbed a finger toward the door. “You’re late!”

  She wasn’t. Not even close. “Yes, sir,” she said anyway.

  “Gear up and get moving!”

  “Captain Ritter—what happened?” she asked, her stomach cold as ice.

  He didn’t look at her, didn’t even slow down. “Tally.” He kept walking.

  Jac’s pulse thumped painfully under her sternum. Tally?

  The man they interviewed yesterday? The one who sang karaoke to prove his alibi? The one who seemed ready to chew his own arm off worrying about being implicated in the leak?

  Before she could process it, the bullpen door slammed open and Bruce barreled through. He looked nothing like the version of him she’d seen the day before. His coat hung unbuttoned. His shirt was creased, like he’d dragged it on still damp from the dryer. His eyes were rimmed red, and there was a tremor in his jaw that she’d never witnessed in him—anger, fear, exhaustion all fighting for space.

  He spotted her and marched directly toward her. “You’re riding with me,” he said, his voice tight. “Now.”

  “Bruce—” she began.

  “It’s Tally,” he said. “Get your coat.”

  The way he said it made her skin prickle. She grabbed her badge, pulled her coat back on, and followed him out the door without another word. As soon as they were both in his car, he turned the ignition and peeled out of the lot, the engine protesting the cold.

  Bruce cut across lanes with a little too much acceleration. Jac braced herself against the door.

  “You okay?” she asked cautiously.

  “No,” Bruce snapped. Then more quietly: “Sorry. No. I’m not.”

  She looked at him.

  His grip on the steering wheel was white-knuckled. His jaw twitched. He breathed through his nose like he was trying not to break something.

  “Ritter was at the scene before dawn,” Bruce muttered. “Mayor started calling at three. Commissioner too. Whole damn city’s in a panic.”

  He shook his head sharply, like trying to throw off a bad dream. “We talked to that man yesterday,” Bruce said. “He was alive yesterday.”

  Jac remained quiet, lost in her thoughts. What could she say?

  The car barreled through an intersection, lights flickering through the windshield.

  “He didn’t deserve this,” Bruce said, barely above a whisper, his voice cracking once before he suppressed it.

  Jac nodded silently. No one deserved what she imagined they were about to see.

  She realized how bad it really was when they were still half a block away. Flashing lights painted the sky. Red. Blue. Red. Blue. They bounced off apartment windows and billowed across swirling breath in the cold. Two news vans were parked illegally on the curb, their antennas already raised. Neighbors clustered behind makeshift barricades—bathrobes, slippers, winter coats, all mixed in nervous knots.

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  A reporter shouted something toward Ritter, who stood at the eye of the storm.

  Ritter did not shout back, instead roaring his responses. “I said BACK! You cross that tape and you’re obstructing. You want that on camera? Because I’ll give it to you!”

  The cameraman flinched. Another reporter shoved a mic toward him. Ritter shoved it away.

  Jac had never seen her captain unravel. Today, he was coming apart at the seams.

  Bruce parked crooked, barely clearing a hydrant. They climbed out into the biting air. A uniform started to guide Jac around the tape, but Bruce waved him off.

  “We’re good,” he said, his voice hard.

  They moved into the parking lot. The cold stung Jac’s eyes. Then she saw the car.

  Tally’s sedan sat neatly tucked in the space, the driver’s door still open. The steering wheel was bent at a warped angle, the center horn plate dented inward like something had hammered it. Blood streaked the column. The driver’s-side window was nothing but glittering shards scattered across the asphalt, reflecting the morning.

  Jac forgot to breathe.

  Bruce lowered his head, his voice grim.

  “He was alive when it started,” he said.

  An ME tech stepped away from the body bag, now zipped up in the lot. He gave Bruce a grim shake of the head as he passed.

  Jac swallowed her nausea.

  “What about the fire?” she asked.

  Bruce inhaled, sharp and tired. “Upstairs.”

  The building loomed above them like a charred skeleton. Jac followed Bruce toward the stairwell. Every railing was slick with condensation from the sprinkler system. Smoke smell clung to everything—wet ash and plastic and the faint acidic tang of burned electronics.

  Tally’s apartment door was propped open by a toolbox. The inside was blackened, drenched, and gutted. Soot plastered the ceiling in chaotic strokes. The carpet squished under Jac’s boots. A fire inspector crouched by a partially melted desk.

  “Ignition point’s here,” he muttered. “Accelerant present. Sprinklers kept it from spreading past this room.”

  Jac crouched beside him for a moment, studying the puddle of warped metal and ash.

  “Someone wanted everything gone,” she whispered.

  Bruce nodded once. “They didn’t want anyone knowing what he was working on.”

  A shout echoed up the stairwell. “Where the hell is that report? We don’t have all day!”

  Ritter stormed up the stairs, red-faced, panting like he’d sprinted from the parking lot.

  “Get out of the hallway!” he snapped at two uniforms. “And somebody tell the fire crew to get their equipment out of the way before the media films it!”

  The officers scrambled aside.

  Ritter turned toward Jac and Bruce, eyes wild. “You two—” he jabbed a shaking finger at them, “—I want a complete timeline by noon. Noon. You hear me? And I want motive options. I want names. I want something I can tell the Mayor before he eats my liver for breakfast!”

  Bruce straightened slightly. “We’re working on it.”

  “Work faster!” Ritter snapped, before storming past, yelling at a patrolman who had committed the crime of standing still.

  Jac watched him go. He wasn’t angry, this was fear; and that was worse.

  They worked for hours—Jac interviewing shaken neighbors while Bruce coordinated with forensics. Cold wind knifed through her coat every time she stepped outside. She spoke to a woman who lived on the ground floor.

  “I heard something around midnight,” the woman said, hugging herself. “Glass breaking. Then the horn. Like—like four blasts? Then nothing.”

  Another witness thought they saw someone moving toward the lot, but couldn’t describe anything except “a shape.” A man in a baseball cap thought he heard footsteps sprinting away. Someone else smelled smoke but assumed someone burned toast.

  Every piece of information was sand slipping through Jac’s fingers. By midday, her notebook was filled—but with nothing useful.

  Bruce stood by the scorched exterior stairwell, flipping pages of witness statements, his face growing tighter with every passing minute.

  “Feels like we’re always behind,” Jac said softly, joining him.

  Bruce exhaled, shoulders sagging. “Feels that way because we are.”

  Ritter shouted for everyone to gather. It was nearing three o’clock. Jac felt like she had aged years in eight hours.

  “Pack it up!” Ritter yelled. “We regroup at the precinct!”

  Cameras zoomed in. Ritter snarled at them. “I SAID BACK!”

  Back at the station, Ritter set up what he called a “temporary command unit,” which was really just a panic version of the conference room with maps taped to the walls and coffee that tasted like metal.

  Bruce barked at a tech to reprocess CCTV timestamps. Someone else brought the fire report. Officers moved from desk to desk like confused bees.

  Jac filled out her initial summary and watched Bruce go through every word like it was a lifeline.

  “You sure you want me to go?” she asked quietly, when most of their tasks were done.

  Bruce didn’t look up. “Go home, Jac,” he said. “I’m staying.”

  “Bruce…”

  “Go home.”

  She picked up her things and left him at the table surrounded by crime scene photos and binders and rage.

  Jac’s apartment was quiet enough to hurt when she walked inside. Her breath fogged in the cold air of the kitchen. The answering machine blinked red.

  She pressed play as she passed:

  “Jacqueline? Honey?” her mother’s voice came through, worried and soft. “I saw the news. Three people dead—it’s all over town. Please… call me. I just want to hear your voice.”

  Jac sat on the edge of the counter, feeling the weight of exhaustion press down on her shoulders. She picked up the phone and dialed Melody’s home number before she could talk herself out of it.

  It rang four times, then there was the click of her machine. “Hi, you’ve reached Melody. I’m probably working or sleeping. Or I’m ignoring you! In any case, leave a message!”

  Jac swallowed, heat rising into her face.

  “Uh—hey. It’s Jac. From the bar.” She winced. “The detective, I’m sure you get a lot of calls from girls at the bar—“ She caught herself, “That came out wrong. I don’t mean that you’re,” the impulse to stammer through a needless explanation was assuaged, “I… just wanted to touch base,”She hesitated. Could that be construed as innuendo? She searched frantically for the words to continue, “Uh, well, I guess. This week’s been… something. If you’re around or—” she faltered, rubbing her forehead. “Yeah. Okay. Bye.” She hung up before she could humiliate herself further.

  The apartment felt small, silent, and empty. She changed into running clothes and stepped back into the cold. The night air burned in her nose. She ran hard—down the block, past dark houses, through a neighborhood where porch lights glowed like safety she couldn’t touch.

  She ran until her lungs burned and her legs trembled. When she went back inside, she didn’t turn on the lights. She dropped onto the living room floor, back against the couch, arms wrapped around her knees.

  Everyone had someone. Bruce had Karen—even if they were tearing each other apart. Her mother had memories and rituals; that card club on Sunday nights. Melody had a life outside this nightmare.

  Jac had the job. And tonight, the job felt like the loneliest thing in the world. She stayed on the floor until the cold crept in under her skin, and still she didn’t move. Not until she had purpose.