Jac lasted all of ten seconds outside the precinct before she stopped pretending she was fine. The cold air hit her lungs like a punch. Crisp, late-winter Montana air; clean, sharp, unforgiving. She stepped off the top stair, inhaled once, twice, then a third time with her eyes squeezed shut. It didn’t help. The smell from the storage unit clung to her nose and tongue, sweet and metallic, the kind of smell that lodged in the back of the throat on the wrong side of memory.

  Her stomach lurched. She gripped the railing until her knuckles ached. She whispered to herself, “Pull it together,” but the words came out thin.

  There had been petty cases before—bar fights, a burglary she helped canvass when she was still in uniform, a domestic disturbance where the blood came from a broken glass and not broken bone. She’d seen bodies, too—old age, car accidents, a high schooler who’d hung himself in his mother’s basement two months before she took the detective’s exam. But not this.

  Not pieces of a man strewn like someone had shaken him apart. Not ribs crushed inward like wet plaster. Not limbs arranged in a way no living body would ever choose. And not that awful, uncanny lack of blood, like he had been disassembled by something that knew how to break a body without letting it bleed the way bodies are supposed to.

  Her breath stuttered. She put a hand to her mouth and leaned forward, waiting for whatever was left in her stomach to revolt. Nothing came. It was worse; her body held everything in, like even her guts were in shock.

  She looked up at the sky, the color of dirty steel, and tried to swallow. The precinct’s brick front glowed faintly orange from the street lamps. Cars rolled by, their headlights cutting through mist, blurring as her eyes watered. She told herself she needed to go home. Shower. Sleep. Lie down. Let the world turn itself over.

  Instead, her feet carried her west, toward the small district of shops and bars that sat between the refinery and the residential blocks—toward The Lantern.

  Her chest tightened the moment she realized where she was heading. She’d walked past the bar plenty of times. Peeked through the frosted windows on Friday nights. Wondered whether she could walk in and be herself without the precinct or her mother or the ghost of her father watching her.

  She wasn’t sure whether tonight was the right night to try being anyone at all. But she also wasn’t ready to go home—to a quiet apartment, a closet full of uniforms, a wall of tributes to a father whose badge she had never been sure she deserved to inherit.

  She needed noise. Light. People. Something to drown out the smell of torn flesh. When she reached The Lantern’s door, she took one last breath—steady, she hoped—and pushed inside.

  The warmth hit her first, then the smell of citrus cleaner, hops, and perfume. Music played softly from speakers hidden behind wooden slats—something bluesy and slow. A handful of women talked around high tables, coats hung from chair backs, glasses half-full of amber light. It was a familiar crowd, though she’d never given herself permission to join it. And behind the bar, drying a glass with a white towel, stood Melody.

  Jac had noticed her before—tall, athletic, dark hair tied in a loose braid, sleeves rolled up, eyes sharp enough to read anyone who walked in. The kind of woman who could make you smile without trying, or level you with a look if you were out of line. Always confident. Always comfortable. Always grounded in a way Jac had never quite managed, even on her best days.

  Jac took a seat at the bar. Tried to look casual. Tried to hide the trembling in her hands.

  Melody looked up and gave a single, surprised-but-warm nod. “Hey there.”

  Jac nodded back, attempting something like a smile. It felt brittle.

  “Haven’t seen you in here before,” Melody said, setting down the glass. “That your first beer today, or your first bad day?”

  Jac huffed out a breath that wasn’t really a laugh. “Something like that.” Jac had seen her in passing a couple of times, but never made herself known.

  Melody tilted her head, studying her. “What can I get you?”

  “Whatever’s cold.”

  Melody poured her a beer without another word and slid it across the polished wood. Jac wrapped both hands around the glass just to keep them steady. The cold grounded her, but not enough.

  “You’re shaking,” Melody observed, not unkindly.

  Jac shook her head quickly. “I’m fine. Just… long shift.”

  “Uh-huh.” Melody leaned an elbow on the bar. “Long shifts don’t usually make people look like they’re about to jump out of their skin.”

  “It’s nothing,” Jac said. “Really.”

  Melody gave her an unblinking look. The kind bartenders give when your mask is full of holes.

  “You look like you saw something you shouldn’t have,” Melody said gently.

  Jac swallowed. Hard. She tried for nonchalance. “Work stuff.”

  Melody didn’t back off. “You a nurse? EMT?”

  Jac hesitated, then: “Detective unit. Just started.”

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  Melody’s brows lifted. “Ah. That explains it.”

  “Explains what?”

  “That look,” Melody said simply. “The whole city’s been talking about what they found at those storage units.”

  Jac went absolutely still.

  Melody kept her tone soft. “Word around town is it was bad. Like, really bad. Billings isn’t what it used to be. This kind of violence is—”

  Jac tried to keep her expression neutral, but the crime scene crashed into her skull, an uninvited flash of twisted limbs and exposed bone. She tightened her grip on the glass, her forearm flexing hard enough to ache.

  Melody’s voice gentled even more. “You were there, weren’t you?”

  Jac didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

  Melody glanced around the bar, checking that no one was paying close attention. She leaned in slightly. “Look… you don’t have to pretend with me. If that scene was as bad as the rumors say, then anyone would be rattled.”

  Jac’s eyes stung unexpectedly. “It was… it was terrible.”

  Her voice cracked only on the last word, but she felt it like a fracture. Melody’s expression shifted—recognition, not pity.

  “I take it you’re not used to this kinda thing?” Melody asked.

  Jac shook her head. “No. Not in the slightlest.”

  Melody straightened. Her tone softened into something almost tender. “Then you’re not supposed to be fine.”

  Jac blinked. The words caught her off-guard. She’d never heard an officer say that. Her father would have told her to toughen up. Other detectives would have told her it was part of the job.

  But Melody just said it like it was a fact of being human. “You’ll get there,” Melody said. “I mean it. You look like the type who figures things out. If it’s what you want. I know the type.”

  Jac tried to smile. It wobbled.

  Melody returned it with one of her own—warm, genuine, easy. And for a moment, Jac wondered what it would be like to have someone to talk to—really talk to. Someone who didn’t know her father. Someone she didn’t have to perform strength in front of. Someone who wouldn’t compare her to a dead man.

  She opened her mouth to say something—anything—but her pager buzzed in her pocket.

  Melody lifted an eyebrow. “Duty strikes again?”

  Jac fished it out, thumbed the button. A voicemail notification blinked.

  She sighed, “May I use your phone?” Dialing in.

  Her mother’s voice was on the speaker, warm and tired and familiar:

  “Sweetheart… remember tonight is your father’s birthday dinner. I made his favorites. Don’t be too late, alright? I know you’re busy, but it would mean a lot.” Jac closed her eyes.

  Melody watched her silently.

  When Jac hung up, Melody asked softly, “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah… just family stuff,” Jac said, slipping the pager back into her pocket.

  Melody nodded. “You gotta go?”

  Jac nodded again, reluctantly.

  “Before you do…” Melody tore a corner from a receipt pad and scribbled a number. She slid it to Jac with two fingers.

  “For when things aren’t awful,” she said lightly.

  Jac’s heart thudded. She cleared her throat. “Thanks.”

  Melody mustered the biggest smile she could find.

  “Take care of yourself out there, detective.”

  Jac left the bar with the scrap of paper folded into her fist.

  The cold air slapped her awake as she stepped outside. She tucked Melody’s number into her coat pocket and started walking toward her mother’s house.

  Her pace slowed as she passed dim storefronts, shuttered laundromats, the occasional pickup rumbling down cracked pavement. Without the bar’s noise, the night felt too quiet.

  Every shadow on the sidewalk seemed to stretch a little longer than it should. Every passing stranger felt sharper-edged. Her skin prickled at every hushed footstep, every sound that didn’t match the rhythm of her breathing.

  She shook her head. Stop. You’re imagining things.

  But her pulse wouldn’t slow.

  At her mother’s small, warmly lit house, the yellow porch light glowed through the thin curtains. Jac took a deep breath, pushed open the door, and was hit by the smell of roast chicken, thyme, and something sweet—her father’s favorite birthday dessert.

  Her mother turned, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Baby… there you are.” She took two steps toward Jac and stopped short, eyes widening with worry. “You look exhausted.”

  Jac forced a small smile. “Long day.”

  Her mother guided her to the table. Two plates, candles lit, photo of Jac’s father set neatly near the center. His smile looked back at her—confident, proud, the kind of man who’d once seemed unbreakable. Her throat tightened.

  Her mother didn’t mention the case directly—she knew the rules—but she asked the way mothers do about everything else:

  “Are you eating enough? Sleeping? How are the detectives treating you? Is your partner okay?”

  Jac nodded through each question, swallowing spoonfuls of food she barely tasted. The conversation drifted to safer topics—her mother’s coworkers, old stories about Jac as a child, the time her father taught her how to throw a football and she hit him in the nose. Jac laughed at that one, genuinely, though her voice shook.

  After dinner, her mother touched her cheek. “You can tell me if it was bad.”

  Jac’s eyes clouded. “It was,” she whispered.

  Her mother squeezed her hand. “Then breathe. Let it sit for now. You have what it takes. I know you do.”

  Jac nodded, though she wasn’t sure she believed it.

  When she finally made it home, she tossed her keys onto the counter and went straight to the corner where her father’s shrine stood—a small arrangement of framed photos, his academy certificate, his badge, and a folded flag she’d grown up seeing only on important days. She sat cross-legged in front of it.

  She took the cupcake from a small pastry box she’d picked up earlier—a tradition she’d kept since his death. She lit a single candle, watched the flame flicker. “Happy birthday, Dad,” she whispered.

  The apartment was quiet around her, too quiet, and she suddenly wished she were back in the noisy bar with Melody leaning over the counter telling her she wasn’t supposed to be fine.

  She looked at the folded slip of paper on the coffee table—Melody’s number. She picked it up. Held it between her fingers. Balanced it on her knee.

  She imagined dialing it. Imagined Melody’s voice—warm, steady, effortless. Imagined saying something like “I’m not okay,” or “Can I talk to you?”

  But then the memory came back; the ribs crushed like something had wrapped around them, the way the torso had been positioned, the twisted angles of the limbs—and her fingers trembled. She set the number down.

  “Dad,” she whispered, staring at his picture, “how did you do this? How did you see things like that and not fall apart?”

  The candle wavered in a small draft. Shadows shifted across his framed face. She blew out the flame, plunging the room into soft darkness. She went to bed because she didn’t know what else to do.

  Sleep wasn’t kind. The crime scene crawled into her dreams, patchworked into fragments—flashes of bone, the wrongness of it all, the feeling that something huge and faceless had been in that unit with them, watching silently from just outside the light.

  She woke before dawn, pillow damp with sweat, heart pounding so hard she felt it in her teeth. The apartment was still dark. Quiet. Safe. But she didn’t feel safe.

  She sat on the edge of her bed, elbows on her knees, and stared at the glowing numbers on her alarm clock. The day had barely begun, and the case was already under her skin.

  She rubbed her eyes, ran a hand over her hair, and forced herself to stand. It wasn’t courage. Not yet. But it was movement. And movement was the one thing that kept fear from freezing her in place.

  She got dressed, holstered her badge and sidearm, and stepped into the cold morning. It was going to be a long day.