I made my rounds—front door, back slider, windows in the laundry and guest room—each lock receiving two pulls and one push, just to be certain. I held my breath while I did it, and I don’t know if that was to steady my hands or just because I’d forgotten how to breathe like a regular person.
The kitchen greeted me with the same three mugs in the sink, last night’s dinner plate crusted with a single ring of marinara. I washed everything, one at a time, methodical, even though the dishwasher was empty and begging for work. I ran the disposal just for the sound of it, then wiped the counter in overlapping rectangles until the granite squeaked.
The clock said 5:09. Still two hours until I had to be at the station, but my body moved like it had somewhere to go. I counted out coffee grounds—exactly 42 grams, measured on the scale, the way Ransom used to tease me for—then poured theminto the cone filter, tamped it with a chopstick, and set the timer. My brain said, “You’re insane,” but my hands said, “We survived another night, didn’t we?”
I checked my phone. Nothing. The last message on the thread from three days ago:“Goodbye, Floyd.”The words branded behind my eyelids, so when I blinked, I saw them in negative.
While the coffee brewed, I did a lap of the living room. I plucked stray threads from the couch cushions and realigned the throw pillows so the stripes matched the seams. I ran my finger along the trim of the TV and dusted the empty shelf where Ransom’s ugly ceramic coyote used to sit. It wasn’t there anymore. I’d boxed it up with the rest of his things—two band shirts, a metal lighter with a naked woman on it, half a bottle of Rogaine I never saw him use, and the coyote. I left the box on his porch the night he told me he couldn’t do this anymore. I checked for it the next morning. Gone.
I stared at the spot on the shelf for a long time, trying to remember what it looked like with the coyote there. All I could see was the blank space.
The coffee finished. I poured a mug, black, the way I always took it. I sat at the table, phone in front of me, and watched the notifications: two emails, a weather alert, a text from the pharmacy about my refill. No message from him.
I checked my personal email, then the work one, just in case. There was a new memo from the county about the upcoming audit. I flagged it, then set the phone down and traced the rim of my coffee cup with my index finger, trying not to think about the last time we sat at this table, how he’d stolen my mug, how I’d pretended to be mad but let him keep it. The blue mug was gone, too. Everything he ever touched was gone. The only thing left was the ghost of him in the air.
I drank the coffee, bitter and scalding, then washed the mug and set it upside-down to dry. Then I showered, scrubbingwith enough force to raise a rash on my shoulders. I used the unscented soap—Ransom hated anything with “manly” fragrances, said it made me smell like a gym teacher’s jockstrap. The memory hit me sideways, and I almost dropped the bar.
After, I toweled off and went to the closet. Uniforms lined up by day of the week, all in plastic covers from the dry cleaner. I picked Tuesday, slid it from the rack, and buttoned the shirt with fingers that didn’t want to cooperate. I stabbed myself with the badge pin, hissed, and tried again. This time, I got it perfect.
I checked my phone.
Still nothing.
I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled my socks on, left then right, making sure the seams were flat and the toes were lined up. I put on the duty boots, double-knotted them, then re-laced the top eyelets for extra support. Each movement was automatic, like a puppet show staged by muscle memory. I found myself repeating the mantra from my Army days: “If you can control the little things, you can survive the big things.” It was bullshit, but I did it anyway.
The only thing left was my sidearm. I pulled it from the safe, checked the magazine, then holstered it on my belt. I looked in the mirror, seeing the man the world expected to see: clean-cut, composed, ready to face whatever walked through the station doors.
Except for my eyes. They were bloodshot, rimmed red and puffy, like I’d spent the night in a smokehouse. I practiced the neutral face—lips flat, eyes steady, nothing showing but cold authority. It almost worked, but the cracks were there if you knew where to look.
I checked my phone.
No message.
I exhaled. It felt like letting air out of a tire.
I grabbed my keys, my radio, and left the house, double-locking the door behind me. The sun was just starting to drag itself over the horizon, painting the street in pale gray. My breath made clouds in the air.
I got in the truck, started the engine, and drove off, eyes on the rearview, watching the house shrink until it was just another shape in the dark.
The parking lot was empty except for the two marked units and the truck Latham always parked like he was afraid of catching a ticket. I sat in the truck for a minute, watching the way the frost crept up the windshield from the corners, little veins of white growing thicker by the second. My breath fogged the cab. For a while I didn’t move.
The station was lit up like a fish tank, fake-bright and clinical. I swiped my badge at the back door and let myself in, wincing at the whine of the hinges. The smell inside was a blend of Lysol, burnt coffee, and the muddy scent of Latham’s boots.
Latham was already at his desk, flipping through the logs with one hand and texting with the other. He looked up when I came in, eyes flicking from my face to my uniform, then back to my face.
“You’re early,” he said, which was a joke because I was always early.
“Yeah,” I said, hanging my jacket on the rack. “Had stuff to do.”
He squinted, not buying it for a second. “You look like shit, Chief.”
“Allergies,” I lied, grabbing the evidence locker keys off the wall. “Ragweed.”
Latham snorted. “Ain’t ragweed season.”
I ignored him, went to the coffee pot and poured myself a cup. The stuff was hours old and tasted like engine degreaser,but it gave my hands something to do. I went over the incident reports, barely seeing the words.
On my desk, the clock ticked a slow, deliberate beat. 7:37 AM. I looked up at the window and watched the sky start to lighten over Main Street. Inked Rebellion was right across, the sign already visible even though the lights were off. I stared at the front window, waiting for the flicker of movement, the glow of the open sign, the flash of Ransom’s silhouette behind the glass.
