I saw it—clear as day—in those hauntingly beautiful emerald eyes. There was more behind her words than irritation. There was weight. Grief. The kind of pain that doesn’t come from a hard class or a bad breakup. This was older. Deeper. The kind of ache that nestles into your bones and stays there, quietly rotting you from the inside out. The kind of hurt you carry like a second skin, invisible to most but impossible to ignore once you’ve seen it.
I don’t know her story. I don’t know what shoved her toward a career in homicide as if it were her only lifeline. But I know the look of someone who’s been through the fire and still has the burns to prove it.
And I hate that I want to know more.
By the time I finished typing up my portion of the shift reports and filing statements, and logging the last of the shift data, it was already creeping past six. My head ached, my shoulders were tight, and the building hum of frustration hadn’t quite faded, even after clocking out.
The locker room was in its usual state of organized chaos—officers filtering in and out during the shift change, a blur of banter, boots, and duty belts. The air smelled of sweat, cheap deodorant, and the bitter bite of burnt coffee. Lockers slammed shut, radios squawked, and conversations overlapped in a steady hum.
I move on muscle memory, peeling off my uniform, folding it neatly, and stuffing it into my backpack to wash later. I pull on afitted black t-shirt that clings to my chest and arms, followed by a pair of dark gray jeans.
I slide my feet into my black Vans, then lean against the bench for a second, rolling my neck to work out the tension still sitting there like it pays rent.
Across the room, Kline’s locker swings shut with a dull clank. He’s fastening the buttons to his plain light gray dress shirt when I glance over, his expression relaxed in that annoyingly zen way he always seemed to carry post-shift.
“Kline,” I call out, catching his attention as he fastens the last button on his shirt.
He looks over. “What’s up?”
“You got plans tonight?” I ask, zipping my backpack shut.
“Nope,” he says, lifting his boot onto the bench to start lacing it. “Why?”
“Thinking of grabbing a drink.” I pause. “You in?”
Kline raises an eyebrow, his mouth twitching. “Depends. You buying?”
I snort, shaking my head. The corner of my mouth lifts despite myself. “One round. After the kind of day we had? Feels like we earned it.”
He finishes tying his left boot, then glances around the half-empty locker room—the last of the shift-change crowd trickling out. After a beat, he shrugs. “Sure, why not.”
I slip my arms through the straps of my backpack as he grabs his duffel off the floor.
“Cool,” I say, as I head toward the door to the locker room. “Meet you at Zeke’s?”
“That works,” he replies, slinging the bag over his shoulder and following me out.
We step out into the hallway, the noise of the shift change fading behind us. Outside, the air is cooler than it’s been all day—a welcome break after being out in the heat all day inwool uniforms and bulletproof vests. The dry heat still lingers, but it’s mellowed, the edge taken off by the slowly setting sun. Streetlights flicker on above us. Patrol units idled nearby, radios crackling faintly, headlights cutting through the dusky haze.
We cross the lot in silence, but my mind’s anything but quiet.She’sstill there, pacing circles in my thoughts like she’s got a damn key to the place.
Reaching into the side pocket of my backpack, I pull out the keys to my Black Silverado as Kline peels off toward his dark gray Grand Cherokee, giving me a quick chin lift before hopping in.
I climb into the cabin of my truck and fire it up. The engine growls to life, and a few seconds later, the radio kicks on. The chorus of “Numb” by Sleep Theory spills through the speakers, too, on the nose to ignore.
For a second, I sit there, letting the engine idle while I adjust the vents and roll my neck. Then a sharp honk makes me glance up—Kline, already pulling out, his hand stuck out his window as he gives me a wave.
I blow out a breath and throw my truck into reverse, then follow.
About fifteen minutes later (would have been less if I didn’t have to make a pit stop at the gas station), I’m creeping into the gravel lot behind Zeke’s, which is tucked between a pawn shop and a tire outlet. For a Tuesday night, the place is surprisingly packed. The lot’s nearly full, and I have to circle twice before I finally snag a spot near the back, wedged between a rusted-out F-150 and someone’s beat-up Impala.
I throw the truck into park, kill the engine, and hop down from the cabin. Gravel crunches under my Vans as I shift my weight and shut the door with a dullthunk. I lock my truck, then make my way toward the front entrance. Neon signs flickerabove the door—one half burnt-out, the other buzzing like it’s on its last leg.
Country music bleeds through the cracks in the door—something twangy and upbeat, paired with the low hum of conversation and clinking glass. The scent of stale beer hits before I even open the door, thick and familiar. Not exactly pleasant but oddly comforting after the day I’ve had.
I yank the door open and step into the semi-lit haze of the bar. Neon signs flicker above the counter. A TV in the corner is playing some muted baseball game, and the crowd is a blend of off-duty workers, regulars, and a few cops still in partial uniform.
A few familiar faces glance up and nod when they see me, fellow officers already halfway through a beer. I politely nod back but don’t stop because Kline’s waving me down from a table tucked into the back, already posted up with a half-empty bottle of Dos Equis.
