I sit on the cold porcelain bowl in the sheriff's office bathroom, gripping the rim as last night's chili betrays me with every shuddering cramp, fluorescent lights flickering overhead and the tiles slick with sweat from my brow, "God damn it, that chili is killing my stomach."
I knew it was a mistake before the first spoon hit my tongue, but pride doesn't let a man back down mid-challenge, especially not in front of a room full of deputies betting beer money on your GI tract. I wipe my eyes and curse some more, blaming the chili, blaming Deputy Sloane for doubling the cayenne, blaming my own goddamn ego. The vents rattle overhead, a sickly breeze stirring the chemical tang of bleach and ancient grout.
I reach for the roll, already picturing the sweet relief of two-ply against my tortured backside, and my hand closes on the hollow promise of cardboard. No paper. The gods are laughing, and not with subtlety. I probe the steel dispenser in disbelief, as if more aggressive shaking might summon a fresh roll from the ether, but all I get is the metallic rattle echoing my own hollow insides.
"Fuck," I mutter, louder than I mean to.
This is the new low: half-naked, ass clenched, in a bathroom that stinks of failed masculinity and citrus cleaner, debating whether to waddle pants-down to the supply closet or risk the long shuffle to my office. I check my phone but it's dead from my morning podcast marathon. Calling for help is out. The only paper in reach is some kind of municipal safety poster taped to the stall door, warning against running with scissors and reminding me that a clean workplace is a happy workplace. The irony isn't lost on me.
I stand, resolve pooling in my feet, and hitch my pants just high enough to penguin-step toward salvation. Of course, the universe doubles down: the bathroom door creaks open and I freeze, mid-waddle, cheeks exposed, eyes locked with a very startled intern from records. I don't know her name—Allison? Amber? Something with an A—but I know she'll become the vessel of this humiliation at every department happy hour for the next decade.
She utters a strangled "oh," and reverses course. The door slams. I take three deep breaths, gather whatever dignity remains, and make a break for the janitor's closet two doors down, trailing shame and regret like a funeral banner.
By the time I get back to the stall, armed with a twelve-pack of industrial rolls, my stomach has finished its civil war and my legs have gone numb. I clean up, wash my hands while avoiding my own eyes in the mirror, and emerge back into the corridor just in time to hear giggles from the bullpen. I want to believe it's about something else, but I know better. I square my shoulders and walk through the gauntlet, gritting my teeth, and drop the spare toilet paper rolls dramatically onto the front desk.
"Stock the bathrooms," I say to no one in particular. "Please."
A few deputies look up, amused but wisely silent. Deputy Sloane gives me a thumb's up, the fucker. I ignore him and head into my office, closing the door behind me.
I sit at my desk, heart still pounding, and boot up my computer. There's a report waiting from the lab in Anchorage—something about those weird samples I sent from the ravine. I dig in, grateful for the distraction, but the words swim on the screen for a minute, my mind still replaying the walk of shame.
Someday, I will solve a case so spectacular, so goddamned heroic, that no one will remember this morning ever happened.
But today is not that day.
The cough is soft but surgical. I spin in my chair. There's the intern, the one from earlier, posted like a scarecrow in my doorway. She's managed to arrange her face into a mask of professional neutrality, but the edges keep slipping, revealing the upturned grin underneath.
"Morning," she chirps, just barely.
I clear my throat, try to reassert the authority that's leaking out of me like air from a birthday balloon. "Morning, uh…"
"Ainsley," she supplies, voice crisp.
Right. Ainsley. I file it away for later blackmail.
She steps inside with a folder clutched to her chest like a flotation device. "I, um, brought the updated missing persons logs? There were a couple new calls overnight." She sets the folder on the desk, not quite daring to meet my eyes. "And, um, the chief said you wanted the back files on the Rasmusson property, so…"
"Thank you," I say, maybe a little too stiff. I reach for the folder, but she doesn't let go.
"I didn't see anything back there," she lies, badly. "Just so you know."
I look at her, at the way her ponytail's fraying out from too many nervous fidgets, and the way her knuckles are white against the manila. She can't be more than twenty-two. Maybe she thought interning at a rural Alaska sheriff's office would give her time to study for the LSAT or whatever. Instead she's learning about the digestive consequences of deputy pranks and the fine art of pretending you didn't see your supervisor's bare ass.
I let her win the tug-of-war for a second, then relax my grip. "Good. Let's keep it that way."
She nods, backing out of the office like I might be a rabid animal. I wait until the door closes before exhaling, then thumb through the new reports.
First up: drunk and disorderly at the Moose Jaw, again. Then a domestic from up at the trailer park—those never get easier, but they're at least familiar. And then, on page three, a single line that stirs the greasy chili in my guts back to life: "Caller reports odd animal noises, possible livestock kill, east of milepost 17." The complainant's name is Marjorie Belcourt. I know her, sort of. Widow, keeps goats and a couple miniature donkeys for company, famous for her rhubarb pie at the summer block party. I scan the timestamp—2:37AM, just after the storm rolled in.
I tap the desk, weigh my options. Sloane is likely still nursing his own hangover in the break room, and the only other deputy on shift is Richie, who owes me five favors and doesn't know a moose track from a bear print. Guess that leaves me.
I grab my jacket, stuff the folder under one arm, and head for the bullpen. Ainsley's at a desk near dispatch, pretending to type, eyes darting up as I pass.
"Keep your phone handy," I call over my shoulder. "If I'm not back by noon, send someone out to milepost seventeen."
She nods, and I catch the ghost of her grin before I hit the door.
Outside, the sky is a colorless bruise, the kind that promises rain but rarely delivers. The air has that electric tang, where you can almost taste metal on your tongue. I climb into the cruiser and fire up the engine. The radio spits static, then resolves into a country song about lost dogs and cheaper whiskey. I kill the music and focus on the road.
By the time I hit the turnoff near Belcourt's spread, the clouds have thickened and the wind's picked up, making the spruce trees shudder and groan. Her place is a single-story ranch with a wraparound porch and more wind chimes than I can count. I park next to a battered Subaru and walk up the drive, boots crunching the gravel.
Marjorie meets me at the door, wrapped in a wool shawl that's older than me. Her eyes are bloodshot, but she stands straight, the set of her shoulders daring me to mention the tears on her face.
"Morning, Sheriff," she says, voice ragged.
"Morning, Marjorie. You called about some trouble with your animals?"
She nods, steps aside, and leads me out back. We cross a yard littered with rubber boots and children's toys—grandkids, maybe?—to the livestock pen. The donkeys are pacing, ears flared, and one of the goats is lying on its side, motionless.
I squat next to it. No blood, no sign of struggle, but the eyes are wide open, tongue lolling out. I glance up at Marjorie.
"It started around midnight," she says. "Heard a screech, like a hawk but bigger. Woke up to this."
I examine the fence. No sign of a break, but the wire's been twisted, like something tried to squeeze through. I feel along the posts, looking for hair or claw marks, anything that might tell me what did this. Nothing.
I look back at Marjorie. "You see anything? Anyone?"
She shakes her head. "Just the noise. And the shadows. It felt wrong, like… like something out of place."
I straighten, brush the dirt from my knees. "Can I take a look around the property?"
She nods and motions toward the tree line. I walk the perimeter, boots collecting mud, and keep my eyes peeled for prints. About fifty yards from the pen, I spot a patch of flattened grass and something black caught on a branch. I pull out a latex glove—always be prepared, Scout's honor—and pluck the sample. It's hair, coarse and long, but not from any animal I know. Maybe a wolf, but too long, and there's a metallic sheen to it under the light.
I bag it and finish the circuit, but nothing else jumps out. On the way back, the air grows colder, and I catch movement in the corner of my eye. A shape, darting between the trees. I freeze, listening, but there's only the wind and the chimes, a discordant symphony.
I head back to Marjorie. She's watching me, arms folded tight, jaw set.
"I'll take the sample in for analysis," I say. "If you hear or see anything else, call right away. Don't go out after dark."
She nods, then looks past me toward the woods. "You think it'll come back?"
I could lie, tell her it's nothing, just a coyote or a bear, maybe a prank from the neighbor kids. But the hair in my bag, the look in her eyes, and the way the air feels like it's been vacuumed clean of sound—no, I don't think it's over.
"I think you should lock your doors tonight," I say. "And keep the lights on."
I leave her standing in the yard, the wind tugging at her shawl, and head back to my cruiser. The radio hisses with a new call: disturbance at the high school, possible break-in. I answer, promise I'll be there in ten, and pull onto the road.
I drive, mind racing, and try not to think about the creature in the trees, or the way its shadow seemed to move even when the wind was still. I try not to think about the chili, the bathroom, or the smirk on Ainsley's face.
But mostly, I try not to think about what's waiting for me in the lab report I left open on my desk, the one with the words "unknown organic material" highlighted in yellow.
Because I already know, in the pit of my stomach, that whatever killed Marjorie's goat isn't done with us yet. And it sure as hell isn't scared of the dark.I step onto the dirt shoulder and thumb the keys, eyeing the vacant field beside Marjorie's house. Sometimes you get a sense—cop's intuition, or maybe just small-town paranoia—that you're being watched. Right now, the feeling's a pit of ice in my gut. I scan the tree line again. Everything's still, except for the wind. Then, just as I turn to open the cruiser door, something flickers at the periphery: a blot of motion, too quick and low to the ground.
I pivot, hand on my hip, but by the time I've squared to the source, it's gone. A flash of black, a whip of tail maybe, swallowed by the alder thicket at the property edge. I'm left standing there, jaw tight and skin crawling, holding a paper bag of goat hair and questions.
"Fucking wilderness," I mutter, then louder: "If you're some kind of dog, you'd better be rabid."
Nothing answers, not even the windchimes. I get in the car, hands shaking a touch. I crank the heater and drive with the windows rolled up, watching the mirror for a mile, half-expecting to see a pair of eyes trailing me back to town.
The sheriff's office is a squat, prefab rectangle with a roof that could double as a landing strip. I pull up, slam the door, and hustle inside. My first stop is the evidence closet, where I tag and bag the sample, jotting in the logbook with all the composure of an over-caffeinated squirrel. Then I duck into my office and boot up the lab report, heart jackhammering as the screen resolves.
UNKNOWN ORGANIC MATERIAL, it reads. MULTICELLULAR FIBERS WITH HIGH MELANIN CONTENT. NON-HUMAN. FURTHER TESTING RECOMMENDED.
My phone pings—Ainsley's text, a direct line from dispatch: "911 call. Deputy Sloane at Restin Place. You're up."
Restin Place is the kind of mobile home park that makes you wish for reincarnation, just so this life could be over sooner. I grab my coat and badge, tell Ainsley to keep the line open, and jog to the cruiser. The sky's gone from bruise to outright black. Rain spatters the windshield, fat and cold, as I wind through the outskirts toward the trailer park.
Sloane's car is already there, lights spinning a frantic disco against the rows of plastic siding. I park behind him, cut the siren, and step out. The air smacks me with a wet slap—rain, but also something rank, almost coppery. Sloane's standing at the edge of lot 6B, one hand on his belt, the other holding a tactical flashlight as if it might double as a crucifix.
He jerks his head at me, face ghost-pale. "You see this shit?"
I follow his line of sight up the warped stairs of a faded blue trailer. The door hangs open, one hinge split. Inside, the lights are off, but something is scraping across the linoleum—soft, persistent, like a mop dragged by a toddler.
I draw my sidearm. Sloane does the same, his knuckles white.
We climb the steps. I call out, "Sheriff's office!" My voice echoes through the hollowed trailer. The scraping pauses, then resumes, faster.
We push in together. The living room is a mess of beer cans, pizza boxes, and a single, gutted recliner. The scraping comes from the hallway, toward the bedrooms. I signal Sloane to cover left; I go right.
The hallway smells like old milk and fear. I edge forward, gun up, and kick in the door to the master bedroom.
There's a man on the carpet, face-down, arms outstretched—Earl Kitteridge, who calls in fake burglaries every other month for attention. Only this time, he's not moving. There's a dark stain pooled under his chest. I nudge him with my boot. He flops over, mouth frozen mid-scream.
His shirt is shredded, and the cuts crisscrossing his ribs aren't knife work. They're too wide apart, too uneven, like they were raked by animal claws.
At the window above his corpse, the glass is smashed out. On the sill, caught in a splinter, is another tuft of that same black, iridescent hair.
I bag it, hands steady now. Sloane comes in behind me, expression unreadable.
"Jesus," he says, voice small.
I call it in to dispatch. "Double homicide, Restin Place. Request animal control, but bring a body bag."
As I hang up, I glance back at Sloane, who's staring at the window like it might reach in and grab him.
"What the hell does that?" he asks.
I think about Marjorie's goat, about the black flash in the woods, and the report on my desk that doesn't match any living species.
I wish I had an answer. Instead I load the evidence, check the locks on the cruiser, and watch the tree line all the way home.
Tonight I sleep light. Not because I'm scared—though, god help me, maybe I am—but because the thing in the woods isn't finished.