NINE
POWELL
I was halfway through pretending to care about an equipment checklist when the bay doors opened and the temperature in the room changed.
You did this long enough, and you got a sixth sense for shift changes. The mood in the station, the tension in the air, the way voices rose and fell. This wasn’t a call coming in or Chief Holloway about to chew us out.
This was quieter. Sharper.
When I looked up, Jess Donnegan stood at the threshold like she’d walked into the wrong movie.
If I hadn’t been there the night of the fire, I might’ve thought she was fine. Her hair was pulled back into a neat braid that was far more sedate than her usual messy bun. Makeup on. Lip balm. Clean jeans. Boots that matched her coat. Everything about her said controlled, composed, I’ve got this.
Except her eyes.
Her eyes looked like someone had unplugged the lights behind them.
She took a breath, squared her shoulders, and pasted on a polite, neutral expression I’d never seen on her before. Not here. Not for me.
“Afternoon,” she said, voice level. “I’m looking for whoever can tell me what happened to my truck after… everything.”
Her gaze skimmed over Moose, Twitch, Hollywood. Skipped off me and came back like it didn’t have a choice.
I set down the incident report I’d been working on. “Hey, Jess.”
She dipped her chin, the bare minimum acknowledgment. “Powell.”
Up close I spotted the things she’d tried to hide—the fine tremor in her hands, tightness around her mouth, a faint shadow under one eye where smoke and oxygen and shock had all had their say. But her spine was straight, her clothes were immaculate, and her tone had the precision of someone clinging hard to the last thing in her control.
“Chief’s in his office,” Moose offered from the workbench. “But Donkey here is the one you want.”
Jess’s jaw tightened at the nickname, but she didn’t take the bait. “Somebody moved Pour Decisions. I went by the site and…” She inhaled once, slow. “It’s gone. I’d like to know where it is. And what, if anything, can be salvaged.”
There it was. Not a quaver. Not a crack. Every word polished and professional, despite the fact we were talking about her entire life in the past tense.
I wiped my palms on my pants. “I can show you. We got it out of the way yesterday morning, moved it somewhere safer. It’s… not as bad as you’re probably imagining from the empty spot on Main.”
Her eyes snapped to mine, searching for something. A lie. Pity. Whatever she’d decided to expect from me.
“What aren’t you telling me?” she asked.
“Nothing.” For once it wasn’t totally bullshit. “We’ll have an easier time talking about it if I walk you through in person. It’s maybe fifteen minutes out of town. You okay to drive?”
Her mouth flattened. “I’ve been operating motor vehicles since the fire, yes.”
“I know,” I said quickly. “I just meant… if you’d rather ride with?—”
“I’m fine,” she said, a little too fast. “Just tell me where we’re going.”
“Back to the old Cartwright farm.”
Something flickered in her gaze. Surprise, perhaps. “I can get there on my own.”
Ignoring the wall of armor that was back up, I grabbed my keys. “I’m going with you to walk you through it.”
For a second I thought she’d argue, but she only nodded once and strode back out like she hadn’t walked into a building full of people who’d been there when her world burned down.
Moose waited until the bay door thunked shut behind her before he said, “She’s got that murder-in-a-ballgown vibe today.”
