I check for a pulse. Find one. Weak, thready, but there. Thank God. Thank God.
She's breathing. Shallow, labored, but breathing. I don't move her—can't risk spinal damage—but I hold her hand, press my fingers to her wrist, count every heartbeat like a prayer.
"Stay with me. Help's coming. Just stay with me."
Her eyes flutter open. The eyes that made me fall in love with her twelve years ago. She tries to speak, and blood bubbles at her lips.
"Rhys..."
"Don't talk. Save your strength."
"Wasn't... accident." Her voice barely a whisper. "Forced... off road. Black truck. They?—"
She coughs, and more blood comes. Too much blood.
"Emma, don't. Just hold on."
Her hand tightens on mine. "Love you. Always... loved you."
"I love you too. You're going to be fine. You hear me? You're going to be fine."
But she's not, and the mountain takes her.
Her fingers go slack in my grip. One moment holding on, the next just weight. Her chest stops moving. The pulse under my thumb—gone.
Sirens wail in the distance. Too late.
I stay with Emma as the sun rises over the ridge, painting the snow in shades of pink and gold that she'll never see. Theparamedics have to pry my hand from hers. Someone—maybe it's my deputy—guides me back up the embankment.
Two weeks later, the investigator's report lands on my desk. Brake line failure. Three words stamped in the summary box: Accidental vehicular death.
They close the case.
But Emma said it wasn't. Her last words:forced off the road, black truck.
I request a full forensic investigation. Get stonewalled. File reports that disappear. Push harder and get warned off by people who shouldn't care about a rural sheriff's dead wife.
That's when I know. Someone killed Emma. Someone powerful enough to bury the evidence. And they think I'll just let it go.
Three years later, I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, scissors in hand. The beard reaches my chest now. Hair touches my shoulders. I should cut it. Should clean up. Should look like the sheriff this town deserves.
I set the scissors down and walk away.
Emma's wedding ring stays in my pocket. Third-generation law enforcement. Third-generation Blackwater wearing a badge in these mountains.
First one who failed to protect what mattered most.
HARLOW
Chicago, Illinois
Two Years Ago
"Talk to me, Daniel. Tell me what you need."
My voice stays calm, steady, even though my heart is trying to break through my ribs. Fifteen years of experience for moments like this. Crisis Negotiation Unit. The best of the best. I don't fail.
Daniel Reeves stands in the center of the store, one arm locked around a sobbing woman's throat, the other holding a Glock to her temple. He's sweating despite the November cold, eyes wild with desperation.
