Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Caitlyn Kiramman presses her prone body into the frozen ground. The ridge is a fortress of ice and rock, chiseled by eons of bitter winds shrieking across the landscape. She fits her rifle snugly against her shoulder, careful not to disturb the bipod’s balance. The moon is nothing but a thin arc of silver behind slow-crawling clouds. Snowflakes drift across her scope. She breathes in, slow and measured.

Through her night-optic display the distant world appears in tinted greens and grays, flickering with ghostly clarity. She follows a figure in the snow, close to a kilometer and a half away.

The air is too cold for comfort, but at least the wind has quieted down. Earlier today it erased footprints in seconds. Now it is barely a whisper, telling tales of cold emptiness.

She checks the data from the range finder again. The numbers barely move. Good. She shifts her elbows in the snow. On her right hand her glove is thin at the fingertips. The heavier glove attached to her wrist, kept between the arm and the rifle. It’s cold, very cold, but she needs to feel the metal of the trigger. The pressure that is to be applied is exact, and very familiar.

She goes through the last round of calculations. The temperature is negative twenty three degrees Celsius, or roughly minus ten degrees Fahrenheit, lowering the density altitude to effectively six hundred and seventy meters, as well as affecting the powder burn and the very flight of the bullet. Wind speeds are low across the valley at altitude, but down along the valley floor the wind is channeled, moving at four to six knots, shifting south-southwest. Bullet drop at this range is substantial, so the scope’s elevation is dialed up. Then there’s the Coriolis effect, slight but real at these distances. She nudges the scope two more clicks. High ground, plus half a click for drift.

Her breath clouds the air. She steadies herself and the rifle, counting in her head. In—hold—out—pause. She sets her jaw. The shape below is a faint silhouette, occasionally fading in and out as moonlight disappears behind thin clouds and another snowflake drifts in front of her scope.

A hiss of static echoes in her memory, a phantom radio squawk from another life. She hears her name whispered in a voice she once knew. She sees a flash of different white mountains, jagged harsh peaks, lit up by moonlight. She remembers a partner’s frantic shout that cut off too soon. She exhales, pushing the memory aside.

Now is not the time.

The distance is immense, but the numbers fail to intimidate her. She’s shot farther, in conditions just as hostile. High-altitude wind-blasts, near-total darkness, deep sub-zero temperatures. She might have thought at some point that these experiences would fade. That she could reacclimatize into something resembling normality.

But there is no way to “reacclimatize” oneself out of the world that made her this way.

It has burrowed deep into her.

Beyond muscle.

Beyond bone.

It is not a part of her.

It is her.

She takes one last breath, resting her cheek against the rifle stock, and lines up her reticle center-mass. Her gloved finger strokes the trigger’s curve. The night is as deep as it is total. In the empty vastness of the northern Rockies it offers nothing but silence and it gives no quarter.

The body in her reticule moves forward, struggling in the deep snow. Making out facial details in this light, at this range, is impossible. But even as jagged as the motions are, she would recognize the gait, and the body that drives it, anywhere.

Vi.

Her mind is ice.

She feels no fear, no pity.

One last adjustment and she eases the trigger back until she feels the break. The shot cracks, muffled by the suppressor. Recoil jars her shoulder, but the muzzle flash barely winks in the darkness. A heartbeat passes. She keeps her eyes on the scope.

The bullet traverses that impossible stretch of frozen air.

One point six-three seconds of travel time.

A faint spark flickers near the silhouette in her scope. Then the figure collapses. Like a marionette doll with its strings cut. She cycles the bolt, ready for a second round, but there’s no sign of movement.

The trees, the snow, and the mountains swallow any echo of the shot.

She lowers her head for a very brief moment, letting the wind buffet her hood. The tension in her shoulders recedes, replaced by a calm emptiness. She returns to her scope, scanning the lower slope through the faint green glow of her optics.

Nothing stirs.

It is time to move on.

She took the shot.

Chapter Text

Three weeks earlier.

The storm came in the night. Snow sweeps across the reservation roads and clings to brittle pine branches. Vi sits in the driver’s seat of her heavy police four-by-four truck, squinting at the worn wipers as they smudge her windshield. Cold air seeps into the car through every crack and crevice. The gap in the isolation strip above the driver’s side door transmits a constant stream of frozen air, prickling the back of her neck. She knows these roads by heart, but the heavy snow and the wind’s howl turns every mile into an alien landscape.

Reborn.

Just now.

She checks her phone for what must be the tenth time, but there’s nothing. No new texts. No calls. Just the faint, blinking signal icon telling her she’s at the edge of cell service. There are days she would let silence cradle her, but last night was one of those nights.

Yet again she barely slept.

Dreams tore at her.

Dreams of decay.

Dreams of death.

Waking up she remembers only the sensations.

The cold.

The emptiness.

The loneliness.

Those nights were always like this. Fleeting moments clawing into her. Waking up. Sweating. Restless. In fear. The memories themselves were lost to the void.

She has been told tales of the winds carrying spirits over the mountains, through the forests, into the rivers. There are darker tales too. Tales of malevolent spirits devouring human flesh in the winter.

She shouldn’t care. They are stories. Old stories. From a people not even hers. She came here a decade ago, on the run, looking for a place to be forgotten.

And nowhere is one forgotten like here.

She grips the steering wheel. The tires of the truck fight for traction, causing her to fight the vehicle as it jerks first left and then right in the drifting snow. The road has been recently cleared, with tall snow drifts on either side, ranging from a foot to three or even four feet. The world beyond the snow outside is a blanket of white, until you reach either frosted forests or mountain sides so steep not even the snow can stick to it.

Someone had seen carrion birds in the distance while hunting. The caller had provided an approximate location. Deep into the wilderness. Beyond the lake, over the ridge, and into the emptiness beyond.

Grayson had asked if Vi would head out. Sure. Why not? What else was there to do? Break up another bar brawl? They’ve had a few burglaries in the last month, plus scattered calls about prowlers near boarded-up trailers. But that’s all routine stuff. Nothing that sets her nerves on fire.

Except something does. She can’t name it, but it’s there. Like a shadow in her peripheral vision. Restless, she taps the radio. Static washes through the speaker, and the faint voice of Margaret Little Thunder emerges.

“No updates on missing persons… stand by…”

The voice fades. Missing persons, she thinks. The list only grows. Could be runaways. Could be a thousand other reasons. She’s used to the system failing these people, used to the station’s limited resources. But today, with carrion birds in the air, that knowledge sours within her.

It could be wildlife.

It could be nothing.

But this doesn’t feel like nothing.

She knows this is something.

She knows it in her gut.

She glances at the passenger seat. It’s littered with empty coffee cups and half-written notes. She’s searching for a pen when the radio buzzes.

“Vi.” Maggie’s voice cracks over the weak signal, deep and furrowed. “How far out are you?” Vi picks up the microphone and talks as she navigates the road.

“A few miles south of the lake. I’ll park there and take the snowmobile in. What’s up?”

Maggie’s voice is quiet for a moment. The wind crackles in the background. “Grayson wants regular checkins, fifteen minutes. She reminds you to pack for safety and to run the generator on the truck and set the radio to relay.”

“Yes Ma’am. Fifteen minute checkins.” As the truck climbs the road towards the mountain lake, the snowfall lessens. The sky becomes almost clear, like Vi is ascending from the darkness below into the light. “Weather’s clearing. I’ll check in once I’m on the move.”

She hears the strain in Maggie’s words. “Copy that. Good hunting Vi. Be safe.”

“Copy good hunting. Vi out.”

Vi leans back into the seat as the road plateaus out and the lake opens up in front of her. Nearly three miles of a perfectly flat strip, narrow, with trees on either side, and mountains beyond. At the end of the lake, there is more forest, with a path to the east, that descends into the valley on the other side. A popular place for hikers.

Even this time of year.

And it is not like she couldn’t see why. She parks the truck in front of the big sign showing off the lake and its history.

Right. No more warm cabin.

It is time to go to work.

Ten minutes later, she is on the snow mobile traveling at speed across the lake. Even with layers of clothing, thicker mittens over thinner gloves, with a balaclava, snow goggles, and her hood over the open-faced helmet that accommodates her goggles…

It is cold.

But when it comes down to it, she wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

The vast open nothingness. The solitude. The quiet. Well, except for the whine of the engine she is riding.

All the crap from way back when is simply way back when.

Out here it doesn’t matter. Not in the slightest.

Here there is just nature, her, and the spray of snow kicked up as she races away.

Packing for safety means jerry cans with extra fuel. It means the snow mobile has a .30-30 bolt-action rifle mounted to her left and a 12-gauge shotgun mounted on the right. Behind her, saddlebags have a first aid and trauma kit, a shovel, extra clothing, binoculars, a few flares, an emergency tent, emergency rations, water, fire-starting kit, collapsible skies, foldable snow shoes, and nearly endless amounts of rope. Mounted next to the cabin is a tall antenna with an extra power source for the VFH radio. Vi taps the button on the steering wheel, attached to herself over the dead-man's wire that would stop the machine if she fell off.

“Dispatch. Unit 516. Radio check.”

“Hi Vi, loud and clear,” Maggie answers. “How do you copy?”

"Copy loud and clear, on patrol route comms. Checking in every 15 minutes."

The line goes quiet. The drone of the engine below her is all there is as she enters the tree line at the other side of the lake. She slows down, guiding the heavy machine through the trees with experienced ease. Out on the other side of the ridge the valley opens up in front of her. Above her, clouds have parted. The sun has come out. The valley beyond presents itself a pristine untouched landscape. She takes her binoculars out, moves the goggles onto her helmet, checks her GPS, and scans the skies.

Nothing.

And still nothing.

Just endless amounts of blue.

And then something.

There.

Birds.

“Dispatch, 516. I’ve got some circling birds. I’m at…” She looks down and reads off her GPS. “No ground confirmation possible from up here, looks like a forest clearing. I’ll approach via the ridge line and head down through the forest from the southeast. It’ll probably take me at least half an hour to get there.”

“Dispatch copy.” Maggie hesitates, pondering a thought. “Possible tent site?”

“Yeah,” Vi says. “I’ll let you know.”

She clicks off the radio and stows her binoculars. She checks the map on the GPS, picking a spot that looks like the clearing, sets it as her destination, lowers her goggles, and starts the engine.

The ridge line is tricky to traverse, but soon enough she is down on the valley floor trying to say on course through the forest. It is slow going, relatively speaking, through the undergrowth, constantly trying to keep track of snow depth and path options. The forest is old, dense… dark. Nothing like the open spaces that allow Vi to breathe.

Occasionally she looks up, tries to find the birds, and sometimes she is lucky. Other times the snow-laden trees refuse to give her the visibility she needs. She falls back to relying on technology. Suddenly, her radio squawks. The signal weaker. Clicks and distortions saturating the call.

"Unit 516… Dis… patch. Stat… check. Over.”

Shit. Distractions. Has it been fifteen minutes already? Vi checks her watch. Oh yes, almost twenty. She pushes the push-to-talk button again.

“Unit 516, read you broken. Reception’s getting spotty in the trees. Moving toward a clearer line.”

She eases off the throttle, scanning ahead for a break in the canopy. Nothing but towering pines and snow-heavy branches.

A burst of static.

"Copy... weak... try... higher ground." Maggie’s voice flickers in and out, nearly drowned by the interference.

Vi exhales, adjusting her course. She should have expected this. Dense forest is a signal killer. The tall VHF antenna on her machine helps, but it only does so much with thick trunks and ridge lines between her and the truck.

She taps the mic again.

"516, adjusting route. Check-in might be delayed."

Another crackle of static. Then, finally, Maggie’s voice punches through, barely legible.

"Affir... skkkk... watch... ETA?"

"Best guess, fifteen out. If I lose you, I’ll check in once I clear the trees."

No response. Just white noise.

Vi lets the radio rest, feeling the silence settle in. Just her, the snow, and the machine beneath her. She checks her compass. Adjusts course. And pushes deeper into the forest.

Ten minutes later the clearing opens up in front of her. She takes off her helmet and snow goggles, and kills the engine as soon as she sees what lies beyond.

Far beyond.

Not in distance.

But in humanity.

Standing on the footrests of the snow mobile, she blinks. Slowly. In the middle of the clearing, maybe thirty feet away, a body. Human. Seated with hands clasped in prayer in front of herself. And it is a ‘her’. She is naked. Her skin grey-blue from frost, with patches of snow and ice covering her. Her dark hair frozen, glued to her as if she just came out from a salon. On the body are painted dark red-brown patterns. Around the body are numerous small figurines, made from twigs and something else, and beyond that, a row of antlers, all tilted towards the body.

Birds have attempted to pluck at what was once soft tissue, but most of it is so frozen they have had limited luck.

Vi takes half a step off the snow mobile, only for her feet to sink into the snow. A quick glance at her foot. She reaches over to retrieve her snow shoes, opens them, and clips them in.

She retrieves the shotgun from its mounting and walks around the outside of the clearing, looking at the body. Her stomach lurches. She fights back nausea. More dark streaks on the arms, swirling patterns like twisted runes. Her pulse thunders in her ears. Her hands tremble as she stares at the body. The victim’s face is partially hidden behind the hands, but she sees enough to guess an age—maybe early twenties.

It can’t be.

Her throat constricts. She recognizes the line of the jaw. She’s seen it before. In very different circumstances. Alive. She tries to get a good look, to find faults in what she already knows, but eventually she can’t deny it anymore. A spike of horror rips through her chest.

Atka.

Vi’s stomach becomes one huge knot. She was a friend of a friend, and at one point, more than that. She tries not to dwell on the memory of that single night six months ago, the way Atka smiled, the warmth of her laughter. Now, all that’s left is a frozen form in the snow, presented like some gruesome… Whatever the fuck this is.

Vi can’t tear her gaze away. She feels a surge of anger and sorrow fuse in her veins. She wants to rush in and… God knows. Do something. Anything. But there is no point. Looking at the snow alone, this has been in place for days.

She walks back to the snow mobile, and reports.

“Unit 516. We have a body. It’s Atka.”

A bit of static, and then Maggie’s voice.

“Dispatch. Vi? Atka? Are you certain?”

Vi turns to the body.

“Yeah.” She says. “I’m certain. She’s been murdered. Staged. Send… Send everyone.”

There is more chatter. Grayson joins in. They want the location. Vi gives them the location. They ask her to secure the scene. She secures the scene. Whatever that means out here. They want her to remain until they arrive. She waits until they arrive.

And all the while she thinks of that one night. The warmth. The giggle. The momentary escape from loneliness.

And then nothing afterward. Atka returned to her boyfriend. Pretended Vi didn’t exist. And she was alone all again.

Just like before.

Only worse.

They promise they will arrive within the hour.

It might as well be forever. Vi can’t help staring at that body again. Part of her wants to gather Atka up, shield her from the birds, from the people that will eventually arrive, from the nightmares that shape themselves in the snow. But she can’t. Everything about this scene is a clue, and she’s not going to screw that up.

She makes herself busy. Step by step. She takes pictures with her phone. She avoids walking into the clearing. The wind picks up, swirling white flakes in eddies that lick around her ankles. There are no tracks but hers.

There is nothing.

Anywhere.

How will they ever find whomever did this?

She hisses in frustration. This place is burying itself, taking every secret with it. She stares at the twig figurines. Some are humanoid. Some are triangles. Some are four-legged. Some are draped with ribbons, or are they bits of cloth, or maybe rope? It is hard to tell. Scattered between them are small lumps that might be lumps of ice or lumps of flesh—Vi doesn’t want to look too close.

She glances up at the frozen body. Painted symbols still swirl along her forearms. Dark lines curve across her cheeks, cross her forehead, and vanish into the mass of frozen hair. A wave of nausea almost doubles Vi over. The stench of death is muted by the cold, but it’s there. A sweet, foul tang that catches in her throat.

She sucks down a breath and stands straighter. If she starts puking now, it won’t help anyone.

Grayson arrives almost exactly an hour and a half later, her snow mobile having deputy Eli Redfeather riding shotgun. The police chief kills the engine at the edge of the clearing, and the two of them clip on their snow shoes. They take a few steps toward Vi, who is still holding the shotgun, waiting, endlessly. Grayson’s breath steams in the cold as she trudges forward.

Eli follows, lugging equipment. He sets down a battered bag and stands, wide-eyed, at the scene. Vi lifts a hand in wordless greeting. Grayson gives her a grim nod, then her gaze locks on Atka’s body. A flicker of raw emotion crosses her face before she steels herself. “Hell.” Eli swallows, stepping closer. He mutters something under his breath, a half-prayer, half-curse.

Grayson however, she curses. “Fuck. She was only, what, nineteen? Twenty?”

“Twenty,” Vi says. The number tastes bitter in her mouth.

A moment of silence drapes over them. They stare at that frozen figure. Wind rustles the branches overhead, sending a dusting of snow drifting onto Atka’s hair, making it glimmer in the faint light.

Eli edges around, eyes darting to the painted shapes. “What the hell is all this?” he whispers.

Grayson’s expression darkens. She steps forward into the clearing, walking between a set of antlers, glancing at them as she passes, before she kneels in front of Atka, not quite touching the body. Her gloved fingers hover near one of the swirling symbols.

“Eli,” she says, rising as she walks backwards onto her own steps. Not a small feat using snow shoes. “Get shots of everything. We’ll bag and tag after Viktor has given the go-ahead.”

Vi’s brow furrows. She glances around. “What is this?”

Grayson makes a face. “Hell if I know. Looks ritualistic. I should have listened to my mother. All those old stories told to scare people.” She motions at the twisted idols. “Never seen anything like it.”

Eli takes pictures first of the scene as it was, then places small numbered signs by every idol and every set of antlers, shivering as he snaps pictures after picture after picture. “Creepy as fuck.”

Grayson turns to him. “Don’t disturb any of these… things.” She gestures at the twig idols and antlers. She turns towards a rumbling sound from behind her. “About fucking time.”

A third snow mobile rumbles up, forging a path behind them. The machine is towing a sled. The man riding it is spindly and tall, wearing heavy civilian hunting gear, and a scarf that covers half his face. He parks, then removes the scarf, revealing gaunt features and a shy nod. “I, um… took a while,” he says softly.

Viktor. The coroner. Vi’s never been entirely sure how he ended up in this remote place, but he’s always quiet, thorough, and painfully polite. He sees the body, and his face, somehow, turns even paler. “Oh dear.”

“Glad you made it,” Grayson says, stepping over. “Do what you can here and let’s get this cleaned up.”

Viktor nods, and spends a moment donning the snow shoes before walking into the clearing. “What are those?” He mumbles, pointing at the twig figurines. They’re no taller than a hand, some shaped like humanoid outlines, others more abstract. “Set dressing?”

“Or part of the statement,” Grayson interrupts. “Eli has it all,” she looks over at the deputy, who nods, still trying to maintain his composure as he puts away his camera. “You can proceed.”

Vi stands off to the side, hugging her shotgun, mind swirling. She keeps expecting to wake from this. Or to see Atka’s eyes blink, to have her say it’s all a twisted prank.

But just like her dreams.

It is all a mirage.

Impossible.

Grayson looks quickly across the perimeter, speaking into the emptiness in front of her. “No tracks besides what you left, Vi?”

“If there ever was anything, the wind took them all,” Vi says. “It’s all half-drifted. Maybe they left something days ago that got covered.”

Grayson steps closer to Vi, tone low. “You okay?”

Vi shakes her head. “She was… we knew each other.” She can’t bring herself to say more. “I’m just numb, I guess.”

Grayson’s eyes soften. “I’m sorry, kid. We’ll find who did this.”

Vi wants to believe her.

Morning turns into afternoon. Warm coffee is served from thermoses. A few bites of food. Energy bars, a sandwich. Viktor directs the others as he documents every angle, speaking in hushed monologues about time of death. He guesses days, maybe as many as four or five, given the deep freeze. He notes the odd paint or maybe dried blood that forms the runic lines. He speculates there might be postmortem incisions near the torso. “Cannibalism, or staging for it?” he wonders aloud. “I see no massive tissue loss. Cause of death… Inconclusive.”

No one wants to dwell on the possibility of cannibalism. But the suggestions linger. Grayson looks up at the sky.

“Viktor, how much more time do you need? If we can get out of there before the weather turns, or it gets dark, I think we’d all appreciate it.”

“Yes,” he muses, kneeling in front of the body. “We can take her now.” The wind has started to pick up. The effective temperature plunges. Crystalline snowflakes create a reflective sheen across the darkened body. Eli steps up with a body bag.

“Ready?” Viktor asks softly. Eli nods, teeth chattering.

They move Atka’s body with as much care as they can. The limbs are frozen stiff. As they thread the bag over her, there is the brittle snap of ice that makes Vi’s stomach twist. She closes her eyes, breathes through the wave of nausea. The men place her in the bag, sealing it with a quiet finality. Viktor bows his head, and for a moment, no one speaks. Snow stings Vi’s cheeks, or maybe it’s tears. She’s not sure. She just stares at the ground, cold all the way through.

Eventually, they lash the misshapen body bag to the sled attached to Viktor’s snow mobile.

Vi turns to give the clearing one more look.

It’s now empty.

Void.

Dead.

But then again, it always was, wasn’t it?

They arrive at the station with darkness setting in. They are all exhausted. Vi is sweaty. A bad thing to be in the cold. In the fluorescent-lit hallway, they track in slush and ice. Margaret Little Thunder rises from behind the reception which also serves as the dispatch station. She’s sat behind that desk for over thirty years. She has seen it all. Or so she’d like to believe.

“There is fresh coffee,” she turns to Eli. “Aponi brought dinner, it’s in the pen” Maggie points to the bullpen with four desks next to Grayson’s office. “There’s enough for everyone. I hope you can eat.”

Vi’s head sinks. Aponi. Eli’s girlfriend. She brought them food to eat. From the diner. Where Atka would work holiday shifts.

Who’s going to tell her?

How are they going to tell anyone?

Everyone here knows everyone.

People disappear from the reservation every year. Most are never heard from again. Vi can’t help but wonder which is worse.

Disappearing.

Or being found.

Like this.

Grayson pats her shoulder. “Try to eat,” she says to Vi, before turning to Maggie. “You didn’t tell her?” Maggie shakes her head. “Right,” Grayson continues. “Can you announce that I’ll do a press briefing at six pm, at the school. Let them know we’ve found a body. I’ll take questions.” She looks around the room. “No-one else talks to anyone until then. Full lid.” People nod.

Food is taken at their desks. No-one speaks. It is easier that way. One can pretend, for a moment, that all of this was a dream. In the meantime, one can go about one’s normal business. At some point one will wake up, and return to reality.

Except it never works. Vi imagines Viktor alone in the sterile basement that is the coroner's examination room, peering over the ruined remains of someone she once kissed in a moment of lonely impulse. The thought makes her stomach churn again.

Viktor said he would have to put Atka to thaw. In a controlled environment. Like a fridge. So he has asked Eli to help him clear one of the fridges downstairs.

Vi tries to think of something else.

Anything else.

But her mind returns to Atka.

Over and over and over again.

A beep from the front desk phone breaks the silence. “Chief,” the Maggie’s voice calls. “Chayton, he’s asking if we found Atka. Should I patch him to you?”

Grayson exchanges a look with Vi, sighs, and then picks up the phone. “I’ll do it. Thanks.” Vi looks over at Maggie, blinking the dryness from her eyes. Chayton. Atka’s father.

Grayson lowers the phone after a brief conversation, expression grim. “He wants answers. He and Nina are on their way over. When they arrive, I’ll deal with it.”

People return to poking at their food. The bullpen goes quiet. The sounds of cutlery scraping against fast food containers is all there is.

Half an hour later, Atka’s parents arrive. Her father is a quiet man, posture sagging, face etched with grief. His wife stands beside him, eyes red from weeping. As soon as they enter, Grayson directs them into her office. They look at people with hollow expressions.

“Is it true?” her father asks as they move, his voice trembling. “They said… you found her?”

Vi steels herself as she watches Grayson answer. “Yes,” the chief says, putting an arm around the husband. Vi watches them disappear into the office, Grayson’s eyes meeting hers as her boss closes door and then the blinds.

Out of sight.

But not gone.

The sobs start. Then the wailing. Then the rage.

In the bullpen people pretend they don’t hear.

They pretend that everything is normal.

They pretend.

Vi returns to her now-cold food. It sits in the tray.

Half eaten.

Wasting away.

Like all of them.

Atka’s parents leave. Grayson and Eli go to the school to hold the briefing. When they return, Grayson looks completely empty. She goes into her office, closes her door, and pulls the blinds. Vi stares at the blinds. Her mind blank. She has been reading… something over the last couple of hours. Nothing sticks.

She needs sleep.

She needs to…

Something.

Just something else.

She wakes. Her head slumped forward onto her desk. Next to the food. Grayson is touching her shoulder.

“Go home Vi, it’s—“

The speaker at the dispatch station crackles.

“Blackfeet dispatch, SAR team two, copy?”

The voice crackles. It sounds worn. Cold. Distant. The two women exchange a glance. Grayson walks over from the bullpen towards the reception. Vi’s eyes close. She recognizes the voice. Michael Heavy Runner. Runs search and rescue teams as a side gig. Him calling the police, in the dark, with that tone… Vi shakes her head as Grayson presses the push-to-talk at the dispatch station.

“SAR Two, this is Blackfeet Tribal Police Dispatch. Go ahead Michael.”

“Grayson, we responded to a PLB. You need to see this. We’re at Hudson Bay Creek, under Medicine Owl Peak. We found a body.”

Grayson looks over at Vi. Their eyes meet. PLB. Personal locator beacon. A GPS safety device for hikers. When those things go off, people need rescue, and if they’re dead, it’s rarely a police matter. Grayson exhales.

“Copy body. It’s dark, you need us out now?”

“Grayson, she’s… naked. Seated in prayer. There’s shit all around her. The beacon is stuck right in front of her. We’d never have found her without it. You need to come deal with this.”

Vi’s head slums forward. It would have taken them most of the day to get there. They haven’t heard the news.

“Right,” Grayson says. Fatigue leaking everywhere. “Give us the coordinates, we’ll be there as soon as well can. Don’t disturb anything.”

It’s a half-hour drive to the nearest spot for entering the mountains, where Cut Bank Creek road leads off from highway 89. From there the location is ten miles almost precisely due west, except that there is no way to get the snow mobiles over the mountains in between, so one would have to follow the route through Triple Divide Pass and then head north following the Hudson Bay Creek. On the way, Grayson picked up Viktor. Vi drove herself. Together, all three venture into the dark night.

They leave the main highway behind and reach the pull-off near Cut Bank Creek road. It is nothing but a tight pocket of plowed snow at the end of a short gravel stub, barely recognizable in the dark. Vi turns the top bank of lights on her truck on before leaving the vehicle to give them some light to work with. The light drizzle of snow and the overcast sky leaves everything beyond those beams in absolute darkness.

Snowmobiles are taken from the trucks. Standing next to her vehicle, Vi peers into the gloom. Behind her, Grayson loads a sled to the back of her own machine. Viktor stands at Grayson’s elbow, tugging his hood lower against the stinging cold. Once everyone is on, Vi turns off the lights on her truck and lead them into the mountains.

They set off into the deep cold, engines grumbling low. Snow whips across their windshields, teased up by the wind, swirling eddies of ice crystals that catch the beams of their headlights like drifting sparks. Winter’s night here is total, interrupted only where the snowmobiles slice through. The gravel road itself is invisible under thick drifts. Vi picks out the route by memory, by guesswork, by trust in her GPS. Occasionally she thinks she glimpses the black ribbon of Cut Bank Creek winding alongside them, half-frozen, glinting in the dark.

Outside of the engine’s roar, the world is dead silent.

In summer, this place is alive with wildflowers blanketing broad meadows. Moose graze in the willow flats, and the underbrush rustles with movement. Even in the high country, the slopes break open into lush greenery dotted with bright paintbrush and beargrass. But now, in the dead of winter, those meadows are lifeless swaths of white, featureless from the light of their vehicles. The old conifers loom like dark pillars. Every trunk merges into the next, forming a fortress of shadows that encloses them.

Soon they pass the ranger’s residence building, half-buried in snow, dark windows a reminder that no one stays here in winter. Five miles from the main road, the narrower path into Glacier National Park begins for real. The official trailhead sign is barely visible under ice and powder, only a faint shape in their headlights. They push onward, the route hugging the frozen creek.

Vi can feel the slope increasing under the treads. The machines strain as the trail rises slowly, twisting around stands of pine that creak under the weight of snow. Every so often, Grayson and Viktor throttle up behind her, sending clouds of powder into the air. There are small climbs made worse now by slick ice and unpredictable drifts. The wind gusts funnel down the valley, rattling branches overhead. In a few spots, the trail veers dangerously close to the creek’s edge. The ice will probably be thick enough, but even so a slight drop could mean either plunging into black, half-frozen water or just being stuck.

And the rescue isn’t coming.

It’s already busy.

With their body.

She remembers hiking here once, ages ago, in early summer. The place had seemed gentle then. Thimbleberries and huckleberries crowded the edges of the trail. She and Powder had joked about being loud to scare off grizzlies. Now, in the pressing dark, there’s no joking. The forest is a silent catacomb. Somewhere out there, the same wildlife roams, hidden behind the sweeping pines, perhaps watching the hum of these strange visitors. The knowledge prickles at Vi’s neck.

They keep climbing. Above them, ridge lines cut jagged silhouettes against the faint glow of the sky. The wind picks up in bursts, sometimes ripping across an open area with startling force. Vi has to lean her whole body into it, keeping the snowmobile steady. She knows the pass ahead is notorious for high winds. She can picture the narrow trail hugging the slopes beneath Mt. James, the rock face a looming presence.

The group pauses when they reach the place where the path begins its steeper ascent toward Triple Divide Pass. Grayson kills her engine. Viktor, behind her, lifts his goggles and rubs the fog from them. Vi flicks off her machine’s headlights for a moment, letting them all sink into the darkness. They’re rewarded by an endless sweep of the night sky overhead. Bright stars peaking through the overcast, shimmering with cold intensity. Only the faintest hush of air, the soft crackle of settling snow around them. It’s suffocating and gorgeous all at once.

“Everyone good?” Grayson’s voice carries across the hush.

Vi raises a thumbs-up. Viktor nods, though his face is pale. The pass is another few miles uphill. They can’t see it, only sense the contours of the mountains towering ahead. Soon they’ll have to navigate a narrow stretch, half exposed, with steep drop-offs. In summer, hikers call it exhilarating. Tonight, at the edge of winter’s blackness, it’s a gauntlet of ice and wind.

They press on. The engines roar back to life and echo off the massive slopes. The trail becomes more precarious. Loose snow tumbles away off the edge when their treads dig in, spiraling down into the unseen depths. The wind intensifies, funneling around rock faces. Vi leads, letting Grayson focus on her tail lights. She tries to keep her machine balanced as she eases through switchbacks.

This is not a place that tolerates mistakes.

It doesn’t punish.

It kills.

Even the valley below is lost in darkness. The beams of their headlights reveal only snippets of the world. A pine branch here, a jagged rock outcrop there, a swirl of blowing snow, everywhere. Time distorts. They inch along what feels like hours of climbing, bodies tense, hearts pounding. Finally, the terrain levels slightly. They crest Triple Divide Pass itself, although the sign marking is likely buried under feet of snow. Here, they’re at the saddle between the peaks, the vantage point for all the draining waters. In summer, you can see clear across to Mount James, Norris Mountain, Razor Edge… And in the distance, Medicine Owl Peak.

And below you can see the winding valley for miles.

But now, the night swallows everything.

Except…

Far into the distance, Vi spots a glimmer of light. She stops her snow mobile and as Grayson and Viktor come up next to her, she brings out her binoculars. Scanning the distance she seems white-blue lights. Steady, if not for the backscatter of the light snow.

A faint reminder that somewhere ahead, another horror is waiting to be found.

“Maybe three miles? Probably less,” she shouts into wind and through helmets.

Grayson nods and signals for them to descend. Below, Hudson Bay Creek waits for them, the valley leading north. They begin the descent carefully, hugging the slope as it snakes down into the next basin. The temperature seems to drop even further. A low, keening wind tunnels through the pass, forcing them to duck their heads.

It’s all emptiness. No trail markers. No footprints. Not even animal tracks. Just the star-flecked sky and their headlights on the drifts. The potential for an avalanche lingers in Vi’s mind every time she feels the snowmobile’s tracks slide. She can feel the tension in her shoulders, an ache settling in.

Eventually, the faint glow of the lights of Michael’s search-and-rescue team becomes more than a figment, it becomes a beacon. Relief pulses through Vi, before it is replaced with the dread of what’s waiting. Here in the hush of the mountains, it’s easy to pretend the world outside doesn’t exist. But they know why they’re here.

Michael might have come here for a rescue.

But Vi knew all along.

She has come here for a body.

They power down into the forested valley, weaving around trunk after trunk, following the beacon’s glow until the valley becomes a meadow. The snow crackles in the cold, and the darkness closes behind them, swallowing their tracks. By the time they reach Michael’s position, the wind has died to a soft hiss. The night is so quiet it almost feels reverent. A soft hush before a storm of grief.

Vi kills her engine and sits there a moment, breath pluming white, heart thudding in her chest. She looks up. The stars glint brutally cold and distant. No warmth. No mercy. Just the unfeeling sprawl of winter, and three people who have come too far into the dark to turn back now.

Before they have even gotten their snow shoes on, Michael is talking to Grayson. Vi can’t hear what they are saying. A part of her doesn’t care. Another part doesn’t want to know.

But all of her knows.

Moments later the SAR team leaves them alone.

The body sits all by itself. The same position of prayer. The same antlers. The same twig figurines. Viktor takes out two portable lights and starts to photograph the scene.

Vi’s heart constricts. It’s a woman. Blonde hair. Early twenties. Naked. Not a local. The same painted symbols. Grayson steps in behind her. “We’ll make this as quick as possible and head back out,” she whispers. “The beacon belongs to Charlotte Porter. She’s British.” Vi shivers. The lettering or runic shapes across Charlotte’s torso are even more chaotic than Atka’s. Grayson’s voice is grim. “We have a serial killer.”

Vi sucks in a breath, heart pounding. She stares at the body, a sick feeling swirling in her gut.

Somewhere in the distance, a wolf calls its pack.

And the pack responds.

They spend another brutal stretch of hours working the site. By midnight, the temperature has plummeted so far that the batteries of Viktor’s lanterns threatens to die. At last, they bag Charlotte’s frozen body, strap her to the sled, and head back the way they came.

As they load the body into the coroner’s vehicle near the trailhead, Grayson’s phone buzzes. She answers, half-frozen. “Police Chief Grayson,” she says, frustration heavy in her tone. She listens for a moment, eyes narrowing, before hanging up. This was clearly not a conversation.

She ends the call with a muttered curse before looking at her deputy. “Charlotte’s father was contacted by someone from the SAR team. He has been calling everyone,” she says, more towards Vi than towards Vi directly. Grayson lets out a deep sigh. “This is going to be messy.” She glances at Charlotte’s body bag with a weary slump of her shoulders and shakes her head.

“I’m guessing they’re not asking what we need,” Vi says, exhausted.

“Indeed not,” Grayson mutters. “Better brace yourself.”

Coming home past two in the morning, Vi unlocks the front door and stumbles inside. Her entire body aches. Everything hurts. Thinking hurts. Every time she closes her eyes she sees bodies, in prayer, she sees Atka, smiling, laughing, throwing her hair back.

She checks in on Powder. She should have called, but… She should have done a lot of things. There just isn’t the time. There isn’t the energy. There isn’t anything of what is needed. In her bedroom, decorated with posters and semi-chaotic paintwork, the blue-haired girl lies in her bed.

“Pow,” Vi tries, carefully.

“Sis,” is the immediate response. Vi walks over and seats herself at the edge of the bed, with her back to her sister. “I saw the news. Two?”

“Yeah,” Vi says. “So far.”

The next day dawns in a gray haze. Vi’s mind is trying to claw thoughts out of a deep fog. The night was full of dreams.

Of stories.

Of tales.

Of monsters.

She can’t remember any of them.

But they remain within her.

Swirling inside her like a roaring rage that looks for a way out.

The station is tense, phones ringing constantly, calls from local press, from frightened citizens, from out-of-state parties demanding updates. Grayson fields them all, looking haggard.

The cacophony makes working almost impossible.

Somehow images from the second crime scene leak to the media. That makes everything worse. Much worse. Talking heads talk about cults, or mania, or legends of monsters.

As she is heading out for lunch, Vi sees Grayson in her office, phone pressed to her ear again, an expression of exasperation on her face. She gestures for Vi to come inside as she speaks. “The British consulate? But we…” She rubs her forehead. “I see. Great.” The chief ends the call as Vi comes to stand in front of her desk.

“FBI has sent someone,” Grayson says flatly. “They’re on their way. An ‘external consultant’ due to Charlotte’s father raising hell with the British Consulate.” The chief air-quotes the term “external consultant” in case her tone of voice fails to convey her thoughts. Her voice conveys her distain perfectly well. “God knows we need help, but I sure would like it if we got the right people for the right reasons.”

Vi’s mouth twists. “Another outsider coming here to judge how we do things… That always ends well up here.”

Grayson offers a half-smirk. “Yeah. Well, we’re not coddling anyone who thinks they can waltz in and take over. This place eats outsiders.” She looks up at Vi. “Present company excluded.”

They share a weary glance. The phone rings again. “Better handle that,” Grayson murmurs, grabbing the receiver. Vi turns away, tension coiled in her gut.

Her stomach growls at her.

She shakes her head and goes for lunch.

She thinks of going to sit somewhere for lunch, but the way people look at her means she’ll have to answer questions.

Questions for which she has no answers.

Instead, she gets take-away from the local burger joint. She drives west, towards the mountains, and stops at an overlook next to a stretch of Flatiron Creek in deep freeze. Seated in her police cruiser, she eats her lunch as she watches the rugged peaks of the Lewis Range rise out of the rolling plans, its jagged teeth devouring the horizon.

Darkness comes early. The station empties except for Vi and Grayson. Vi tries to bury herself in the little bit of forensics they have from Charlotte’s body, but the sheets of paper are mostly pictures. She has seen it all before and it does little to distract her. Time of death is pure guesswork. Days, certainly. How many is unknown. Could be the same window as Atka, could be days apart.

There are repeated patterns in the symbols painted on the bodies and Viktor is trying to find a source, but it’s not his field of expertise. A few samples that he has managed to take have been sent to a state lab. They might have results in a week, if they’re lucky. Hours tick by.

From outside, headlights scatter through the windows. The place is quiet to the point that Vi can hear the rumbling of an engine parking. She gets up from her desk and walks over to the front door of the station. She peaks through the blinds, seeing a large black Suburban pull into their lot.

She opens the door.

The SUV parks. The driver’s side door opens and out steps… A tall woman. Her face chiseled with sharp cheekbones and a pair of eyebrows that are raised in the darkness, allowing for more light into a pair of eyes that are unlike anything Vi can ever remember. The way she scans the lot and the surrounding area is quiet, calm…

Analytical.

She is dressed in a dark grey heavy parka which hangs open. The color is the kind of grey that makes her vanish into the night beyond. Beneath the parka, a thick-grid fleece combat shirt in deep marine blue, its neck zipper fully open, exposing the curve of her collarbone and the ridge of her trapezius muscles. The material clings to her frame, the shape underneath firm and shaped from efforts earned, not given. The heavy winter pants are yet more grey, with large pockets everywhere. Her boots are black, rough, and heavy. Clearly made for deep wilderness.

Everything she wears looks professional.

Made for winter.

Expensive.

And none of the items present Vi with anything like a patch, an insignia, or even a logo.

The woman finishes taking in the area, closes the door of her car, and turns to fully face Vi. A pair of blue eyes find Vi and drill into her with unbridled focus. Vi feels a need to swallow. And then to breathe. Her body has forgotten how.

One external consultant.

She’s tall, but not big.

Vi has seen enough fit people before to know she’s strong.

And deep inside a reptilian part of Vi’s brain, one sensation rules them all.

Danger.

Chapter Text

Vi tries to swallow. The way the woman moves… There is something about her gait. And her posture. There is something in her very being that makes Vi’s blood run cold. It makes her brain scream. When the woman walks up the stairs to the station, Vi isn’t sure she told her body to step aside to let her enter. She just does. And then she follows, closing the door.

Locking them inside.

Together.

The woman’s gaze sweeps the station interior, taking in the battered desks, the flickering overhead lights, the peeling paint. Her focus stops at the poster board with missing people. A half-dozen faces, five women, one man. All local. All from the reservation. Beside it, a Blackfeet Nation flag hangs limp on the wall, its deep red fabric faded at the edges, the circular tribal emblem worn almost into nothingness.

An American flag stands in the corner, its pole leaning slightly, the Stars and Stripes catching the draft from an unseen vent. A wooden plaque bearing the Blackfeet Police Department’s insignia, a bison skull framed by feathers, rests on the counter of the reception desk in front of her, its varnish dulled by time into an almost matte memory. On the far wall, behind the bull pen, a blown-up print hangs on the wall. The sign above it reads “Lame Bull Treaty (1855)”. Next to the print hangs a more recent map of the reservation. Both are faded. Both out of time.

The scent of stale coffee and paper lingers in the air, mixing with the dry bite of winter drifting in from outside. After removing her gloves, she turns to Vi, offering her hand. Her face is a blank slate.

“Kiramman,” the woman says, voice measured with a crisp British accent. “Chief Grayson is expecting me.” She does not smile.

Vi feels a prickle at the back of her neck. She takes the woman’s hand and shakes it. “Uh, yeah,” she manages. “I’m Vi. One of the deputies. Grayson’s in her office. Follow me.”

Caitlyn nods, and waits for Vi to take a hint. A split second later, Vi takes the hint and gestures towards Grayson’s office. A few steps ahead, the new arrival’s head constantly moving, Caitlyn is devouring the place. Upon reaching the open door, Caitlyn stops, steps aside, and lets Vi enter first. Then she steps in behind Vi, walking over to stand in directly in front of the desk, her hands clasped behind her.

Grayson looks up from her desk, phone halfway to her ear. She double-takes. “You’re… Ms. Kiramman?”

“Yes Ma’am.” Caitlyn replies, voice even. She reaches into a pocket and offers Grayson an ID with an FBI stamp on it. Vi closes the office door behind her as Grayson ends the call, stands up, and takes the ID. She looks at it for a moment before handing it back to Caitlyn, who pockets it.

“Welcome to Browning. Tribal police chief Grayson.” She offers her hand. Caitlyn shakes it.

“Ma’am. I have been told you have a British murder victim?”

Grayson’s throat constricts. That’s the reason this got attention. Who cares about the locals? The natives? Kill a blond British girl? Well now, that’s a different thing altogether.

“We have two murder victims. Both found yesterday. Both staged. Horrifying scenes. The second victim found was the British girl, Charlotte Porter. Her father’s the one who pulled consulate strings. The first was a local. I’ve made a few dozen phone calls trying to get more assistance, only to be told we have already been given you.”

Caitlyn inclines her head, nods slowly, drawing a breath through her nose.

“Ma’am, I’m not here to play politics. You have two victims, we work two victims.” Her gaze flicks to Vi for a brief second, then back to Grayson. She takes a beat. “I’m not here to take over or run your operation. I’m here to help.” She waits. The others say nothing, so she continues. “May I see what you have so far.” Another beat. “Please.”

Vi looks at the taller woman. Her accent is British, sure, but there is something different about her intonation. She can’t help but find it attractive. Then again, tall, legs that go all the way, a sculpted face, hair a dark cobalt, dressed to impress. There’s a lot to find attractive.

What’s not attractive, outside of her brain telling her to flee, is the way she says “please”.

It’s like the word is foreign to her.

Grayson glances at Vi, then nods, rummaging for a stack of folders. “Fine by me. Let’s see what you make of this.”

Caitlyn takes the offered files, flipping them open where she stands. Vi watches her face, searching for a reaction to the gruesome photos of Atka and Charlotte. The woman studies each picture. Slowly. Vi moves her glance between the pictures and Caitlyn’s face. She turns each picture this way and that, before moving on to the next one, repeating the process. There’s only the faint narrowing of her eyes, a tiny tension in her jaw, but it’s gone almost instantly. On the other side of the folder is the preliminary report from Viktor. She looks at a picture, goes back to the report, and then moves on to the next picture. She does not once return to a picture she has already seen. Her face still unreadable. She closes the folder, lifts her gaze.

“Ma’am, may I keep these?”

Grayson shrugs. “Sure, we’ll make more copies.”

“Thank you Ma’am. I’d also like to see the sites,” Caitlyn continues, words clipped. “Where are the bodies now?”

“Coroner’s office, basement level,” Grayson says. “You can talk to Viktor if you want details. They’ll need days to thaw.”

Caitlyn nods once. “Thank you Ma’am.”

Silence descends. Grayson coughs, then gestures at the battered desk. “We’re short-handed, as you can see. This is all there is out here.”

Caitlyn’s expression doesn’t soften. “Yes Ma’am. I understand.” She closes the folders, keeping hold of them. “Is there a motel or some other lodging nearby?”

Grayson rubs the back of her neck. “We have an old guest house, not used much, but it’s warm and has a shower, we’ve cleared the lot, but I’m not sure what furniture—“

“—That will be fine,” Caitlyn says, closing the open folder she’s holding. “Thank you, Ma’am,” she adds. She turns to Vi. “The sites, tomorrow morning?”

Vi clears her throat. “Sure. Have you operated a snow mobile before?”

“Yes,” is the flat answer. Vi feels a stir of annoyance and curiosity at the same time. That single word is as neutral as it can be, but it’s sufficient to make the arrangement. They’ll head out tomorrow. Great.

Grayson huffs a short breath. “Vi, give Ms. Kiramman the key to the guest house.” She turns to Caitlyn. “Welcome to the middle of nowhere, we appreciate any help you can give us.”

Caitlyn doesn’t react to the jab. She thanks Grayson with a curt nod. “Yes Ma’am. Anything else you want me to attend to tonight?”

Vi glances at Grayson, who just shakes her head. “Not tonight. We’re about dead on our feet.”

“Of course, Ma’am.”

She steps back into the corridor. Vi follows her out to the station lobby, a swirl of cold air seeping under the front door. She rummages through the reception desk and finds the key to the guest house. Outside, the parking lot lamp flickers. Snow drifts against rusted vehicles.

Caitlyn’s ride is obvious. The clean, sleek, black Suburban is even more out of place than the tall British woman. Vi starts talking without thinking.

“The guest house is like half a mile or so down the road, on the right, just before the cemetery. Take a left out of our lot. It’s small, but private. It’s not like we lack space… Anyway, the heat hasn’t been running, so it’ll be… cold for a bit. The propane should kick in though. You’ll also need to open the valves for the water once it’s…” She looks over at the woman next to her, trying to read her expression. “I should probably come along to help you set everything up.”

Now the tall woman presents a brief smile. At least the hint of one.

“I’ll be fine, thank you.” Vi simply nods. If this woman wants to figure this out on her own, so be it. “Meet here at zero-eight hundred tomorrow?” Vi nods again. Sure. Eight in the morning. Before sunrise. Why not?

Caitlyn opens the door and steps out into the biting wind. The woman barely reacts. She turns towards Vi as their paths diverge.

“Good night, Vi,” she says. There is maybe a hint of a smile, but that’s about it.

“Goodnight,” Vi responds.

Vi watches her cross the icy pavement in long, assured strides, before she steps into the Suburban, starting the engine. The headlights sweep across the windows of the station before the large SUV backs out of the lot and heads down towards the guest house, the tail-lights vanishing into swirling snow.

For a moment, she considers making sure Caitlyn finds the guest house.

But the thought is fleeting, evaporating into the dark night.

She exhales, and enters the truck.

It’s time to go home.

And to try to sleep.

Finding the guest house, Caitlyn backs the car into the cleared lot, turns off the engine, and steps out into the night. She locks the car as she walks up the raised entrance to unlock the east-facing door. The floor of the house is raised from the ground below to provide a temperature buffer to the soil, while the small entryway acts as a temperature buffer between the actual insides and the outside world.

Caitlyn walks in through the second door, which leads into a small living room with an open kitchen solution against the north wall. The only furniture in the living room is a couch. From the living room, there is a door to the bedroom beyond. Access to the bathroom is by the kitchen. In the middle of the house, next to a low wall against the bedroom, stands a direct vent propane heater. Caitlyn checks out the bedroom. It houses an old queen-sized bed frame with an old mattress. On top of it, blankets and a couple of pillows. No cabinets, no closets, nothing. The kitchen has a few cups, a few plates, some cutlery, and a single bowl. The cabinets are all empty, as is the fridge, as is the freezer. Everything runs on propane.

Leaning up with her back against the kitchen counter, looking over the kitchen island and into the living room, Caitlyn stretches her neck.

She gives herself a moment to breathe.

And then she starts to unload her gear from the car.

Five minutes to eight the next morning, and Vi is staring at the front door of the station. Three minutes to eight and still nothing. Eli stands next to her, checking his watch.

“No way,” he says.

“Told you,” the red-haired woman chuckles.

One minute to eight and the sounds of a car. Ten seconds to eight and the front door opens, and Caitlyn Kiramman walks into the building. Eli shakes his head and hands Vi a ten-dollar bill, which she pockets as she walks over to the new arrival, smiling. Caitlyn’s outer layers haven’t changed since yesterday.

“Morning,” Vi says. “Need anything before we head out? Breakfast, coffee, something for the road?”

Caitlyn looks at the deputy in front of her, then over at Eli behind her. “No, good to go,” Caitlyn says, looking at Eli, who groans.

Vi reaches for the large thermos on the counter of the reception desk, nods to Maggie, and gestures to the door that Caitlyn just entered through. “Works for me.”

As they leave for the parking lot, Vi walks towards her truck, with two snow mobiles on the back, and watches Caitlyn walk over to her black Suburban. She has half a mind of asking if Caitlyn intends to drive herself, but Caitlyn goes straight for the back of her car and opens the tailgate. From inside, she retrieves a large backpack in arctic camouflage which she tosses over one shoulder. She then retrieves a rifle. Standing a few feet away, Vi watches the thing get slung across Caitlyn’s tall frame.

The rifle is compact, and sleek, designed for movement. It could resemble an AR-platform, but it’s even more brutal, meaner-looking, and gives the impression it is made for very bad places. The body is wrapped tightly in crisp, arctic camouflage, jagged white-and-gray shapes that blur edges and distort outlines. Even the stubby suppressor fixed to the short barrel carries the same stark, winter pattern.

What throws Vi off the most, though, is the pair of optics mounted. One larger and longer precision scope dominates the rifle's profile. Beside it, offset at a sharp angle, sits a smaller optic with a glass lens, a red-dot sight ready for rapid, close-quarters targeting. She’s seen setups like this in magazines and in news footage, but she has never seen this on a gun being carried casually near her.

Her gaze moves slowly along the rifle’s purposeful contours. Rugged polymer and reinforced metal patterned around the barrel. Nothing about it is decorative or unnecessary. This is not a ranch rifle. This isn’t even a hunter’s rifle.

As Vi stares at the rifle, Caitlyn extracts a long and hard rifle case from the back of car. Holding the huge case in one hand, she taps the tailgate to close, and walks around Vi’s truck. She slides the long hard case into the truck bed and spends a moment strapping it in.

Snapping back into herself, Vi unlocks the doors and steps into the cab, watching over her shoulder as Caitlyn arrives at the passenger cab. She slides the rifle onto the rear seat, muzzle down, habitually checking that it's safe, it’s magazine removed, it’s bolt locked open. Then the big backpack gets placed next to the rifle. In pockets on either side of it, two thermoses. All done with her gear, Caitlyn shuts the door. Moving along the side of the truck, the magazine with its blue rubber band along its bottom, finds a home in a pocket of her jacket. She enters the front passenger seat and settles in next to Vi.

“Not exactly a ranch rifle,” she says over at Caitlyn as the dark-haired woman buckles herself in.

“Nope,” is the response. She pops the ‘p’, stressing the syllable as she rolls her head from side to side.

“Okay,” Vi says, and pulls out of the parking lot.

The road opens up. Just a minute or two out of town, traffic disappears. The vast open rolling snow-clad hills end either in horizon or mountains. They pass a few trailers. A group of men gathered together outside, drinking next to a fire. Next to them a piece of wood acts as a flag pole. The US flag hangs upside down.

And then nothing but a white void.

Vi watches Caitlyn alternate between staring into the emptiness outside and sitting with her eyes closed, breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth.

The silence lies heavy in the cabin. They are heading out to see the crime scenes. Those crime scenes. Those horrific spaces eternally soiled by some crazy person. At the office they used the bet on Caitlyn as a distraction, that worked, momentarily. But it is fleeting. Death lingers. Everything else is ephemeral. Vi takes a deep breath. Caitlyn hasn’t even looked in her direction since she got into the car. It’s like she isn’t even present.

But that would be easier.

Her body is here.

God knows where her mind is.

“Thank you for being exactly on time this morning,” Vi tries, carefully. Caitlyn’s focus remains out there, out over the snow clad rolling hills of almost empty land.

“How much did you bet?”

Her focus doesn’t change. Her voice is flat. Disinterested. Vi tires again.

“Ten dollars for the timing.”

“And for me being ready to go right away?”

She noticed. Of course she did. Vi tries to chuckle. It comes out flat. Wrong. Dead.

“Another ten.”

Silence. Deep inside Vi, dread screams. This can’t be how–

“—I should charge you half,” Caitlyn says. Vi looks over at her passenger, as if trying to decide if she ment it as a joke. Caitlyn turns towards her and raises her eyebrows at Vi before chuckling.

The clear skies outside enter the cabin. Along with soft pinks, purples, and oranges that come from the sunrise behind her, the heavy mass that has been suffocating Vi evaporates into nothingness. She takes a breath. A deep breath. That deep mammalian trait that her body seems so inclined to forget.

“With the pay out here, I make a buck where I can.” Vi laughs. Caitlyn hums. Vi continues. “Have you been around here before?”

“No.”

“You seem familiar with cold weather at least.”

“Spent my share of time in the cold.”

“Oh? Where?”

“Overseas.”

Vi casts a glance into the back seat.

“I’m guessing you weren’t on holiday.”

“No,” Caitlyn says. “I was not.” Then silence.

“How long have you worked with the FBI?”

“On and off, nineteen months.”

“Not their gear though, is it?”

“Nope,” Caitlyn says, again popping the ‘p’.

Vi parks the truck the same place she parked it yesterday. Even though the place is the same, it feels completely different. The last while has been quiet. Caitlyn keeps staring out the window, now seemingly done with her breathing… stuff, and as she seems incapable of initiating, or even holding a conversation, Vi gave up trying to have one.

Stepping out into the cold, Vi moves to the back of the truck and lowers the ramp for the snow mobiles. While doing so, she also turns on generator and the radio relay. As the ramp comes down, Caitlyn hops on to the truck bed and unstraps the hard case, before lowering it carefully over the side so it stands upright leaning against the truck. She waits for the ramp to come down before helping Vi move the vehicles off the truck.

When the second vehicle touches down and Vi starts to raise the ramp, it occurs to her that throughout the entire ordeal, not a word was spoken. No pointing to what she wanted Caitlyn to do, no comments about being ready or careful, no questions about… anything. They did the job and no matter how quiet the woman was, she behaved like a consummate teammate. More so than anyone Vi has ever met. And it didn’t require words.

While she is lost in thought, Caitlyn removes the shotgun and the .30-30 bolt-action rifle from the snow mobile she’ll be using, placing both weapons in the back seat of the truck before gathering her own gear. She is wearing the backpack and sets the camouflaged rifle carefully against the snowmobile. Vi watches as Caitlyn first moves her sidearm from under her jacket to a holster on her thigh, before unzipping a side pocket on her jacket, extracting a different magazine than the one she saw earlier. The other one had a blue rubber band on it. This one has two red rubber bands on it. Caitlyn angles the rifle slightly upward, double-checking the chamber, then slides the magazine into the rifle with practiced ease.

Vi glances at Caitlyn, puzzled. “Different ammo?”

Caitlyn nods slightly, her voice quiet, matter-of-fact as she retrieves a blue-marked magazine from another pocket in her jacket. “Subsonic.” The magazine goes back into its pocket. She tilts the magazine now in the rifle at Vi, showing the two red rubber bands, tapping the bands gently. “Supersonic.”

Vi isn’t entirely sure what to make of that but simply nods as Caitlyn secures the rifle carefully to the left side of the snowmobile. She then takes the big hard case and straps it horizontally to the other side of the vehicle. Once done, she double-checks the straps, her movements quick yet meticulous, clearly well-practiced. Satisfied, she reaches into her backpack and retrieves what looks like a thin military helmet. It is sleek, clearly lightweight, open on both sides, and covered in crisp winter camouflage. The full-width visor attached is a dull photochromic grey instead of the colorful goggles everyone else usually wears. Caitlyn adjusts the straps swiftly, securing the helmet effortlessly onto her head, and lowers the visor. She settles the dead man’s cable into place, and dons the radio headset.

Vi can't help but raise an eyebrow. She waits for Caitlyn to settle in before climbing onto her own snowmobile. She sets the same cable into place, puts on the same headset, and pulls her helmet on, then her goggles.

She presses the push to talk by her right hand. “How copy,” Vi asks. The radios should already be set to the same private channel.

“Copy good,” is the immediate response.

“Dispatch broadcast on channel two.”

“Copy. Dispatch broadcast on two.”

Vi turns towards Caitlyn. “You ready?”

“Good to go,” Caitlyn says while giving Vi a very clear and firm thumbs up.

They ride the same route Vi took yesterday. Except the weather is better now, and she’s not alone. They ride fast and hard across the lake, Caitlyn following Vi who stands up to glance backwards a few times, just to make sure they’re still together. And they are. Without fault. Every time she looks back Caitlyn is right there, same spot, slightly off to her side, clear of the spray.

Vi speaks into the radio. “Dispatch. Unit 516. Radio check.”

“Morning Vi, loud and clear,” Maggie answers. “How do you copy?”

"Copy loud and clear, on patrol route comms. Heading out to the first scene with Kiramman. Checking in on arrival.”

Past the lake they start to climb. Vi slows down to avoid stressing the machine too much, and also to avoid all the trees. They pass through the trees and stop atop the same ledge Vi was on yesterday, looking out over the same valley below, with the same forest and the same descent. Next to her, Caitlyn raises the underside of her glove away from the inside of her wrist. She is looking at the clock face, wearing it facing in towards her. Seemingly content with what she sees, Caitlyn stands up on the machine, stretching her back. She looks at the scene below and points in the direction of the crime scene.

No, not in the direction of the crime scene.

She points at the crime scene.

“Yeah,” Vi says, out of habit a bit too loudly. Most of the time when people ride these machines they wear helmets that completely cover one’s ears, then shouting becomes habit. “I suggest we go down to the right here and take it easy. The snow should be safe, but there’s been a good bit of fresh snow recently and until that settles there’s always the risk of avalanches.”

Caitlyn nods. “The east end of the valley,” she says, gesturing eastwards, and speaking just loud enough for Vi to hear her, “What’s the ingress and egress like this time of year?”

Vi shakes her head. “Snow shoes up, skies down if you’re brave. You can get in from the northwest, but it’s a long trek back east to get out.”

“The Pitamakan pass?”

“Yeah, I mean, it’s only seven thousand feet. Sharp though. Rideable, probably, but I haven’t checked it this season.”

Caitlyn checks her watch again.

“That pass would take us towards the second scene, would it not?”

Deep inside Vi she hopes to dear heavens this woman is going to listen. A lot of newcomers don’t respect the mountains here, and even more of them don’t respect the people who know the mountains.

“Sure, but we’ve got the entire north fork valley going north-east before going west again for the Triple Divide pass. It’s easier to get in and out via at least two other routes. Probably faster even with us doubling back from here as well. I mean, we’d have to ride back to the truck eventually anyway.”

“Okay,” Caitlyn says, her tone almost approving. “Your route. Lead on.”

Vi leads. The descent into the valley is slow, careful. It slows to almost a crawl over snow that has fallen since last night. The snow is softer than yesterday, looser under her treads. The fresh dusting shouldn’t be a problem, but… her gut says otherwise. She doesn’t like how she sinks just a little deeper than she should.

She glances back at Caitlyn, who is maneuvering diagonally across the slope, her snowmobile angled just enough to fight the pull of gravity. Her posture is tense, leaning sidewise to keep herself upright. Her gloved hands grip the handlebars tightly.

Then, beneath her, the snow shifts.

A dull crack splits the quiet, followed by a deep rumble as the surface layer begins to slide. A wide sheet of snow peels away under Caitlyn’s vehicle, the white crust fracturing like glass. Her snowmobile lurches sideways. The track scrambles for grip, but the rear skids, dragging her towards the break.

“Uphill!” Vi shouts, turning her own vehicle upwards and hitting the throttle hard. Caitlyn reacts instantly. She leans hard uphill and guns the throttle. The machine jerks, then surges forward, its skis skimming over the slipping snow. For a heart-stopping second, the back end wobbles, the track spitting up powder.

Then it catches.

Caitlyn rockets onto firmer snow, leaving the broken surface behind. The loosened sheet of snow continues its slow, lazy slide down the ridge, spilling into the valley below like a warning.

Vi exhales, only now realizing she’d been holding her breath.

Next to her, Caitlyn slows, turning to look back at the fresh scar in the slope. She looks back at Vi, raising the photochromic visor as she takes a breath. “Good call. Thank you,” she says.

“Happens,” Vi responds, again a bit too loud. “Not your fault. Layer of loose snow over a hard packed layer. It can get hairy. Let’s keep moving.”

Caitlyn nods, lowering her visor, before she closely follows Vi down into the valley.

Rushing through the frozen meadows and then through the forest, the valley is tranquility itself. Every so often, the wind blows flurries of snow off the conifers around them. They stop at the edge of the clearing.

The clearing.

Vi can see Atka seated.

Staring at her.

Opening her eyes.

Pleading.

Next to her, Caitlyn swings her leg over the seat of the snowmobile. She takes a slow breath, scanning the clearing, the tree line, the lack of any trail anywhere to be seen. Stillness. No movement. No wind. Just the vast, white silence.

She kneels, unclipping the snowshoes from their home behind her seat. She fastens them while her eyes roam the space in front of her. Reaching over the seat, Caitlyn pulls her rifle free from its mount. With her eyes still scanning terrain, her fingers brush over the magazine, feeling the two red bands. She presses it firmly into place, taps it once to seat it, then pulls the charging handle back just enough to confirm the chambered round before letting it slide forward. She feels the safety, still on.

She tilts the rifle slightly, a quick glance through the low power variable optic that looks like a normal scope on top of the rifle. The glass is clear, no ice or fog, magnification set where she wants it. A flicker of movement as she angles the rifle slightly, checking the offset red dot. The dot is there, crisp.

She slings the rifle across her chest, tight to her body, the barrel canted downward at a slight angle. Her gloved fingers rest near the magazine well. Ready to go, she lets her eyes flick toward Vi, who is still seated as she stares into the clearing, completely frozen in place.

“Vi?”

Vi jerks at the voice. Private channel. She turns towards Caitlyn standing next to the other snow mobile, her rifle slung tight to her body. Caitlyn starts walking towards her.

“You good?”

Vi shakes her head, trying to return to the here and now. “Yeah,” she says. She hopes the voice carries more confidence than she feels. Caitlyn stands next to her. A hand lands gently on her shoulder.

“Yeah,” Vi repeats. “Going to check in.” She checks in with Maggie, informing her that they have arrived at the crime scene. Taking a breath, she removes her helmet, hooking it onto a handlebar. She starts to move. Caitlyn takes a few steps backwards to give her some space as she puts on the snow shoes and steps off the vehicle. Caitlyn gives her a nod and walks into the clearing, taking her time with every step, scanning the space around her. She takes another few steps into the clearing, and looks up, looking beyond the ring of trees. Content with whatever she was doing, she moves in almost all the way to the middle of the clearing.

Where Atka sat.

Caitlyn retrieves a piece of paper from inside of her jacket. A photograph. She looks at it and then at the space around her. She turns slightly, alternating between studying the tree line and the picture in her hand.

Vi tries to follow her movements. “What’s on your mind?”

“Why here?” Caitlyn stops moving. She flips the picture up and down against the backdrop, having matched the tree line in the photo with what she sees in front of herself. She turns around, looking directly opposite the trees.

In the direction Atka was facing.

“I don’t know,” Vi says.

“This place was chosen. Getting her out here took effort. You didn’t see any tracks, so she was probably transported on a sled pulled with skis. When we came in earlier, yesterday’s tracks from the treads were easily visible through the forest.”

Vi looks back at their vehicles. Beyond them, the old tracks are guidelines.

Leading to hell.

“Yeah,” she says. “A sled and skis. That’s hours from anywhere.”

“So,” Caitlyn says, “why here?”

Vi watches Caitlyn walk through the woods, looking for something, anything, that they might have missed. After half an hour of a patterned search between the trunks, she returns back to the snow mobiles. Vi is leaning up against a tree, having a drink of coffee from a thermos. She offers the canister to Caitlyn, who declines.

“I don’t see it,” the woman in the military helmet says. “There’s a reason the body is here, but I don’t see it.”

Vi shakes her head. “Maybe there is no reason, maybe the sick fuck just liked this clearing.”

The response is a worn sigh. Caitlyn turns to look back into the clearing, moving her focus from place to place as she talks. “Even that would be a reason. What is there to like about this clearing? Why not the smaller one a click over to the east? Why not over by the lake to the south-west?”

“Look, I don’t know, okay?” The frustration leaks hard. It wasn’t supposed to, but it just does. Caitlyn returns to Vi.

“I’m not suggesting you know, or that you should know. It’s just… There’s a reason to this and I can’t see it.”

Vi takes a deep breath followed by another mouthful of warm coffee.

“You worked many murders?”

Caitlyn’s focus has returned to the clearing.

“No,” she says. “Not many.”

A sound cracks through the stillness. A heavy crunch. A shift of weight. Snow breaking under something big. Caitlyn moves before Vi even registers the noise. A swift, fluid motion and her rifle is up. It’s shouldered, sights aligned, body low.

Vi, still leaning against the tree, doesn’t even flinch. She watches Caitlyn instead, arms folded, one eyebrow quirking upward. Like all other predators, she’s acting on instinct, raw and trained to the bone. The rifle follows Caitlyn’s sharp gaze, locked onto the tree line.

Another sound. A snort, the scratch of hooves against frozen earth.

Vi tilts her head toward the trees. “It’s a moose,” she says, voice low, casual. “Or possibly a solitary elk. Hard to tell without seeing.”

Caitlyn doesn’t respond. Her breathing doesn’t change. Her eyes stay locked through the scope, body unmoving. Vi watches the tension coil in Caitlyn’s frame. A shadow moves between the trunks. Then, a hulking, broad-shouldered form steps into the thinning woods beyond the clearing.

“Moose,” Vi says, watching the massive creature pull at the bark of a tree with slow, deliberate motions. The huge antlers sway as it turns, dark eyes passing over the world like it’s seen it all before and didn’t care much for any of it.

Caitlyn exhales slowly, easing just a fraction, but she doesn’t lower the rifle. Not yet. She tracks the moose through her scope, silent, still. Vi takes a sip of coffee directly from her thermos.

“Big fellah,” she murmurs.

Caitlyn says nothing. She adjusts the magnification of her top-mounted optic slightly, the quiet allowing Vi to hear the faintest shift of the scope’s dial. The moose, unbothered by its two observers, has finished its meal and moves deeper into the trees, disappearing between the frozen trunks. Heavy steps fade into the distance. Caitlyn watches for a moment longer, before finally slinging the rifle back tight across her chest.

Vi chuckles. “Welcome to Montana.”

After a quiet and careful ride back to the truck, they stow away gear and settle in. They head north towards where they will park for the ride in to the scene where Charlotte was found. As they pass by a gas station, Vi pulls into the frozen lot, parking so the front window faces the mountains as they rise only a short walk ahead.

“Good place for lunch,” Vi says. “And Joe has a bathroom.”

Nodding, Caitlyn reaches for her backpack and retrieves a metal thermos, a long metal spoon, a stainless steel vacuum sealed food container, and a bag of trail mix. Casting a quick glance over all the clean metal, Vi reaches takes out her somewhat larger vacuum container with lots of scrapes and artwork on it, and another thermos of coffee she has in the back. Completely unfazed by being watched, Caitlyn pops open the container and starts to eat. Some sort of roast chicken and rice, with peas and veggies. It has no smell whatsoever. Vi shakes her head and pops open her container, removes the cornbread from the top part, and sniffs the chili underneath. Wafts of spices and meats instantly fill the cabin. Caitlyn stops mid-chew and looks over at the container Vi is holding in her hands.

“Sorry,” Vi says, self-consciously. “Does the smell bother you?”

Caitlyn finishes chewing and swallows. “Uh. No. Uhm. Sorry. It’s fine.” Vi looks at her and closes the container again. “No,” Caitlyn continues. “I was just surprised, we tend to do bland stuff for practical reasons. It smells fine. I mean, good. Please, just eat.”

“Practical reasons?”

“Biological reasons.” Vi still looks confused. “Bowel movement reasons.” Vi’s eyes open wide, finally understanding the point. “Just in case.”

Smiling, Vi takes the container out from her lap and places it in the open center console. “Flushing toilet right inside.” She nods towards the gas station. Caitlyn looks at the container and then at Vi, who places the cornbread on the dashboard. “Oh come on, I know you want to. Have a bite.”

The dark haired woman sits there, dead still for a few seconds, before shaking her head. “It’s your food, I couldn’t.”

“Bet’cha you could.”

Vi tries not to giggle. She mostly succeeds. She has missed this. Caitlyn leans down towards the container with spoon in hand. As the spoon enters the container, she looks up at Vi. Big blue eyes. A flutter of eyelashes. Vi swallows hard. Pushing those thoughts away. “Go on,” she says. She tries to smile, but the way her entire body tingles, she has no idea how it comes out. She can’t feel her own body. It’s all on fire.

Opposite her, Caitlyn scoops a mouthful of chili up to her mouth, inhales the scent, and deposits the spoonful into her mouth. Her eyes open wide and she starts to fan air into her mouth. “Hawt,” she says, trying to speak with her mouth full while covering her mouth with her hand. “Spicy,” adds, swallowing.

Vi hands her a piece of corn bread. Caitlyn takes a bite and the sound she makes is probably illegal in most jurisdictions. After the bite of corn bread, she leans over and has some more chili.

From above as Caitlyn leans in, a pair of grey eyes watches her intently. Vi’s entire being is focused on watching this woman in her truck… Watching her spoon food in between those gorgeous lips. Watching her fan herself with those slim and strong hands. Watching her eyes water. Vi closes her eyes hard and turns away from the spectacle next to her.

What the everlasting fuck is fuckity-fuck wrong with you?

She takes a breath, eyes still closed.

Atka died yesterday. As did Charlotte. This woman is dangerous. You have no idea who she is. And no fucking matter whatever the fuck is going on, you’re thinking with your fucking—

“—You don’t want any?”

Vi turns towards the source of the voice. The speaker looks almost doe-eyed the way she is leaning over the center console and looking up at her. Swallowing yet again, Vi can’t help but imagine how that face would look from above when…

You need help. You should find another therapist. You are clearly not right.

“Sure,” Vi says, reaching for the container. Caitlyn moves back into her seat. The smell of her lingers over the center console. Vi takes a spoonful of chili and eats. She eats the chili that Caitlyn just ate. Vi swallows, and serves herself a piece of corn bread. The corn bread Caitlyn just ate. She stares out into the mountains as Caitlyn returns to her chicken and rice.

“Thank you,” Caitlyn says. “The chili was really good. The bread too.”

Vi pauses mid-chew and forces the corn bread down her gullet. “I need the bathroom.” She doesn’t wait for any form of response or even a reaction. She opens the door and walks around the car, past the pumps, and into the station itself. Her head tilted forward. Her gloveless hands in her pockets.

“Howdy Vi,” Joe says. Vi gives him a brief wave and disappears into the worn bathroom. Closing and locking the door, the single light on the wall comes on automatically. She stares at herself in the uneven metal mirror. The kind you use in places where things get broken. A lot. Staring into the mirror, it is warped and twisted. She stares into her grey eyes. She shakes her head. Warped and twisted indeed. And broken? Not the mirror. Only the person behind those eyes. Too fucking broken.

Her head tilts forward. She takes a deep breath. The bathroom smells of disinfectants used to hide even less acceptable smells. She puts her head in hands. She wants to scream. But she can’t. Not in here.

So she does it inside.

In there.

Inside, in there, she screams.

She screams until her throat is raw.

She screams until her mind is raw.

She screams until her soul is raw.

And then she looks into those grey eyes again.

And she is still in the same goddamn bathroom.

And she is still in the same goddamn job.

And she is still in the same goddamn life.

FUCK!

The drive north is full of quiet emptiness. It is easier that way. Caitlyn doesn’t initiate. She never initiates. All Vi has to do is shut up. All she has to do is keep quiet. All she has to do is focus on doing, not thinking.

Thinking.

Like she is doing right now.

How the fuck did her life ever turn out this way?

Another parking lot. Another parking lot from yesterday. Another parking lot from yesterday that leads to another hell. Half an hour ago, Vi was having fun. With her. Not that kind of fun. Just the preamble. The stuff that comes before. The stuff that for so much of her adult life has led to that kind of fun.

Now she was watching her straddle the snow mobile. Again. Vi had refueled both the truck and the snow mobiles at the gas station. Caitlyn had checked the generator and the jerry cans, and they had topped everything off. Again without talking. Vi only had to point to the generator and Caitlyn took care of it.

Shaking her head, Vi turns away from Caitlyn, facing forward, looking at the remnants of the tracks from last night. “Ready?”

“Good to go,” Caitlyn responds instantly.

Vi starts her engine. The growl of the machine fills the space between them. The sound of something that is not silence. They begin their ride into the valley.

The snow looks different in daylight. Not black and bottomless, not a gaping void stretching out beyond the limits of their headlights. Now, it’s flat. White in a way that’s not pure but endless, shifting in faint gradients under a sky so pale it barely qualifies as blue.

They weave through the meadows. The creek beside them flickers in and out of view, its ice glittering in a thousand muted colors. Not quite silver. Not quite blue. Crystalline water in frozen form, turning daylight back into starlight.

They ride past the half-buried ranger station. They ride past the completely buried campsite, the top of a sign the only evidence of its presence.

The land is still. The trees don’t whisper in the wind today. The air doesn’t shift, doesn’t breathe. It just exists.

The slope begins its rise. Vi feels it beneath her treads. The machine pulls differently. Gravity reasserts itself in slow increments. A few physical manifestations of are all that suggests that last night’s ride was even on the same planet.

The trail is clearer now. Defined. And yet… it isn’t. The same drifts cover the same ground, shifting overnight, remaking the landscape in ways that only the mountains understand.

The forest presses in.

Now, in daylight, the trees lose their menace. They are not shadows lurking at the edge of the world. They are simply there. Standing. Waiting. Patient.

Last night, this place felt abandoned. Today, it feels occupied. Not by people. Not by movement. Just by time. The final ascent to the pass is almost steeper in daylight.

You can see the edges.

Darkness produces a comfort all its own.

Stopping on firm snow at the crest at the last bit of the pass, Vi looks out over the valley below. It stretches out in long, curving lines. Glacier-worn. Water-cut. Hard, angular peaks softened by snowfall. Vi kills the engine. The silence crashes in.

Caitlyn pulls up beside her. Vi watches the mountains. Watches the way they hold the sky. Watches the way the wind picks up loose snow and sends it swirling over the ridges like mist.

In the distance, their objective.

Not of the mountain.

Not of man.

Of monsters.

She glances over at Caitlyn stopped next to her. Her photochromic visor is up. Her gaze is locked ahead. Her eyes soft. Taking in the open space.

She never saw the scene.

She never saw this space soiled.

She sees it as it was meant to be.

Empty.

Caitlyn turns towards her. She smiles. God damn that smile. Caitlyn turns back towards the valley beyond. She stares into the distance, before returning to Vi, her smile gone.

“Mind if I do a visual sweep? Fifteen minutes?”

She asks. She actually asks. Vi nods. “Sure, what are you looking for?”

“Don’t know until I see it.”

Caitlyn kneels quietly, sliding her backpack from her shoulders into the snow. Unzipping the main compartment, she reaches into a padded sleeve designed specifically to protect delicate optics, and carefully withdraws a large spotting scope. She habitually checks the lens covers, ensuring the glass is pristine. Next, she unclips the compact tripod secured neatly inside a side sleeve of the pack. Unfolding the tripod’s legs she places them swiftly into the frozen surface before attaching the scope, her eyes never leaving the valley below.

The air is crisp and dry. The pale winter sun has just begun its downward arc to the southwest, casting sharp-edged shadows from mountain peaks onto the valley floor below.

She settles behind the spotting scope. To the east, rugged slopes plunge sharply from the nearest mountain, jagged black rock sprinkled with dustings of fresh snow. Dark conifer forests, hemlock, spruce, and subalpine fir cling stubbornly to the lower slopes, their branches weighed heavy with snow. Farther north along that eastern flank, the valley wall becomes steeper, rising dramatically into snow-draped ridges and cliffs.

Her gaze shifts westward. Nearly two miles out, a sharp, distinct mountain dominates the skyline. Its peak cleaved as if by some ancient, titanic axe. At its base, the slopes are softer, undulating foothills carpeted with dense, dark forests and sparse clearings, shadowed but visible under the oblique winter sunlight. Slowly, Caitlyn scans these lower reaches, tracing her optics through stands of lodgepole pine and cedar, watching for any unnatural geometry. Her mind silently catalogs the details. Slope angles, possible trail routes, sightlines…

Her scanning stops. A slight disruption in the snowy tree line. She pauses, gently adjusting the scope’s magnification. It takes only a heartbeat for the object to resolve itself. Straight lines, a simple sloped roof, half-hidden in trees, but the rectangular shape is a dead giveaway. Not natural.

“Three kilometers out, northwest slope, in the shade, just beneath the tree line. Small rectangular shape. Maybe a small cabin.” Vi arches her neck. She pulls out her binoculars and begins to search the area. Caitlyn looks up at her. “Look here,” she says, moving away from the scope, giving Vi space.

Take a deep breath. You’ll be fine.

Vi takes off her helmet, placing it on the seat of the snow mobile, and then kneels down next to Caitlyn. Right next to Caitlyn. She breathes through her mouth. It doesn’t help. She can still smell her.

She takes a deep breath. Focus. Leaning into the eyepiece the world snaps into focus. The magnification pulls the distant ridge line forward in crisp, stunning detail. She barely breathes, scanning the space just below the trees, where the snow sits untouched. A cabin. She looks up from the scope. Nothing. She takes a look with her binoculars. Still nothing. She looks down into the scope. She can see slight air vibrations causing distortion. She looks up again, into the valley. Shaking her head.

“How’d you find that?” Her eye still in the scope.

Caitlyn stares into the distance. “Cabin?”

“Hunter’s cabin, yeah. Staging post for hunting or fishing, you’ve got Saint Mary further up. Good fishing.”

She feels Caitlyn gently tap her shoulder. The slight touch causes pulsing waves to roll out from the point of contact and throughout her body. She moves back, giving Caitlyn space underneath her to use the scope. She moves it quickly, before retreating, gesturing for Vi to look again. Smiling. Smiling.

Vi leans into the scope. A small group of elk, grazing carefully on exposed grasses and bark, their breath misting faintly in the clear mountain air. Even here, even now. Life goes on.

She feels a fleeting pang of something unnamable, buried beneath layers of noise.

Life.

Watching the small herd, she feels tension wash from her body. They graze. They breathe. They live.

Even here.

Even now.

She speaks without moving her focus. Her words as honest as they are true.

“Thank you.”

Vi releases herself from watching the elk below. Upon leaving the eyepiece, Caitlyn’s head is right next to hers. Those blue eyes on the valley beyond. Her scent cuts through the frigid air. Vi bites her lip as Caitlyn turns towards her, a warm breath of air exhaled in front of her. The smell of sweetness, and chili. Vi turns away and moves towards her snowmobile, puts on her helmet, and adjusts her goggles.

She turns towards the woman next to her. She is finishing packing up the spotting scope. It and its tripod return to their home in the backpack. She turns towards Vi, smiling. Nodding. And then giving a firm thumbs-up.

And off they go.

Into the valley beyond.

This valley is much larger in every way than the former one. The world opens up, losing the riders in the vastness between the peaks. They follow the remnants of yesterday’s tracks to the crime scene. Another open space. Smaller this time. Still hidden. Secluded. Invisible.

Caitlyn clicks on the snow shoes, straps on her rifle, and walks out into the clearing. Eventually Vi follows, unsure of what else to do.

The same pattern. Pictures. Directions. Facings. Caitlyn finishes her mental mapping, having recreated the scene, before studying more pictures again. She stands still now. Standing in the exact spot they found the body. She is looking down around her. Another set of pictures being studied.

Vi might as well be back in the truck. Or at the station. Or screaming to herself in a bathroom somewhere.

“Vi”, Caitlyn says, gesturing for her to come over. She has taken few steps forward. Into white nothingness. Vi moves over to her side. Caitlyn points down into the snow. She leans in, carefully moving away a bit of snow.

Underneath, a twig figurine. This one humanoid. Caitlyn removes her heavy outer glove, and then her tactical glove, and picks it up with her naked hand. She leaves it in her palm as she looks at it. It reaches from wrist to a bit beyond her fingertips. A twig human, its joints knotted into place and together with a home-made rope made from bark.

“Someone stepped on it, pushed it into the snow.” She traces out an oval impression around where the twig man was buried. In the snow. Forever to freeze. Until the thaw. She grips it. She twists and turns it. And then she pockets it.

They move out. They check on the cabin. It is dilapidated. The roof barely holding. Windows shattered. The door ajar. The inside is full of drifts. Snow blanketing everything. Vi watches Caitlyn walk through the area with one hand flat on the grip of the rifle strapped to her chest, the other hand more free, but usually resting near the end of the barrel of the rifle.

There is nothing to be found. It must have been years. At least.

And so they leave.

And Vi can’t help watch the pocket that holds the twig man.

The woman carries it without any trace of concern.

Because that thing holds no power over her.

Unlike over Vi.

They ride back to the truck. Vi stares out into the empty space in front of her, following her own tracks back towards… home? Arriving back at the truck they load the snow mobiles onto the back. No words are spoken. As they work, darkness arrives.

True darkness.

And with it follows snow.

The cold becomes devouring.

And the cabin takes forever to warm up.

In the passenger seat, Caitlyn leans against the window with her head tilted forward. Almost as if she is sleeping. But Vi knows she is not. Vi can feel that she is not.

It is past six before they finally arrive back at the station, with Grayson immediately calling them into her office. She asks questions about the day. All sorts of questions. Caitlyn speaks, standing ramrod straight and without any semblance of hesitation.

But there are no answers.

Not really.

There are only words.

The woman speaking seems impervious to fatigue of any kind. And as even Grayson seems drained, Caitlyn offers one and only one question.

“Why here?”

Chapter Text

Caitlyn Kiramman wakes on the mattress in her living room, lying on her back. She opens her eyes to empty blackness.

She places her fingertips behind her ears. Vertebrae by vertebrae, she raises her body into an upright seating position.

The room is silent. Not a hum, not a whisper. There are no lights. There is only her breath.

She lets herself roll back down onto the mattress. Vertebrae by vertebrae. Each new point of contact with the mattress deliberate.

It takes time. Endless amounts of time. Once down flat on the mattress she repeats the process. The slow ascent. The slow descent. Over. And over. And over again.

And then she stops. She sits upright, rolling her neck. Side to side, front to back. She feels herself go loose. Another endless amount of time. Then she rises.

Into darkness.

Bare feet on cold wood.

Step by step to the kitchen island.

She turns on a solitary lamp. The soft bulb is all the light there is. She walks into the bathroom. She can feel the swirl. The pull. She stares into the mirror in front of her. Her profile half-lit from the living room. Right side lit, left side dark. She closes her eyes.

"Overwatch, sitrep."

The voice crackles through Caitlyn’s earpiece, clipped and professional. She doesn’t answer immediately. Her gloved hands stay steady on the rifle, her eye pressed to the scope. The mountains stretch wide and pale beneath the afternoon sun, a wash of dust and snow. Distant ridges glare under the sun, sharp against the haze.

"Overwatch, copy." Her voice is even, low. "No movement beyond thermal markers. Still clear."

The settlement sprawls below, a loose scatter of mud-brick compounds, narrow alleys, and low stone walls, everything the same washed-out shade of sunburnt earth. Near the center, a convoy is parked, a cluster of armored vehicles surrounding a makeshift meeting site. Nothing more than a few rugs laid out in the dust.

Through her scope, she sweeps left, following the outline of the terrain. Three ridge lines. One high, one rolling, one jagged. If someone was going to try something, it’d come from there. The drone feed has eyes above, but she has angles the cameras miss.

“Eagle One, Overwatch,” she murmurs, adjusting slightly. “Two heat sigs, east ridge, 750 meters. Slow moving. No overt weapons. Herding goats. Or pretending to.”

"Confirmed," comes the reply, short and sure. “Raven scanning now.”

The wind shifts, carrying the distant murmur of voices, the occasional chuff of an engine, the sound flattened by altitude and distance. Caitlyn rolls her shoulder, flexing fingers that have been curled too long against the rifle stock.

Through the glass, she watches the two figures on the ridge glance skyward, tracking the whine of the drone overhead, before one of them whips at what seems to be goats, urging them down the far side of the ridge.

"Overwatch, recon confirms all vehicles present. Eyes on high ground?"

"Eyes on," Caitlyn answers, leaving the two signatures to the Raven, and scanning the furthest ridge again.

Nothing.

Just rock, dust, and silence.

For now.

She opens her eyes. She stares into the mirror. She strips. She showers. She turns the water cold. Ice cold. She plants her palms on either side of the fixture. She breathes shallow forced breaths as liquid ice runs down her back.

Gunfire. AKs. “Overwatch! Cleared hot!” She exhales. She pulls the trigger. Her rifle kicks. She cycles the bolt. Fires again. And again. And again. And again.

The police station is dark. Caitlyn parks outside. She leans back into the driver’s side. She closes her eyes, drifting off between worlds. She walks through the crime scenes she saw yesterday. Step by step. She hears the crunch of the snow under her snow shoes. She feels the sting of the frigid air in her nostrils. She smells the scent of pine. It is here. Somewhere.

Why here?

The bodies are carriers.

Of a message.

Someone is trying to talk. To someone. Or something. The bodies are a means.

Are they themselves chosen?

All bodies are chosen.

Even if they were taken at random, they were chosen due to proximity. Due to being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or the right place at the right time for the perpetrator.

Perpetrator. Singular. Most acts like this are done by a single individual. Occasionally a larger group. But usually, this kind of delusion isn’t shared.

Most anti-social delusions are shunned.

Only the accepted ones are shared.

That’s how societies function.

That’s how humans function.

That’s how humans function in a society.

So whomever did this stands on the outside.

Looking in.

Angry.

About what?

Why here?

What is there to be angry about?

Why two young women?

No signs of violence. No open wounds. No blunt force. No immediate signs of sexual abuse.

Why them?

Why here?

An engine pulls her out of her liminal space. Margaret Little Thunder, the receptionist. She arrives in an old beat-up pickup. She parks next to the big black Suburban. Outside the wind is howling, picking up snow and driving into everything. And everyone.

Caitlyn Kiramman opens the door to the outside world. Sharp jagged minute pieces of snow assault her from every gap. She turns towards Maggie, nodding to the older woman. “Ma’am,” she says, gesturing towards the door.

“Ms. Caitlyn.” The gray-haired face smiles as she shouts over the hood of her truck. She walks up to the door and unlocks it, her hood shielding her from the worst of the wind. Caitlyn watches the space around the station. There is a building a stone’s throw to her right. She can’t see it.

Darkness and snow is all there is.

Half past seven, Grayson arrives. She looks over at the bullpen, where Caitlyn is standing in front of a pegboard leaning up against the far wall, resting on a table that has been moved into place. The pegboard covers the map and the printout of the Lame Bull treaty.

On the pegboard, Caitlyn has a map with two red and six blue pins in it, a few pictures of the twig figurines, and pictures of skulls with antlers. Grayson walks away from it all, into her office, hanging up her jacket, before curiosity gets the better of her. She has barely reached the bullpen before Eli and Vi both enter. Grayson waves them in. So far, Kiramman hasn’t even turned to notice them.

The plaque above the hidden treaty is metal. One of the few polished things in the entire place. Someone cares. She hears the door open. She lifts her gaze to the plaque. Grayson’s reflection. She walks into the office, then curiosity. Then come Vi and Eli. They all gather behind her. She turns towards Grayson.

“Ma’am,” she says. Straightening her spine, clasping her hands behind her back.

Grayson looks past her, onto the board. “Trouble sleeping?” The pictures have lines drawn on them, between the objects, and numbers written over the lines.

Turning to the pegboard, Caitlyn gestures to two pins inside the Rockies. “I’ve been trying to figure out the timelines for placing the bodies.” Graysons’s right eyebrow rises. “We don’t know when they were put there, but with the information from the survey and Vi’s detailed remarks about the possible ingresses and egresses to the area, combined with the weather reports for the last two weeks, there are only so many realistic windows for each placement. The staging itself also would take some amount of time. From the pictures taken, every object was firmly planted in the snow. Their distances between each idol and each antler were consistent. Even with some measuring devices, maybe as simple as a couple of sticks with ropes between them, getting the circles right and the spiraling pattern of the idols requires time.”

Eli blinks. “Spiraling pattern?”

“From the body,” Caitlyn states. “It swirls outwards over the twigs and to the antlers. I’m guessing it was drawn into the snow, but weather took it away. It would be very fleeting.”

He takes a step in closer to the pictures. Pictures he took.

“I don’t see it.”

“Almost all the pictures were of the items individually, not the pattern.” She points to one of the photographs on the wall. “But, if you measure the arc between these objects and compare them to the ones here,” she points to another photograph, “they are the same. The pattern is spiraling from the body going clockwise.” Eli, Vi, and Grayson now all stare at the pictures. “It would have been difficult to notice without looking straight down at the objects. The darkness from the second site helps.” She pins up a picture from the secondary site, making the picture taken at night. “Now, ignore the body. With the lighting there is no flash, but look at these objects beyond the body. Notice how the shadows shift from the lights set up next to the body. You can see they tick almost like hands on a clock.”

Grayson stares at the pictures. She shakes her head. She turns to focus on Caitlyn, their faces inches apart. “Okay, you have my attention. What does it mean?”

“Ma’am, I have no idea.”

Caitlyn watches Eli sketch out a drawing of the spiral pattern on a piece of printer paper, with Vi leaning over his shoulder, watching every stroke of his pencil. She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes.

”Overwatch! Cleared hot!”

Along with a slow exhale, she opens her eyes. Grayson walks over to where she stands, leaning against the door to the storage cabinet Maggie helped her raid this morning.

“Charlotte’s father will be here shortly. Could you sit in?”

Caitlyn’s focus doesn’t diverge from watching Vi and Eli.

“Yes Ma’am.” A beat. “Any specific instructions?”

“We want a timeline on Charlotte, but I’d like you there because he pushed for us to get assistance. You are that assistance. I’d like his frustration to be tempered enough for us to be able to get what we need for the investigation.”

“Understood, Ma’am.”

Grayson stares into the side of Caitlyn’s face. Not even the pupils move.

“You can use the free desk here,” she gestures to the empty desk in the bullpen. “If you need anything, let me or Maggie know?”

“Yes, Ma’am. Thank you, Ma’am.”

The staring doesn’t change. Grayson moves a half-step to her side, entering the edge Caitlyn’s field of view.

“You okay, Kiramman?”

Now her focus shifts to Grayson, her face completely devoid of anything resembling human emotions. “Yes, Ma’am.”

Michael Porter is a rich, pompous, overweight man in his fifties. He’s had work done. Eyelids. Hair. Chin. He boils with anger. Vi sits next to Grayson. Caitlyn has been offered a chair but has opted to stand by the corner of Grayson’s desk, opposite side of Vi, her hands locked behind her back. The man has been rambling for a while now. He has been out of town for a week. Business you see. Important business. Beyond that he has been busy delivering his anger onto those he would see as deserving of his ire.

Which is probably anyone in his presence.

But now it is them.

Here.

“I understand, Sir,” Grayson says for the ninth time. This is going nowhere. Trying a different path, she gestures towards Caitlyn, “Ms. Kiramman is here on behalf of the consulate and the FBI, and we are grateful for your efforts in getting us the extra assistance, we would—“

“—yes, yes, but what have you actually done? Do you have a suspect?”

“We really can’t comment,” Grayson tries. “But the work overnight has yielded some promising avenues of investigation.”

“Promising… My daughter is dead! Murdered! I don’t need promising avenues, I need results! I need—“

“—Sir,” the entire room turns towards Caitlyn who takes half a step forward as she speaks. “When did you last see your daughter alive?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

He abruptly rises. Old eyes lock into the orbs within Caitlyn Kiramman. A vein next to his left temple pulses. His face is growing red. His hands ball into fists. His breath shallow. Rapid. Oxygenating his muscles, ready to go. The woman in front of him does not flinch.

“Sir, when did you last see your daughter alive?” He takes a full step forward. Grayson straightens her back, plants her feet into the ground, about to push her chair backwards to ride, only to see Caitlyn flash her right hand open at her. Grayson considers her options, pausing in mid-movement, before relaxing back into her chair. Once she starts to relax, Caitlyn continues. “Sir, I am here because you wanted results. I am here to bring those results. To do so I need to know Charlotte. I need to know when you last saw her, who she was with, who she was.” The man looks like he is about to growl. His nostrils flare. His nose pinches. He wants to tear this woman apart. “Take all that anger and pour it into what we all need to find the bastard who did this.”

The man’s anger needs to go somewhere. For a moment he considers his options. He wanted to pour it all out on her. The arrogant ass who ignored all his needs. But, she is right. Even he sees this. Even now he sees this. And so, slowly, he seats himself. He goes cold. He trembles. Adrenaline fading. Across the table, Grayson draws a belated breath.

Next to her, Vi stares up at the still-standing woman.

She never flinched.

Vi wonders if she ever has.

“Vi!” Grayson’s rings out from her office. Moments later, Vi is in her office. The blinds are open. From the outside, Caitlyn watches the two of them talk. It’s brief, unidirectional, Grayson informing Vi about something Vi isn’t in the mood to hear. There are attempts at protestations, but they lead nowhere. This was never a conversation in the first place.

When Vi calls for Caitlyn, she pretends not to mind. She pretends to be cheerful.

“Caitlyn, road trip. Let’s go.”

Caitlyn rises, and as she passes the peg board, casts one last lingering look at where they are.

Which is effectively nowhere.

Reaching Vi, Caitlyn grabs her jacket. Vi smiles at her as she does so. Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. It isn’t even skin deep.

Only once they are both outside and the door is closed behind them does Vi speak. She pretends to suddenly remember to inform Caitlyn about their task.

“We got a hit on Tag, Atka’s boyfriend. He’s been working in a meat packing facility in Cut Bank.” She walks over towards the driver’s side of her truck. Caitlyn looks at her Suburban, ignores the suggestion that formed, and climbs into the passenger seat. “Tanner is a nice enough guy, childhood sweethearts. Doubt he had anything to do with anything, but it might help us with the timeline.” Caitlyn nods. “You okay?”

“Good to go,” Caitlyn says, staring out of the window.

Vi pulls out of the lot and starts heading south, before turning east on Highway 2. Next to her, Caitlyn is quiet. Her breath measured. Slow. Steady. Outside, the morning sky hangs low and pale, the sun a muted disc hidden behind endless layers of clouds, bleaching color from the world. Fields stretch out in every direction, stark and snowbound, a landscape reduced to shades of gray and white, softened by drifting snow, yet total in its oppressive emptiness. Vi breaks the silence.

“My family, well, my found family, they asked about you yesterday. We don’t get a lot of newcomers. Vander is probably just curious to see who I’m working with.” There is no response from the other woman. “He suggested you come over for dinner. Tomorrow maybe?” The body next to her draws a heavy breath.

“I’m not particularly good company for family dinners.”

“You’re not particularly good company for road trips either.” Caitlyn’s eyes gaze out over the low hills of rolling whiteness out there. “They’d appreciate it. It’d make them feel better. With the murders and all.”

Wind buffets the truck, sending wisps of powder dancing across the road. Caitlyn watches the snow move like pale ghosts, whispering from the fields into the grayness beyond. The world outside is distant, more distant than just beyond the glass.

“Yeah,” Caitlyn says. “Sure.” And then there is nothing more. The silence hangs in the cabin. Vi casts one glance over at Caitlyn. Then another. Then a third. She shakes her head.

“Hey, they’re my people okay? They care about me and my well-being. They want to see that I’m with someone who’ll have my back if shit hits the fan. Can you take a few hours out of your busy schedule to give them that?”

Outside the window, thin rows of fencing blur past, wooden rails coated in layers of ice, sagging under the weight of snow. A small group of crows gathers on a powerline, feathers puffed against the cold. They watch the truck pass with empty eyes, indifferent to the tension inside. Caitlyn’s focus moves over at Vi. She swallows. Then she looks away, back into the emptiness outside.

“Yes… I can do that.”

“It would’t hurt if you acted a bit more… Human as well. Gloom all you want in here, but I go home to these people every night. They’re going to start to worry. I don’t need them to worry.” Next to her, she can see Caitlyn smirk. “Oh, you find that funny, do you? The fact that some people actually interact with others and have people who care?” It all comes out vitriolic. It was never meant to be, but meaning and doing are not the same thing.

“I get it,” Caitlyn says, the smirk gone. “I’ll behave.”

“What’s with you anyway? Would a bit of small talk kill you? I’m just trying to get to know you, seeing as we’re going to be stuck with each other for a bit.”

A deep sigh escapes from the woman in the passenger seat.

“I’m not the kind of person you want to get to know.”

“And why exactly is that?”

Caitlyn looks out the window, her eyes catching another cluster of buildings in the vast whiteness. Large, orderly barns and identical homes grouped in careful arrangements, stark against the snow. Even at a distance, she notes the deliberate precision in their arrangement, like someone’s attempt to impose structure on an expanse otherwise beyond human control.

“What’s with those large farms?”

Vi looks at her, rolling her eyes. She considers pressing, but gives up, going with the flow.

“They’re Hutterite colonies,” Caitlyn turns her head to look at Vi. “A communal Christian group. They form colonies, splitting them once they reach a certain size. They’re big on voluntary baptism. Oh, and they’re pacifists.” Caitlyn watches a colony disappear into the distance out of the passenger side of the car. “Like totally pacifist. No lawsuits, no fighting back, nothing. Somehow people leave them alone. Mostly. Or at least we don’t hear about it.” A sedan overtakes them on the snow-drizzled highway. “I never got pacifists.” She looks over at Caitlyn, who mulls it over, before taking the bait.

“It’s easy to be a pacifist, or pretty much anything else, if you believe this life is just prelude to an eternity in heaven. If so, why trouble yourself with what happens to you and those you love in this life? It’s just a trail before your eternal reward.”

“I guess I simply can’t imagine having a level of faith where I could watch people do shit to my family because… Because of some divine judgment to come.”

“People believe all sorts of stuff. Sometimes it allows people to accept harm onto themselves, other times it allows people to exact harm onto others. All because they believe what they are doing is true.”

“How do you know though? I mean, how can you be sure?”

“You tell yourself a story long enough, often enough, and it becomes the truth. Challenging it is hard. Besides, more often than not, your entire peer group propagates the same beliefs. You’re not just leaving an idea, you’re leaving an identity and the entire group that shares that identity.” The woman is talking to the windshield. “Most people are afraid of being alone,” she adds.

“You could have fooled me.”

“A bit of hubris, I’m afraid. I’d say I’m not most people.”

“I’m guessing you’re not a believer then?”

Caitlyn Kiramman goes quiet. Vi looks over at her, expecting her to deflect, or just remain silent, but the dark-haired woman shakes her head.

“I have no idea if there are any gods out there. But if there are, and they have given humans free will to test us, Atka and Charlotte are just further proof that those gods are sadistic fucks.” Her voice is mellow. Soft. She could be talking about the weather. Except, she is not. Vi takes a deep breath as Caitlyn continues. “When it comes down to it, I don’t care if there is some sort of eternal judgment for people who do the things that were done to our victims. If there are gods out there, they are free to judge them afterwards.”

Vi looks over at the woman next to her. She asks, carefully. “Afterwards?”

“After I’m done doing my job.”

Vi parks the truck beside a row of muddy pickups outside Montana Premium Processing Cooperative. She takes a breath. Her hands resting on the keys as she turns the engine off. She looks over at Caitlyn.

“Can you lead in there?”

Caitlyn looks over at her. Into her. Devouring her. She nods. “Sure.” And with that she steps out, adjusting her jacket against the sharp bite of wind. Vi follows her inside through a heavy door and then past some plastic strip curtains, clouded and stiff from the cold. Inside, the air shifts immediately. It becomes humid, metallic, heavy with the cloying scent of fresh blood and antiseptic cleanser. Vi swallows back a wave of nausea, her expression tight, crooking her nose in her elbow as she looks over at Caitlyn who stands tall.

A foreman notices them almost instantly, stepping out from a side office. He wipes thick fingers across a stained apron. "Help you?"

Caitlyn flashes her FBI badge. “Tanner Little Dog."

"Tag?" The foreman's brows knit briefly. "He's on the line. Is it serious?"

"Just a conversation,” Caitlyn answers. “May we find somewhere private?"

The man nods, "Sure. There's a cafeteria down that hallway. I'll send him your way."

The cafeteria is small, windowless, walls painted in faded mint green, scarred by a thousand careless scrapes. There are plastic tables and metal folding chairs. Caitlyn stands, leaning against a wall, arms crossed loosely as Vi settles into a chair.

Minutes pass before Tag enters, pulling off a blood-smeared white cap and depositing it into a bin next to the door. He's tall, lean, his eyes dark and weary beneath black hair slicked back with sweat. He smiles as he sees Vi, before slowing down as he sees Caitlyn standing against the wall.

"Hey, Tag," Vi says softly. "This is Caitlyn Kiramman. She's assisting with Atka's case. Mind if we talk?"

"No, it's fine," he says quietly. He sits opposite Vi, glancing cautiously at Caitlyn. "What do you need to know?"

Caitlyn steps forward, settling into a chair, looking straight at Tag. "We're building a timeline for Atka's final months. You two were close, weren't you?"

"Yeah," Tag answers, his voice raw. "Always have been. Always were, even when we weren't together."

“When did you last see her?”

“Maybe two weeks ago, we’d split for a bit again, I had long shifts here, stayed with José. You can ask him.”

“How would you describe your relationship?”

"Atka was... restless. Always looking for something. Sometimes it felt like that something wasn't me."

"She dated others?"

Tag flinches slightly but doesn't look away. “Dated? I wouldn’t say that. A night here, a night there, maybe a few nights. Guys coming off shifts from the oil fields. But it never lasted. She'd always come back. It never really mattered. Not really.”

“Sounds difficult. You were okay with all of that?”

“Okay? I don’t know, but what was I going to do? She was Atka. I mean, I could ask her to stop. Did a few times. I don’t know what was worse, when she promised me she’d stop or when she laughed as said she was young and having fun. But like I said, it was never serious.” He stops. “Well, okay, once. Maybe.”

“Once?”

“Six months or so ago.” Tag swallows hard, his gaze fixed on the scuffed tabletop. Across the table, Vi’s posture stiffens and she moves her focus towards the far wall. “Something changed one night. She'd gone out drinking, didn't come home. Not unusual. But when she finally came back... it was different."

"Different how?"

"Quiet. Withdrawn. She didn't want to be touched. At first, I thought something bad happened—someone hurt her." His voice drops. "I tried asking, but she shut down."

Caitlyn tilts her head slightly, “Do you think someone hurt her?"

Tag shakes his head slowly, painful understanding dawning in his eyes. "No. Took me a while to figure out. She wasn't scared, she was... sad. Like she'd lost something. Or someone. She met somebody. That night, she fell hard. I knew her. She'd never tell me, never admit it, but I knew. A few weeks later she came into the bedroom and said she didn't want to drink anymore. Started talking about getting clean, having kids, stuff we'd never talked about seriously before.” He looks away sharply, jaw tight. "It got better for a while, after. She really did stop partying. We talked more. We had some really good months. Was romantic, you know? But then I started working here, longer shifts. Things started slipping. She got restless again, disappeared more often. It felt like she was trying to find something she'd lost."

Caitlyn watches him closely. "Any idea who that might've been?"

Tag shakes his head, frustrated. "No. Whoever it was, it wasn't one of the usual crowd. It had to be someone different. Someone she couldn’t have, I guess. I never asked.“

Silence settles between them, thick with unspoken pain. Caitlyn gives him the briefest of moments. "Did she mention anything about where she'd been that night? Any details at all?"

“No, she never said anything. I did try asking around, but no-one seemed to know anything.” Tag sighs. "But whatever happened there, whoever she met—it changed her. I think it made her happy and she tried to recreate that happiness with us.”

Caitlyn nods slowly. “Thank you Tag, you’ve been very helpful. I know this isn't easy."

He stares back at her, his eyes hollowed by grief. "Atka didn't deserve this. Whatever happened, whoever she loved, I just... I wish she'd found whatever she was looking for."

"We'll find out what happened," Caitlyn says, quiet yet firm, her gaze unyielding.

Tag nods, not trusting himself to speak, and Caitlyn stands smoothly, signaling gently to Vi that they're finished. Tag stays seated, shoulders slumped, staring blankly as they exit back into the blood-scented corridor beyond, the sharp air hitting them like a physical force.

They get back into the car, with Vi trying to insert the keys, but her hands shake enough to make the task herculean. Caitlyn watches the events quietly. Vi gives up, pushing herself back into the seat, shaking her head.

“Could you drive? Please?”

“Sure.”

Outside, the wind bites sharply through Vi’s jacket as she stumbles out of the driver’s seat, nearly slipping on the icy pavement. Her breath fogs heavily in the bitter cold, mingling with the swirling snowflakes, blurring her vision further as Caitlyn calmly rounds the front of the truck.

Inside, the cab feels suffocatingly tight, the windows slowly fogging up from their breath. Caitlyn adjusts the mirrors deliberately, her movements careful, measured, giving Vi space to compose herself even as sobs quietly fill the narrow space between them. As the truck pulls out into traffic, Caitlyn talks while her focus is on the driving.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Vi sniffles. “About what?”

“About Atka.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Caitlyn gives the lie a moment to rest before shattering it with truth.

“When we visited the crime scenes, you were fine with Charlotte’s, but with Atka you could barely walk into the clearing. Now, when Tag mentioned the event six months ago, your entire body stiffened and you couldn’t even look at him. Then we got out here and all the energy you had locked away, forcing yourself to appear functional during the interview, it nearly ripped you apart. Tell me I’m wrong.”

Vi shakes her head, wiping tears from her eyes.

“Fuck. FUCK!” She punches the inside door panel next to her over and over and over again.

“Vi,” Caitlyn interrupts, stopping the punching. “Does anyone else know?”

More sniffles. Vi shakes her head. “No. I never told… She never…”

“You didn’t tell anyone when you first found Atka because you wanted to work the case?”

Sniffles turns into an eruption of fiery rage within Vi, all of it pouring out towards Caitlyn. “Yeah, thank you miss perfect! Shocking that, isn’t it?! I fucking wanted to work the case!”

“Okay,” Caitlyn says, completely calm. “Do you know anything you haven’t told us that could be pertinent to the case?”

And just like that, rage fades. Vi feels cold. Empty. She stares forward, into traffic, into… Nothing.

“It was one night. We were drunk. We never met up again, she avoided me, acted like she hated me. I thought she did. I didn’t think…” She looks up at Caitlyn who is guiding the truck into a parking lot of a cafe with a brick exterior. “Please don’t tell anyone. I don’t think I could—“

“—I won’t,” Caitlyn says, parking the truck. “As far as I can see, you’ve done nothing to compromise the investigation. You’re driven, you have a personal stake in this, and as long as I can trust you to be open and objective, dismissing you from this case would be stupid.”

Vi shakes her head, trying to make sense of it all. “You don’t care?”

“What? That you got drunk and fucked someone to the point that you made them reevaluate their life? If anything I’m moderately impressed.” She chuckles, it is a soft rolling sound. A sound that Vi can’t really recall ever hearing before. Vi’s shoulders sink and her body goes heavy. A semblance of calm starts to run through her veins. And only now does she realize they’ve parked outside of a cafe. “You need some sugar, and something to eat,” Caitlyn says.

And for a moment, Vi thinks it might all be okay.

Vi devours lunch like it is about to be taken away from her. Opposite her, across the table with its laminated tablecloth, Caitlyn’s focus is above Vi’s shoulder as she glances up at the TV in the corner of the cafe. People are gathering in Browning for a vigil. In the middle of chewing, Vi turns her head to follow Caitlyn’s gaze.

“People want to do something, even by the standards of this place, this is bad,” Vi says, still in the middle of chewing. She returns to the plate to feed herself some more of her pancakes.

“Closure,” Caitlyn says, still looking at the TV. Vi’s eyes move briefly to take in the weird being opposite her, before returning to the food.

“Closure?” She mumbles.

“Rites for when people die. They exist for the living, so they can get closure and try to move on. Either through societal expectations, letting you know you are now allowed to move on as the time of mourning is over, or personally, you have laid them to rest, in a place you can recall or even visit, and then find some semblance of peace. Some of the earliest rites humans developed were related to the deaths of our loved ones.”

Vi swallows, and takes a sip of her coffee which is probably a third sugar. She wipes a bit of syrup from her mouth with the back of her hand.

“You know, for a moment there, I forgot what kind of a happy positive cheerful partner I was working with. Thanks for that.”

Caitlyn doesn’t look at her. She looks down at the table.

“Sorry,” she says. She offers a half-smile at Vi, who’s looking right at her. “I suppose I’m not particularly good company for lunch either.”

“Eh, you’re okay,” Vi says, smirking. She pokes at her last pieces of pancake a bit, before continuing. “After food, we could, if you’re up for it, go up to the Cut Bank field, maybe if we have time also Reagan Field up by the border and ask if anyone saw Atka lately? If that works for you?”

“You don’t have to do that.”

She looks up at Caitlyn, finding those deep blue eyes staring at her.

“Do what?”

“We’re good. You don’t have to be extra accommodating and careful to alleviate some fear that I’m going to be angry or tell anyone. If I have a disagreement with you, you will hear it from me, to your face, not via someone else. As I said, we’re good.”

“Just like that?”

Caitlyn shrugs. “Just like that. And doing a sweep with the oil workers makes sense. We should also check out the people Charlotte was seeing in Great Falls.”

Vi returns to the last pieces of her pancakes and finishes them before speaking again.

“Great Falls tomorrow? Two hours each way, it’s a full day.” Her suggestion is met by a nod as Caitlyn takes a last bite out of her chicken burger. Vi looks at her eat. “Caitlyn?” Caitlyn looks up at her. Vi’s expression is one relaxed sincerity. “Thank you.”

The highway is lonely. It is little more than a ribbon of asphalt slicing through undulating plains dusted white. Sharp gusts ripple over the land, carrying frozen drifts that swirl and dissolve in front of the headlights. No other vehicles pass them for miles.

Out here, there’s a strange hush under the wind’s roar—like the world is so big, it swallows its own noise. Telephone poles march in single file. Clustered stands of skeletal cottonwoods appear, then vanish. Occasionally, they cross a low bridge over an iced-up creek or pass a derelict barn half-buried in drifts. The sky is a bleak tapestry of pale gray, horizon smudged by distant buttes. Every so often, Vi glances over from the driver’s seat at Caitlyn next to her. The woman’s face is impassive, her gaze turned outward, absorbing this empty land as though it’s both foreign and all too familiar.

Outside, the wind intensifies, slanting across the truck’s hood. Each gust jolts them sideways.

And the road stretches on and on and on.

All by its lonesome.

Half an hour later, Vi parks the truck at the edge of a massive gravel lot, facing a tangle of rusted pipes and looming derricks. The odor of crude oil hangs thick in the air, mixing with diesel fumes to form a nauseating cocktail. Overhead, the wind howls across the plains, buffeting everything and hurling swirling dust against the windshield.

The oil field sprawls in a grim patchwork of muddy roads, pump jacks, and portable trailers that pass for offices. A lone sign stands near the main entrance, chipped white paint. “Cut bank west field” is spelled out in faded letters. Beyond that, the rigs jut from the frozen ground like skeletal arms reaching for the sky, metal grinding on metal in a ceaseless, low rumble.

Vi takes a breath as she kills the engine. She glances sidelong at Caitlyn, who is already removing her seatbelt, calm as could be. Through the windshield, a few workers toss them stares that are anything but welcoming. A cluster of men in heavy coats and oil-stained jeans stand next to a pickup, passing a thermos around.

“Ready?” Vi asks quietly.

Caitlyn looks at the men. Her eyes draw in on one of them. Strong. Wide shouldered. Unshaven. He stares at her. His face is overlayed with a reticule. And then he explodes. She blinks. The man is still staring at her. Smirking. Her right hand forms a fist.

“Yeah,” Caitlyn says. “Good to go.”

Opening the door, the wind strikes like a physical assault. The ground is pitted with half-frozen puddles of blackish water, rainbow sheen flickering on the surface. A generator thrums somewhere out of sight, the noise tangled with the hiss and pop of the active pump jacks. Caitlyn ignores the stares and walks towards the squat double-wide trailer labeled “Office”.

Vi follows half a step behind her, trying not to return the stares of the men watching them. Caitlyn opens the door, and steps inside. The trailer is hot and reeks of burnt coffee, old lunches, and a faint chemical tang. A bored-looking clerk at a battered metal desk lifts his head. His name tag, half peeled off, reads “Nate.”

“Help you?” He flicks his gaze from Vi to Caitlyn, then back again. He’s older than he appears. Salt-and-pepper hair is hiding under a sweat-stained cap.

Vi shows her badge. “Deputy Violet. This is liaison agent Kiramman.” Caitlyn produces her identification and shows it to Nate. “We’re here about Atka Whitefeather. Possibly known to some of your guys.”

Nate shifts, eyeing Caitlyn’s FBI ID with a twitch of annoyance. “Atka, yeah, the local girl? Hadn’t seen her around in a while. I saw…” His voice trails off.

Vi moves him on. “We have some questions about when she was last here, who she saw.”

Nate shrugs, turning to the open hallway behind him. “You should talk to the shift manager.” He points to a door down the corridor. The two officers walk down the hall, Caitlyn’s eyes flicking briefly across the passing doors—small offices, a supply closet, a lounge with a sagging sofa. Outside each office, boots track in a film of oily residue that mars the flimsy carpet. There’s a sense of gray weariness, a place that’s seen too many men come through with too few reasons to stay. They reach the door marked ‘Manager.’ Caitlyn knocks without hesitation. “Enter,” is the immediate response. Caitlyn does not hesitate to open the door.

The small office has a desk that’s way too small. A tall man with iron-gray hair and the kind of face that looks permanently weathered from wind and conflict raises his focus to the women entering. His name patch says “Crowe.” He scans them both, pinched expression giving way to something unreadable.

“I don’t suppose you ladies are lost?” His tone is measured, but dismissive. Behind the two of them, in the hallway, two men in oily coveralls enter by the front desk and watch the spectacle.

Caitlyn steps fully into the office. “We understand Atka Whitefeather visited some of the men working these fields. We need to establish a timeline. Anything you can tell us about who she might’ve seen or been with?”

Crowe’s jaw sets. “You realize half the guys here roll in and out weekly, right? They go to bars, blow off steam, find a local friend. That’s the environment. If you’ve got a time frame I can check logs, see which crews were around, but I’m not guaranteeing anything. A girl might’ve come for a drink. That doesn’t mean we know her business. Doesn’t even mean the people she came to see were even working that week.” He pauses, looking at the two women. “Atka is that girl found in the papers. The staged murder?” Vi nods. “Goddamn,” Crowe mutters, eyes flicking from her to Caitlyn. “Look, I don’t want trouble. But I can’t help what these guys do in their off hours. Some of them are scum, I’ll admit that. But they’re cheap, and the field manager wants cheap labor.”

Caitlyn’s gaze lands on him, unblinking. “We need to confirm if and when she was around. Within the last month or two.”

One of the men from the corridor suddenly pokes his head in, a younger roughneck in his twenties with an unpleasant smirk. “Atka. Shit, she was a good time. Heard about what happened, too.” His eyes lock on Caitlyn, drifting down her jacket. “Tragic, y’know?”

Vi’s hands ball up into fists. Caitlyn, for her part, remains still, examining the young man with a level stare that could carve granite.

Crowe growls, “Beat it, Dunleavy.”

Dunleavy sneers but backs off. “Just saying, she liked to party, if you catch my drift.” He looks at Vi, lips curled. “And she was up for anything, you get me?”

Before Vi can snap something back, Caitlyn steps in front of her, moving right into Dunleavy’s personal space, completely calm. “I don’t think I do,” she says softly. “Would you care to explain?”

For a split second, Dunleavy considers his options, but it was never a contest. He goes pale as his grin falters. He glances past Caitlyn over at Crowe, who looks ready to tear his head off. “Screw this,” Dunleavy mutters. He skulks away, shoulders set in a dismissive shrug.

In the silence, Caitlyn turns back to Crowe while closing the door. Vi is trying hard to breathe, calming herself. From behind the desk, Crow exhales hard, pressing a hand to his temple. Caitlyn watches his shirt sleeve drop away, showing off ink below. “He’s an ass. You want names, or shifts, I’ll get you what I can. Talk to the guys up at Reagan as well.” He jerks a thumb at the filing cabinet. “But I got no illusions. Guys treat this place like a free-for-all. Girl stops by, half these boys flock like crows on roadkill.”

There is calm in speaking, and so Vi talks. “We appreciate it. We’ll follow up after we speak to your men individually.”

Crowe’s jaw twitches. “I can call a short break, have them line up in the lounge if you want? They won’t like it.”

“Well,” Caitlyn says, “isn’t that a shame.”

They spend the next forty minutes interviewing a couple of uneasy roughnecks in the cramped lounge. The men speak guardedly, picking their words like stepping through a minefield. Yes, Atka was around. Yes, they drank with her, took her back to a trailer. More than once. Sometimes with more than one man at a time. No, they don’t know who might’ve done something terrible. Just shrugs, coarse jokes, or disclaimers of “She was always free to leave.”

Vi bites her tongue more than once, forcibly diplomatic as a leering blond man stares at her chest while recounting, in vague detail, a recent “party.” Caitlyn’s presence looms beside her, silent but watchful, dissuading any real confrontation. Most men avoid her gaze entirely. The few who look up to challenge her quickly whimper away.

By the time they leave, the stale air and the vulgar insinuations cling to Vi’s skin. She can almost taste it. Outside, the wind hits them again, the bitter cold a jolt of clarity after the suffocating trailer. Neither woman speaks until they’re back in the truck, doors shutting out the roar of machinery.

Vi exhales, tension in every line of her posture. “Reagan,” she says quietly, turning the ignition. Next to her, Caitlyn looks out at the people outside, focusing on each man, one by one, without the slightest care in the world what they might think about being catalogued. Vi stares through the windshield at the slow, mechanical bows of the pump jacks. “Let’s get it over with.”

They pull out of the lot and head further north. The jitters in Vi’s motions as she drives leaves no doubt about her mental state. Caitlyn says nothing for a few minutes, before turning towards Vi. Her voice is cold. Colder than the winter outside.

“Predators prey on what’s below them on the food chain.” Vi looks briefly over at her, before returning to the warm embrace of the frozen world outside. Caitlyn continues. “You take that chain and you yank. Never, not for a second, let them see you as food.”

Vi stares out into the cold.

Never let them see you as food.

If only it was that simple.

The second site, “Reagan Field,” sits even farther north. And, if possible, it’s bleaker. The roads are more rutted, the puddles deeper, the stench of crude more pungent. Over the wind’s howl, they hear constant metal-on-metal shrieks and the rhythmic hiss of compressed air from the manifold station.

A spindly, older man leaning against a battered truck glares at their badges. “Police chief’s department again?” he mutters.

Vi tries a neutral tone. “We’ve got some questions about a local girl who was seen around here. Name was Atka Whitefeather.”

He spits a long line of brownish tobacco juice into the slush, lips twisting. “Heard talk she’s the one ended up dead.”

Caitlyn nods. “We need to know who she saw last. You have someone we can speak to?”

He jerks a thumb toward a corrugated shack. “Supervisor’s in there. Don’t see why it matters. Girl was trouble.”

Caitlyn walks past the man and in towards the shack. Vi, a moment later, follows. Inside the shack, a small group of workers sit around a table, playing some cards while eating a late lunch. The floor is plywood, scuffed and stained. A single fluorescent tube flickers overhead. Their conversation dies when Vi and Caitlyn enter. Two men exchange a glance, a silent message. Another hunches over, scraping at grime under his nails.

Vi steps forward, brandishing her ID. “We’re here about Atka Whitefeather—”

A thick voice interrupts, “We heard.” A big man with a scorpion tattoo on his neck eyes them. “Girls come by for a good time. Then they leave. Ain’t our business what they do after.”

“Thing is, it’s my business.” Caitlyn’s voice cuts in, quiet, edged with steel. Eyes move towards her.

He sneers. “You plan on coming in here, pokin’ around, tryin’ to pin us for something we ain’t done?”

Caitlyn smiles. The way a cat smiles. While it’s eating. “When was she last here?”

A tense silence. The man stands up, chest puffed. “Like I said, she—.”

“—She’s dead, and I’m looking for whomever did it.” Caitlyn steps right up into his face, standing toe to toe with the man, easily as tall as he is. “You either give me something to do with my time, or I’ll spend my excess time looking at each and every one of you lot, with all the tools at my disposal.” Deep inside his personal space, right across his tattoo, she sniffs him. “I can order a piss test right here, right now, for all of you. Anyone who fails is blackballed forever. Maybe we’ll have more time to talk after that?” The scorpion-neck man takes a step backwards. He turns towards the rest of his crew. Eyes talk, discussing options. Loyalty. It’s bought with currency. In groups like this, it’s sold by fear. “If he was in your spot, how quickly would he sell you out?” They all look back at the dark-haired woman.

“Eric Kendahl.” The name comes from a man on the couch. “Eric had a thing for her. Like a whole thing. Wouldn’t let anyone else touch her.”

Caitlyn merely turns her right hand face up to the man, while shrugging the same shoulder. “And?”

“Small guy. Beady eyes. Fired two weeks ago. We threw him out of the trailer he was renting.” The man she stood up to has taken a few steps back to lean into the wall. “Drug use. Went completely insane.” Caitlyn moves her head towards the man, staring into him. “I don’t know where he went! Honest! If I knew I’d tell you!”

Caitlyn nods. “Thank you,” she leans down, takes a playing card and a pen from the table. On the card she writes her phone number. “If something comes to mind, let me hear it from you rather than find out via other sources. Please.”

Vi looks at Caitlyn. There again is the way she says “please”. The way it’s alien to her. It never meant “please”. Not like it does for everyone else.

Vi finally understands.

Coming from Caitlyn Kiramman, “please” is a threat.

The trailer is a mess. There is nothing to be found. Since Eric Kendahl was last here, at least two other men have used the place. They go through cabinets and drawers, finding nothing. Three men stand in the door and watch them work. A deep part of Vi’s brain screams at her. Telling her she’s trapped.

Then she watches Caitlyn work. Methodically going through every inch of the place. There is a quiet calm to the woman. Like a coiled spring. Waiting for release.

And Vi calms down.

Of course she does.

Because these men do not trap Vi in this trailer.

This trailer traps them in here with her.

As Vi drives them back to the station, darkness falls. The truck is woven in silence. Caitlyn sits staring out of the window, with Vi stealing a glance at her every so often. In the passenger side window, Caitlyn’s reflection becomes ever more clearer as darkness devours the world outside. They are almost back in Browning before Vi gives in.

“I’m going to head home when we get in, spend some time with family.” Caitlyn barely reacts. “If you want to, I’m sure you’d be welcome.”

“I know I’m not easy to be around.”

Vi looks at the woman. It was the first thing she picked up on when they met. It sometimes fades, but it never goes away. She looks so pristine. “You’re a bit on or off. Either completely missing or very intensely present.” If you didn’t know any better, you could imagine Caitlyn dozing. “Never prey though.”

“No,” Caitlyn answers. “Never prey.”

Upon entering the station, Vi runs a few steps ahead of Caitlyn and opens the door for her. Caitlyn looks at her with a bit of confusion. Vi just smiles at her. They get inside and find Maggie talking to Eli who is dressed to leave for the day. He turns towards Vi and Caitlyn.

“We should talk to Ben,” he says. “About the sites. If anyone has any idea, he’ll have it.”

Vi’s head sinks. “I don’t have it in me tonight, can we do it tomorrow?”

“Oh, yeah,” Eli says, walking towards them while putting on his jacket. “Works for me.”

“Who’s Ben?” Two pairs of eyes turn towards Caitlyn. “Benjamin Red Crow”, Vi explains. “Lives down by Snowslip, Blackfoot through and through. Been fighting to keep the Badger-Two Medicine region protected. Good storyteller.” It’s been two days, but Vi can already tell what Caitlyn is thinking. “I honestly don’t have it in me. But, if you want to go talk to him, I’m not going to stop you. I’ll give you the address.”

The drive takes Caitlyn southwest, from the rolling plains into a valley with white-clad forests down Highway 2. Everything disappears. Out here, there is nothing. No street lights, no towns, barely any housing. There is only the dark road cutting into the rough wilderness. In the liminal space between somewhere and nowhere, after a long day, Caitlyn’s mind empties itself. She feels herself breathe. She hears her heart beat. It all evaporates into a deep and empty space.

She drives slowly, following the instructions of the GPS until her beams reveal a small wooden mailbox and a rutted driveway. In the beams of her headlights, a gust of wind shakes the pines, sending clouds of powder swirling across her windshield.

At the end of the driveway sits a modest wooden cabin, its front porch unassuming and neutral. The front light is a single yellow bulb, and behind it, drifting out of the cracks in the window frames, is the glow of a log fire. She steps out, boots crunching on ice. The air is painfully cold. In the stillness, every crunch reverberates.

She walks up on the porch and knocks twice on the door. It’s opened almost immediately by an older man in his seventies, with long black hair streaked white, braided loosely over his shoulder. Lines around his eyes deepen when he smiles.

“Hello,” he says. His voice is warm, as though greeting a familiar friend.

“Benjamin Red Crow?” Caitlyn lifts her ID. “My name is Caitlyn Kiramman, FBI liaison to the local police. Eli Three Feathers suggested I talk to you.”

He studies the ID, turning it over in his hand, testing its stiffness. The flickering porch light bringing life to every furrow in his face. Then he nods and hands it back.

“You best come in, before you turn to ice out there.”

Stepping inside the space is compact but inviting. A low-burning log fire in a stone hearth, shelves lined with carved figurines, woven baskets, and battered books. A single lamp glows on a side table. The thick smell of pine logs, sage, and something faintly sweet saturates the air.

She thanks him, slipping off her gloves, taking a moment to let her eyes adjust to the softer light. The walls are alive with tribal art—images of wolves, eagles, the silhouettes of dancers with elaborate regalia.

“So,” Ben says kindly, “what can I do for you?”

Caitlyn meets his gaze. “I have some questions about the sites, both the locations themselves and the staging.”

He looks at her. Into her. A careful shake of his head. “You have the wolf in you,” he starts. His words hang in the air. Caitlyn’s posture remains unmoved, her expression unreadable. “I can see him in the corners of your eyes. He is eating your pupils. Devouring your vision, turning you blind.” Caitlyn stares at him. “Solitary wolves are strong, resilient, self-sufficient… But without a pack, they go blind to the world around them, to what binds them to the land, to the people, to the pack.”

The woman lets the moment hang, her head tilting slightly forward and to her side. She smirks, and produces a half-snort, half-chuckle. “It is interesting how so many cultures developed this habit of talking about someone through metaphors and myths, rather than telling them to their face to get their house in order.”

The man laughs. It’s deep, full-bellied, and the sound echoes around the warm room. The laugh is followed by a smile. “Come, I’d like to show you something,” he says, leading her through the kitchen to a back door. “We have this story, from time before memory, about how wolves were among the first beings to show compassion toward humans. The enduring spirit of the wolf guides us, through both the physical and the spiritual realm, from our first day until our last.” Opening the door, a rush of night air as sharp as broken glass claws at them.

He ushers her outside.

She abides.

Caitlyn can see her breath crystallize in front of her.

Overhead, the stars blaze in a sky so dark and wide that Caitlyn can almost feel herself drifting. Ben gestures to a faint river of light across the sky, the Milky Way’s band shimmering above the treetops.

“When we pass on, into the afterlife, we follow the Wolf’s Trail, populated by the souls of wolves that both have been and will forever be.” He looks over at Caitlyn who is staring at the sky. “Caitlyn Kiramman, you are on that trail.” He points to the thin bands of the Milky Way, the path of souls across the sky as he speaks. “You are walking the makoi-yohsokoyi.”

Chapter Text

Benjamin Red Crow moves slowly in his kitchen alcove, each gesture precise and deliberate. Caitlyn leans quietly against the doorway, watching him. He lights the stove, a cast-iron wood burner blackened by decades of smoke, and sets a dented enamel pot full of water atop it. From a small metal canister, he retrieves a handful of dried leaves, wild mint and sage. He crushes them into the water, immediately filling the kitchen with their clean, sharp, faintly sweet scent.

Outside, the wind whispers along the walls of the cabin, a gentle hum beneath the crackle of the fire in the stove. He places the pot on the hot plate, and the water begins to murmur softly. The kitchen is a lived space, a space where the faded wooden floors and old cabinets contrast against carefully arranged and colorful jars of herbs, each labeled meticulously with small strips of tape with handwritten labels in careful lettering.

Ben pours the tea into two enamel mugs, steam curling gently from their surfaces. He hands one mug to Caitlyn and gestures for her to sit at the kitchen table. Caitlyn does, feeling the warmth of the cup between her hands, inhaling the soothing steam that rises toward her face.

"Tea isn't just a drink," Ben says, his voice low and steady, watching her carefully. "It's medicine. Not just for the body, but for the mind. Helps us listen. Helps us hear what we might otherwise ignore.”

Caitlyn sips the tea. The taste is clear, almost medicinal, but pleasant. The herbs linger at the back of her throat. Her shoulders ease slightly as warmth spreads through her chest.

Ben settles into the chair across from her, regarding her patiently. His eyes, reflecting decades of quiet observation, fix onto hers. "You've been alone for a long time. Too long, maybe."

She looks at the man as she shakes her head. “Not as long as you’d think.”

“Maybe not by clocks and calendars, but anyone can see it has been a long time for your mind.”

“Well,” she mutters, taking another sip of tea, the steam brushing her cheeks. “A lot of modern people have seen their pupils eaten. A lot of them are blind. Not what animal did it though.”

Ben produces a wide grin. "Drink your tea," he says, his voice turning almost sullen. "Then we'll talk about the dead.”

She shows him pictures. She shows him maps. She shows him the twig figurine she has been carrying. All these things she shows him. And all these things he studies. And then he leans back into the chair overlooking the living room table with its pictures, its maps, and its twig figurine. He scratches his chin, shaking his head, then leans in over the maps again. He looks at the body placements, and then a picture of Charlotte seated in prayer, with some directional notations in Caitlyn’s handwriting. He returns to the map.

All the while, Caitlyn watches him think over another cup of tea.

“You know,” he starts, and then stops. He looks at the map again. “Both bodies are facing a peak. The first Rising Wolf Mountain, and the second one Medicine Owl Peak. Owls are omens of death, and well, you know all about wolves now, don’t you?” He looks up at Caitlyn, who smiles and shrugs.

“The prayer style, it looks Christian to me, the whole kneeling in front of God with hands raised in surrender unto the lord?”

Ben looks up at Caitlyn, nodding. “Yes, it’s at least not something I’m familiar with.”

“So why have…” Caitlyn drifts off. “They are foreign prayers to local customs. Forgiveness maybe?”

The old man’s brow furrows. “You’re thinking someone is doing this to ask for forgiveness for some transgression against the Blackfeet?”

“No,” she says, picking up the picture of Atka. “I don’t think it’s against the Blackfeet people. Even in their delusion they wouldn’t do this to a Blackfoot person and think about the people. No, this is about the land. It’s an atonement from an outsider for transgressions against the land itself.” She puts the picture down and picks up the twig figurine. “This isn’t local either, is it?” Ben shakes his head. “You’re wrong,” she says, smirking up at Ben, who tilts his head as if to hear her better. “It is local. Local to the perpetrator. This is theirs. The skulls are local to the land. The figurines are local to the person who did this.”

He looks at her, nodding again. “I see you have become the hunting wolf, the Makóyi ninnaistá. I’m guessing you need to go.”

“Yes,” she says, “I’m afraid so.”

Maggie was always the first to arrive at work. She would come no later than seven thirty and prepare the office. She’d put on coffee, make sure the dishwasher was empty, and do a little bit of a cleanup of people’s desks. That usually didn’t take long, maybe fifteen minutes, tops, and afterwards she would have ten or fifteen minutes before people started coming in.

But not any more.

For the second day in a row, the black Suburban was already waiting for her. As her headlights passed over the car she could see the British liaison officer sitting inside in absolute silence. Even the engine was off, which in this weather would make the cabin cool down surprisingly quickly. As soon as she parked, the British woman was already outside the vehicle, ready to go.

“Mrs. Little Thunder.” Caitlyn nods as she offers to carry the large handbag Maggie carries. Maggie smiles and declines.

“You should have called Grayson, you shouldn’t have to sit out here in the cold waiting for people to come to work.” Maggie speaks as she walks up the steps and retrieves her keys.

“It’s okay Ma’am, I’m used to waiting.”

Caitlyn watches Vi seat herself at her desk. The redhead is tired. Worn. The night has been long. And it has nothing to do with work. Caitlyn gives her space. And time. Vi finishes her morning coffee. She finishes her chat with Maggie. She finishes her trip to the bathroom. All while Caitlyn sits at her desk.

Watching.

Working.

Waiting.

It is okay.

Caitlyn Kiramman is used to waiting.

“So, Caitlyn, you’re quiet this morning. Anything new?” Vi looks in over Caitlyn’s shoulder, at what she is reading on her laptop. She pitches her eyes to read out loud the title of the first document she can make out. “Fetishes of the Southwest? Why Caitlyn I had no—“ Caitlyn scrolls down the article, showing a stick figure not too dissimilar to what they saw at the crime scenes. “Shit,” Vi exclaims. “That’s almost like—“ Caitlyn switches over to another window. She points to the title. “Late Archaic Totemism in the Greater American Southwest?” More scrolling. Another twig figure. Simpler this time.

“It’s not local to the area,” Caitlyn’s words are spoken as she looks up towards Vi who is still leaning over her. Eli comes to stare as well. “The victims are looking at peaks. Atka was facing Rising Wolf Mountain. Charlotte was facing Medicine Owl Peak.” Her focus shifts to Eli. “Wolves guide people to the afterlife. Owls are omens of death.” He looks at her as she keeps on talking. “That is the answer to ‘why here?’.”

Vi takes a breath, trying to regain some semblance of composure. “We have an ex-girlfriend of Eric Kendahl’s outside of Helmville. Showed up in a DV. It’s three hours south of here. We can have locals take a look?” DV. Domestic Violence. Caitlyn rolls her head from shoulder to shoulder. Vi continues. “We can follow up on Charlotte’s friends? I can call ahead.”

Vi’s gloved hands tug her collar tighter against the bitter wind. Winter in Browning has ways of gnawing at one’s very being. The sun barely peeks over the horizon, and the pale wash of daylight offers no warmth. She glances over at Caitlyn, who’s double-checking some papers in the passenger seat.

“Ready?” Vi asks, slamming the driver’s door behind her. The engine coughs once before settling into a low idle.

Caitlyn nods, exhaling a brief white plume into the cold air. “Good to go.”

They drive south and then southeast, the broken plains of the Blackfeet Reservation stretching out around them, wind carving patterns into the crusted snow. Barbed-wire fences lean under the weight of frost as the skeletons of sun-bleached cottonwoods stand watch in the distance. The road is mostly empty. Trucks with ranch plates occasionally pass, engines roaring, spitting gravel in their wake.

Time slides by in a series of pale landscapes. The last cluster of Browning’s buildings falls behind, soon replaced by miles of rolling emptiness, hills smoothed by snow and battered by ceaseless gusts. The radio is silent. As the cabin finally heats up, Vi removes her gloves, allowing her bare hands grip the wheel, occasionally adjusting for sudden crosswinds that slap the truck.

She glances over at her passenger. “Great Falls is more of a city, maybe more of your thing?”

Dark tarmac underfoot. Night so deep it swallows the horizon. Behind Caitlyn Kiramman the engines of the C-130 are still spinning as a flock of people busily unload the plane. The familiar smell of aviation fuel permeates everything, even in the cold. Ahead of her a private stands at attention beside a black Suburban, breath frosting in front of his face.

“Captain! Ma’am!”

Caitlyn shifts her duffel to her left side, her other hand clutching a hard rifle case. Another duffel dangles from that same arm. Her secondary rifle is strapped to her chest. The private’s eyes flick between the rifles, the gear, and her face. Beyond him, the air base is nearly deserted. Malmstrom air force base slumbers under the hush of Montana winter.

“Welcome, Ma’am, the vehicle is outfitted as requested.” The private speaks as he steps in to open the Suburban’s tailgate. Caitlyn heaves her gear inside. When she straightens, he extends the keys. She takes them without hesitation.

“Thank you, private.”

“Good night, Captain.”

She gives him a nod and slides into the driver’s seat. The engine purrs in the silence, headlights cutting across an empty airstrip. She stares beyond the windshield, sees nothing but black sky, base lights ghostly and scattered. Silence stretches. She can still feel the vibrating tension in her fingers, even though the rifle is now locked in its case.

As she adjusts the mirrors, the GPS reports two hours and change to Browning.

Vi looks over at Caitlyn again. “That is, if anywhere is your thing?” The tires hum against the worn asphalt. Caitlyn shifts in her seat, returning to the here and now.

“I like this place,” Caitlyn finally says. Her tone is neutral. Soft. She fixes her gaze on the horizon where sky and land blur into a single pale border. “It makes it clear that we’re fleeting. That the land is what will remain. Cities pretend that they’re here to stay.”

Vi shakes her head and refocuses on the road, on the wind that rattles the truck, on the swirl of loose snow dancing across the lanes.

Mile after mile. The reservation’s open expanse transitions into ranch country. The land lifts and drops in long, gentle slopes, dotted by fence posts and grazing fields half-buried under the snow. A few stray horses stand hunched against the cold, their breath coiling in the air. The highway points them southeast, always forward, always away.

Vi clears her throat. “You still up for dinner tonight?”

Caitlyn’s eyes track along a line of power poles, each one bowing under the wind, a monotony of shapes identical in form and function. “Yes,” she says. “I’ve cleared my schedule.”

A soft chuckle from Vi. “Vander’s cooking. He’s making bison and root vegetable stew. The bison is from a ranch out beyond the Flathead Reservation. It’s so good. And he makes this fantastic frybread, all light and crispy on the outside, but soft and chewy inside.” She looks over at Caitlyn briefly, before moving back to focus on the road. She takes a breath, transitioning both the topic and herself. “They all want to meet you. See that… I don’t know. That you’re real, I guess.” Vi tries a hint of a smile. “And get an idea of who I’m spending my days with nowadays.”

Caitlyn’s lips press together. In the side mirror, she watches the swirl of salt and slush kicked up by a passing sedan. “I know. I’ll behave.”

“If you really hate it, we’ll cut it short.”

“You have the wolf in you,” Caitlyn hears Ben’s words hang in the air. “I can see him in the corners of your eyes. He is eating your pupils. Devouring your vision, turning you blind.”

Caitlyn turns over at Vi and produces a careful smile.

“Sorry, I’m just in my head. As usual. I look forward to bison stew with your family. I’m sure it’ll be nice.”

“Solitary wolves are strong, resilient, self-sufficient, but without a pack, they go blind to the world around them, to what binds them to the land, to people, to the pack.”

Caitlyn swallows, before continuing. “I know it means a lot to you, I know they mean a lot to you, and I want you to know that being invited to spend time with your family means a lot to me as well.”

Vi smiles. Her mood lifting as they pass through another small town. These towns are barely heartbeats on the maps. Blips where angled pickups cluster outside lone diners, deserted in the dim midday gloom.

The edges of Great Falls slowly creep into view. First distant rooftops, then a few scattered houses. Eventually the promise of a city that stands out against the emptiness. The wind is not gentler, but the presence of buildings and electrical lines subdues the stark emptiness. A wide railroad crossing clicks by. The faint geometry of suburban grids takes shape.

The highway leads them along the fringes of industrial yards and warehouses. Frost clings to chain-link fences. Steam rises from distant factory vents. The city has a subdued look, winter-dulled, streets half-iced over. There’s a hush over everything, like the land still belongs more to the wind than to the people. They reach the public airport and leave the highway, entering Great Falls proper. Soon afterwards they cross the Missouri. The river’s banks are frozen into the land as the rest of it flows lazily underneath the bridge.

Vi makes a right off the broad avenue, following the directions on her phone. Then a left. They enter a suburban area, full of small single-story houses. All of them nondescript. The road turns southwards and they roll to a stop at a modest house. Its white facade partially hidden by the six trees that form a narrow boulevard up the walkway to the door. Next to the trees the yard is more ice than grass. As Vi kills the engine, the wind outside seems to slam into them again, rattling the truck in a final, reminding gust.

Vi glances at Caitlyn, who is already reaching for the passenger door handle.

“All right,” Vi murmurs. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

Vi knocks on the door and a young woman quickly arrives to open the door. Blonde. Slim. Dressed in pajama pants and a loose t-shirt. She looks up at Vi, her eyes red. Partially from crying. Caitlyn looks at the woman in front of her. Kelsey Brewer. 24. Studying communications at the University of Montana. Her public social media accounts are full of candid group shots, drinks in hand, the captions full of inside jokes and emojis. Now she sits at home. Crying. Avoiding people. Avoiding classes.

Her voice is rough when she speaks. “You’re Vi, right? The cop?” She swipes at her eyes, straightens her spine like she’s bracing for whatever comes next. “Come in. But, uh… I don’t know how much help I can be.”

Without being asked, Vi produces identification and shows it to Kelsey who barely looks at it as she steps aside to let the two women inside.

“We’re alone,” she says. “My parents are at work.” She leads them into the living room, and collapses into the sofa, pulling a pillow to her chest. “Like I told you on the phone, she was cool. Did you know she was from Europe?”

Vi exchanges a glance with Caitlyn, who smiles down at Kelsey. “I’m Caitlyn,” she offers her ID and Kelsey makes a half-hearted attempt to stretch her neck to look at it.

“You’re FBI?”

“After a fashion.” Caitlyn tries to smile. “May I use the restroom?”

Kelsey blinks. “Do you know, you sound just like her? Are you from Europe too?”

“I went to school in England for a while.”

“Oh, I want to go to England. You all sound so smart.”

Caitlyn tries again. “Bathroom?”

“Oh, sorry, down the hall to the left.”

Caitlyn leaves the two of them to it. She had half a mind of checking the woman’s bedroom, but instead she casts only a quick glance into the rooms she passes on her way to the bathroom. Once there she sits down, slowly, pees, slowly, and washes her hands. Slowly. Unable to prolong things any further, she walks out into the hallway and looks back into the room with Kelsey’s name written on it in bright lettering.

The room looks like it belongs to the high school version of her. A collage of band posters, fairy lights, a corkboard with ticket stubs and faded photographs, almost all of them show Kelsey with some girls at a party. A bottle of half-empty tequila sits on her dresser. Caitlyn walks in and takes a few snapshots with her phone of the pictures on the cork board. None of the pictures include Charlotte. She returns to the living room to find Vi seated in a chair opposite Kelsey, holding her hand.

“Did you see her after that weekend?” Vi asks. Kelsey shakes her head. “Did you know anyone else she was seeing?” Kelsey shakes her head again, but the way her face reacts, she’s clearly lying. “Kelsey, please don’t lie to me. I don’t care what or who she was doing, we just need to catch the one who hurt her.”

Kelsey sniffles. “You promise?”

“I promise,” Vi says. “We’re not the drug police. We’re the murder police.”

The young woman considers her options for a moment. Big brown eyes open up at Vi, finding a warm and caring home.

“Charlotte was seeing this guy for drugs. Older, from the reservation. Always had the good stuff and she always had money.”

Vi tries very hard to contain her excitement, as she struggles to keep her voice measured. “Do you know his name?”

The young woman thinks it over for a bit. “I think she called him ‘Slick’.”

Returning to the truck, Vi checks her phone. She scrolls across a map for a bit before smiling.

“There’s a Hawaiian brunch place over towards the river, not too far, near Black Eagle Falls. We can enjoy some interesting food while we sit and stare at the river? Before we head back north?” She looks over at Caitlyn, eyebrows raised expectantly, hopeful for a distraction from the bleakness of the morning. Caitlyn buckles in. The smile she gives Vi is brief, but it is enough.

“Sure,” she adds. “Hawaiian sounds good.”

As Vi pulls out from the curb, Kelsey opens the door to watch them leave. She waves slightly, her hand barely raised. The gesture feels heavy, weary. As if it is weighed down, or she has suddenly become older. Vi waves back through as they leave the house behind.

“You were good with her.” Vi looks over at Caitlyn, not quite sure she heard it right. She got a compliment. One that mattered. It has been a while.

“Thanks,” she says, staring forward, guiding the truck north. “Did you find anything?”

“Not really. She’s been stuck here. Reliving the days of a youth without responsibilities. Partying with her friends. Dreaming she is elsewhere.” Vi’s brief glance over at Caitlyn finds a woman who just as well might be dreaming of being elsewhere. “She’s twenty-four.” Caitlyn shakes her head.

Vi looks ahead, takes another few turns, following the advice of her phone.

“I’m guessing you never had much of that?”

“Hmm?”

“A youth without responsibilities.”

Caitlyn stares out into the city of Great Falls. She sighs.

In the deep cold, the blood pouring between her fingers is scalding. “Zero, Sabre-Four. AO secure. ETA on bird? Over.” She looks down at the man bleeding out in her arms. His mouth is unable to speak as his larynx is full of blood, but his eyes speak volumes. As his body convulses, he begs her to do… Something. Anything. She moves her focus to the cricothyrotomy she has performed, the tube still clear of blood. “Sabre-Four,” the response comes, “two mikes out. Hold tight. Over.” With her hands full of blood, Caitlyn Kiramman holds tight.

“No,” Caitlyn says. “I didn’t have much of a youth without responsibilities.”

Garlic butter shrimp, grilled spam musubi glazed with teriyaki sauce, ahi poke street tacos, creamy macaroni salad, and fluffy rice fill the table. Vi grins as the food is served, her joy infectious.

“God I’ve missed this.” She doesn’t even look at Caitlyn as she moves two pieces of musubi to her plate before scooping herself some macaroni salad, depositing it next to the musubi. Caitlyn waits her turn, feeling herself relax as she watches low-hanging mist rise from the Missouri River as it flows past, barely a stones throw beyond the window. Across the table, she sees Vi use her fingers to pick up a piece of musubi and take a bite, her eyes fluttering to a close. Once that is gone, she takes a big gulp of passionfruit juice and taps her feet as the flavor lingers in her mouth.

Half-watching Vi, Caitlyn takes one of the spam-sushi-pieces and tastes a bite of her own. The spam is crispy, salty, meaty, and slightly smokey, the glaze giving hints of sweetness as the mild sticky rice produces a perfect backdrop to the flavors.

“Good, eh?” Vi covers her mouth with her hand as she speaks.

Caitlyn swallows. “Not very subtle.”

“Shocking, isn’t it? Me liking things that aren’t subtle.” She flashes Caitlyn a smirk that is anything but… that. Caitlyn rolls her eyes and takes another bite of the food on her plate.

“You eat here often?”

The back of Vi’s hand still functions as a napkin. “Why miss Kiramman, are you asking me if I come here often?” Caitlyn takes a deep breath, her eyes closing and her head dropping forward. “Hey,” Vi says, her tone suddenly serious. “Caitlyn?” Those deep blue eyes come up from the deep to face her again. “Sorry, it’s just been a shit week and I stopped thinking. I sometimes say stuff like that to distract myself. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” Caitlyn looks up at the redhead. Her eyes are wide open, her mouth pinched.

“It’s okay,” Caitlyn says, ever so carefully. “You haven’t done anything wrong.” She smiles at Vi who feels her toes curl in her shoes. “It’s just been a while since I’ve experienced flirting.”

Vi grins. “Oh you really must be out of practice then. This isn’t me flirting.” Caitlyn looks at her, slightly confused. Vi leans in over the table. “Trust me, Caitlyn, you’ll know when I’m flirting.”

The truck ride northwards feels warmer than before. Vi has turned on the radio and soft country music has been filling the cabin. As the clock hits the hour, a local news broadcast takes over. It starts with a reporter quoting Chayton Whitefeather that the police aren’t doing enough and that the FBI didn’t even care to show up until a white girl became a victim. After Chayton says his peace, the reporter goes on to list a number of missing women from the reservation.

“She doesn’t mean you don’t care, she’s just…” Vi searches for the words.

“She’s not wrong.” Caitlyn sighs. “If the FBI truly cared, they’d send more people, they’d send people who had worked murders, they’d send someone not me.”

Vi’s eyes flicker between the road and the tall dark-haired woman next to her. “Don’t sell yourself short. You’ve gotten more out of this than any of us, and I don’t think the FBI could have sent anyone much better to help us.”

A soft chuckle emerges from the woman staring at the desolation outside. “Thank you, Vi. But they didn’t choose me because they thought I could solve the crime. They chose me to solve the political noise.”

In the background, the reporter finishes her piece, and the weather forecast takes over.

“Look,” Vi starts, “you’re—” She pauses abruptly as the radio interrupts, the announcer’s urgent tone filling the cabin.

“—we’re now looking at a significant change in conditions from earlier reports.” Vi stops mid-sentence, suddenly alert, and reaches quickly to turn up the volume on the radio. The weather announcer’s voice, steady but edged with urgency, continues. “A strong front moving down off the Rocky Mountain. Expect increasing wind and snow through the afternoon, with whiteout conditions likely overnight. Gusts out of the northwest could reach 60 miles per hour, especially in exposed areas near Cut Bank and across the Browning bench.”

Vi’s hands tighten slightly on the wheel as the announcer goes on. “A winter storm warning is now in effect for the Blackfeet Reservation, east to Havre, and south through Heart Butte and the Little Belts. Visibility will drop rapidly as winds pick up. Travel is discouraged this evening, especially along Highway 89 and out toward U.S. 2.”

“Shit,” Vi mutters, easing back on the accelerator. She glances quickly at Caitlyn, concern clear on her face. “We should still be okay for visiting. I can come pick you up, if that’s alright?”

Caitlyn meets Vi’s worried gaze calmly and smiles. “Thank you, that’s very kind. But I’ll be fine.”

They return to the office just after 3pm. The wind has started to pick up, as has the snow. In Browning, people are readying themselves for the storm, with Caitlyn leaving the office an hour later. She drives her Suburban through the inclement weather and stops at a local grocery store.

The convenience store is, like everything else here, worn. Caitlyn walks through the isles, picking up water, dried goods, batteries, and a few more items before getting in line. The woman behind her shifts nervously, repeatedly checking her phone, occasionally glancing up at Caitlyn with hesitant curiosity. The line moves slowly. Caitlyn turns around. The woman is in her mid twenties. Local. Long black hair, brown eyes. Half a head shorter than Caitlyn herself.

“You okay?”

The young woman swallows.

“You’re the FBI agent, aren’t you?”

“Liaison,” is the polite correction. “But yes, I’m here to help the local police.”

“Is it true what they’re saying? That the FBI only sent someone after a white girl was killed?”

“The FBI didn’t even care then. They only sent me because the second victim was a British national. Her father pressured the consulate and FBI into doing something.”

The woman looks up at Caitlyn. She’s pinching her eyes. “You’re British?”

Caitlyn shrugs. “Born in the US to British parents. Long story.”

“But you’re a cop?”

“No,” Caitlyn says, smiling at the now-puzzled young woman. “For what has happened, I’m something much more useful.” The young woman’s eyes widen, uncertainty flashing across her face. Caitlyn leans in closer, her voice low, barely audible. “I’m a hunter.”

A few minutes before six o’clock the doorbell at Vander’s home buzzes. Vi stops dead in her pacing, turning towards the door. She takes a breath. From the kitchen, Vander hollers.

“You getting that, Vi?”

“On it,” she responds and half-jogs towards the door. She passes the dinner table in the living room where Mylo is looking up from his phone and at the door. The walls around him are adorned with pieces of artwork depicting scenes from the Blackfeet Reservation—paintings of horses running free, photographs of Glacier peaks under winter snow, and carefully framed beadwork.

Powder is nowhere to be seen, still hiding in her room. Vi stops for a moment in front of the door, patting down her flannel shirt worn over cargo pants. Casual, no big deal. These are the simple lies we keep telling ourselves. She takes another breath and opens the door, seeing Caitlyn wrapped in the heavy gear she arrived in the first night. Vi’s face smiles. Wide and open. Long before any conscious thought ever questioned what she should be doing, she smiles. She feels happy.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hello,” Caitlyn replies warmly. She’s wearing what looks to be expensive wilderness sunglasses with subtle side protection, their lenses tinted nearly clear until she steps inside and they darken instantly in the hallway light. Caitlyn brushes gently at the snow on her pants and jacket as she enters. Vi glances past her toward the parking lot, noticing the absence of any black Suburban.

She turns back as Caitlyn hangs up her jacket next to the other outerwear in the hallway, revealing a thermal layer beneath. “Did you… walk?” Vi asks incredulously.

“I needed to stretch my legs a bit,” Caitlyn says calmly, not turning around, focused on neatly arranging her jacket. As Vi moves to pass her, Caitlyn instinctively leans in closer to the clothing, feeling Vi softly brush against her back and side. Vi’s breath catches.

“I’ll just help Vander in the kitchen,” Vi says, warmth rising to her cheeks. She gestures toward the dining area. “That’s Mylo. Powder will come out for food eventually, and Claggs couldn’t make it due to the weather.” She quickly steps away, disappearing into the kitchen.

Mylo waves casually from the table, watching Caitlyn with polite curiosity. She returns his gesture with a small, warm smile and approaches, removing her thermal jacket to reveal a sleek charcoal turtleneck and slim-fitting deep olive trousers. Every piece of clothing clings to her frame. She pulls the sleeves back, exposing her rugged but sleek watch.

Mylo leans forward, interest piqued. “Nice watch.”

Caitlyn smiles at him, before looking down at her watch, her fingers brushing the band lightly. “I like mechanical things.” Her voice soft with her English accent.

“Looks pretty tough,” Mylo notes approvingly, glancing up at her, then back at the watch. Its face is clear, but the wide sides have scuffs and marks. Around the face is a rotating disk.

“It’s seen a bit of milage,” Caitlyn smiles over at Mylo, releasing the watch from her wrist and handing it over. He stares at it, feels its weight, its solidity. He puts his hand over the face to cover it from the light, smirking as he sees the hour marks and the hands light up in soft green, with the twelve o’clock marker turning red. The sliding ring also has a faintly gloving marker. Returning it to the light, he reads out loud the brand name set in the face, “Marathon?”, He hands the watch back to Caitlyn.

“Swiss,” Caitlyn answers. “Sort of came with the job.” Mylo is about to follow up on that as Vi returns from the kitchen. She stops suddenly, her eyes widening, the breath she'd intended to take suspended. Her focus fixed on Caitlyn as she puts her watch back over her thin but strong wrist, the way Caitlyn sits gracefully, poised at the table, her posture effortlessly perfect, her expression quietly engaged as she continues conversing easily with Mylo. Vi’s eyes trace the clean lines of Caitlyn’s clothes, the soft sheen of the silk-cashmere against her figure, the quiet elegance of her dark trousers. Vi is suddenly painfully aware of her own worn flannel shirt and rugged cargo pants. Caitlyn, sitting there so naturally, has become someone else entirely, someone effortlessly sophisticated yet seemingly completely unaware of the effect she's having.

Caitlyn looks up then, sensing Vi’s return. Her eyes soften into another quiet smile, holding Vi’s gaze with warmth.

“Everything alright in there?” Caitlyn asks gently.

The small studs Caitlyn has in her ears make Vi even more confused. Did Caitlyn ever seem like someone who wore jewelry? Vi feels the blush return fully, hotter this time, impossible to hide. “Yeah, it’s… dinner’s almost ready. Vander’s just about finished.” She forces herself forward, heart racing inexplicably as she moves to join them at the table.

Dinner is served soon after, the aroma of bison stew rich and comforting, filling the small home with warmth. Vander places the steaming pot carefully at the center of the table, smiling proudly as everyone gathers around. Powder emerges from her room, her blue hair tousled, eyes wide and bright, pupils dilated despite the cozy lighting. She moves with quick, slightly jittery energy as she takes her seat, offering Caitlyn an enthusiastic, if somewhat unfocused, smile.

“Hi! I’m Powder,” she blurts cheerfully, holding Caitlyn’s gaze a fraction too long.

“Caitlyn,” the response is smooth and polite, accompanied by an easy smile. Caitlyn’s eyes briefly flicker over Powder’s face, scanning over every inch of the sister’s face. Her expression remains gently neutral, polite, and respectful.

Vi’s shoulders tense slightly as she watches Powder's energetic movements, her sister fidgeting with her utensils, tapping a rhythm softly against the edge of her plate. Mylo passes around a basket filled with freshly made frybread, golden brown and crisp-edged, still steaming gently.

“Frybread?” Mylo offers Caitlyn, his voice almost flirtatious.

“Please,” Caitlyn accepts gracefully, placing a piece on her plate. Vander fills everyone’s bowls generously with the stew, chunks of tender bison and root vegetables glistening invitingly.

Powder's curiosity soon spills over. "So, Caitlyn, you're from England, right? I mean, the accent?" Her words tumble out in a staccato rhythm.

“Yes, my parents are British, though I grew up mostly overseas,” Caitlyn replies, spooning stew carefully into her mouth.

"That's cool. Overseas where? Like, Paris?" Powder's eyes widen further, excitement coursing through her.

Caitlyn smiles. "Mostly the Middle East and Asia. My mother is a diplomat, so we moved around quite often until I was eleven.” A pair of curious eyes fixate on Caitlyn as Vi stiffens slightly, glancing nervously at the guest. Caitlyn remains serene, amusement gently tugging at her lips. “I went to boarding school.” Powder tilts her head, clearly not sure of what to make of that last statement. “I lived at the school all year and my parents would come visit or I would visit them maybe four or five times a year.”

“No way!” Caitlyn turns towards Mylo, the source of the outburst.

“Yes way,” she smiles, feeding herself more stew.

Powder takes over again. “Like just you and tons of other kids, with teachers and principals and stuff? And you live at the school? What did you do for fun?”

The big soft smile never seems to fade from Caitlyn. “There were a lot of extracurricular activities, I did fencing and shooting for most of the years I was there, and we had clubs for all sorts of things.”

Powder asks about fencing and she and Caitlyn, with Mylo tagging along, get into a discussion about sword fights in movies versus reality. Vi watches Caitlyn sit there and be charming, polite, friendly, and nothing but open. Vander prods her and suggests they clear the table for desserts, and as soon as he moves to take Caitlyn’s plate, she turns to him.

“My apologies,” she hands him her plate. “The stew was absolutely wonderful, the slightly game-like flavor of the bison really brought such a lovely earthen richness to the dish. I’ll remember this for a long time.”

He blinks at her, before catching himself as he smiles.

“You’re welcome. Vi and I will get dessert, you lot sit and chat.”

“Yes Sir, thank you Sir.” Caitlyn responds. Vi can’t help but notice how the way she says “sir” in no way reminds her of the way Caitlyn says “ma’am” to Grayson. There is no harshness, no firmness. The tone is just warm and affectionate.

Like she cares.

Collecting the plates in the kitchen, Vander turns to Vi, chuckling.

“She seems nice.”

“Yeah,” Vi says. She plasters on a smile. “She’s really nice.” Whomever the everlasting fuck she is.

Dessert arrives. Warm huckleberry cobbler topped with vanilla ice cream. Mylo and Powder eagerly dig in as soon as they are served. Powder’s spoon clinks sharply against her bowl as she hums contentedly. Caitlyn carefully spoons small bites of the dessert, nodding appreciatively.

“Oh my, this is lovely,” Caitlyn compliments Vander.

“Old family recipe,” Vander beams modestly. "Used to pick wild huckleberries with my grandmother out by Two Medicine."

Vi finds herself relaxing, appreciating Caitlyn’s quiet grace and discretion. She might be confused as to who this version of Caitlyn is, but every single time she looks over at the woman, it becomes harder and harder to look away. Caitlyn’s eyes briefly meet Vi’s, a soft smile silently between them, replacing the last remnants of Vi’s lingering tension with a wholly different type of tension.

One that pools deep in her stomach.

And then spreads downwards.

She watches people finish their dessert and when plates are empty, Caitlyn gestures for people to sit as she helps Vander with the dishes.

“You didn’t have to do this, you’re our guest.” Vander smiles over at the woman as she is helping put away dishes.

She smiles over at him, placing a set of plates next to the sink. “It’s fine Sir, I’d like to help out a bit. I’m really grateful for your family taking me in tonight.”

“Well,” he says, “you’ll always be welcome here.”

And she knows he means it.

A few hours later Powder has gone back to the bedroom she keeps at Vander’s and Mylo has retreated to the guest room. Vander shakes Caitlyn’s hand, his large hand holding hers in a firm grip.

“It’s been a great pleasure to finally meet you, Caitlyn. Vi had us all worried about tonight, but I see we had nothing to worry about at all. Drop by the bar at some point, the first pint is on the house.”

She shakes his hand and smiles bashfully. “I’ll try to drop by Sir, thank you again for having me.”

The big man chuckles and looks over at Vi. “You’re heading out as well?”

Vi nods. “Yeah, thank you for the food and everything. Been a long few days.”

Vander hesitates. “Powder wanted to stay the night here again. Anything I should know about?”

His daughter sighs. “I dunno, she’s free to sleep here if she wants to, she’s welcome home anytime, she knows that.”

“Alrighty,” the big man beams. “Hold on,” he says, moving briskly into the kitchen and before either woman can say anything he returns with two large containers of stew. “Take these. With the weather and all.”

There is that bashful smile again as Caitlyn takes one of the containers. “Thank you Sir, that’s most kind, this’ll certainly help keep me warm no matter the weather.”

“Eh, yeah, thanks dad,” Vi says, taking the other container as she hugs him.

“You take care Vi, stay safe,” he says to her as he hugs her. As he lets her go he looks over at Caitlyn, “you too, stay safe,” he says, walking off towards the kitchen for the last bits of cleanup.

Putting their food down, both women get dressed. Vi speaks in a low tone.

“How about I drive you home? Truck’s right here and I’ll use it to get home anyway.”

Pulling her winter pants on over her house pants, Caitlyn doesn’t turn around to answer. “It’s fine, you don’t have to.”

“Caitlyn?” She turns to face Vi, whose voice is now barely audible, all the pleading is done with her eyes. “Please?”

“Yeah,” Caitlyn says immediately. “Thank you, that’d be nice.”

The storm is truly upon them as they sit in the cabin of Vi’s police truck. Visibility is very poor, but Vi seems untroubled by the driving. After a few corners she looks over at Caitlyn who has gone all quiet again. Like normal.

“Is it me?” Vi asks. Caitlyn turns towards her, clearly confused. “I mean,” Vi sighs. “You seem so happy and cheerful with them all, and…” Caitlyn shrinks in the passenger seat. It’s like she’s in pain. Hurting as she looks first away and then back at Vi. “It’s okay, we work together, we don’t have—“

“—It’s your family. We talked about me behaving.” Caitlyn breathes slow deep breaths. “They’re nice. I can do that for a few hours. You deserve as much, and I’m sorry I don’t have the capacity to do it as much when we’re together. My mind goes places, and to function I need… I can’t…” She stops. She looks over at Vi who casts a quick glance back at the riveting figure in the passenger seat. “When we’re working, that’s where my mind goes. To work. And when I’m with you I’ve felt like it’s okay that I’m… me. That I don’t have to be the smiling cheerful socialite.” She pauses again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. You deserve better. I really am sorry.”

Vi takes a deep breath. “Okay.” She pulls in behind a familiar black Suburban, right outside of the guest house Caitlyn is staying at.

“Vi?” As she parks, she looks over at Caitlyn, whose entire posture is one of pleading honesty. “I enjoy working with you. You put up with me and supplement me well, and you’ve seemed to be mostly okay with my silence. I know I’m not easy to be around. But it’s never you. I can promise you that. I…” She pauses, taking an extra breath as she steels herself to speak the truth. “I really like you Vi.”

There were a thousand things Vi didn’t need to hear tonight. The fact that Caitlyn likes her was high on the list of those things.

“You like me?”

“You’re a good cop, you care about people, you’re good to your family. You’re funny, flirty, and… you care deeply for your sister. Yes, I like you.”

Vi turns away from Caitlyn and stares at the house in front of her. “Thank you for not saying anything.”

“You’re her sister. You don’t need me to offer suggestions you’ve tried a hundred times before, and you really don’t need me to armchair-moralize about the situation. If you want to talk, I’ll listen, but you’re under no obligation to tell me anything. If you need my help, I’ll do my best to help.”

She looks over at Caitlyn and shakes her head. This woman.

“Thank you Caitlyn, you have no idea how much that means to me.”

Caitlyn reaches over with a big smile and twice taps Vi gently on her thigh.

“You’re welcome Vi, thank you for the ride.” She turns to reach for the door handle. Vi watches the movement and does the wrong thing.

“Caitlyn?” Caitlyn turns towards Vi. “Can I get a glass of water?”

Caitlyn nods without the slightest concern in the world.

“Sure, come on in.”

The house is pitch black. Caitlyn turns on the hallway light, and they hang off their jackets. Vi kicks off her boots, takes one step into the living room, flips on the lights, and stops hard. To her left is a queen-size mattress, directly on the floor. Blankets and pillows are neatly tucked away in one corner of the mattress. Beside it, a pile of case files. At the far end, spilling toward the bedroom, crime-scene photos cover the floor, arranged like puzzle pieces awaiting connection. Among them stands the little twig figure Caitlyn took from the site of Charlotte’s murder. Vi glances back at Caitlyn, who is still calmly undressing, before moving slowly towards the bedroom. Vi follows her.

Caitlyn flicks on the light, illuminating the open hard cases laid carefully across the bed frame. Vi’s eyes land first on the rifle Caitlyn had carried earlier. The compact, arctic camouflage draped weapon with two scopes and a suppressor. Next to it a set of magazines, six with blue rubber bands and six with pairs of red rubber bands.

Beside it, in the long case she has seen Caitlyn strap onto the snow mobile, lies another rifle altogether. It is longer and heavier, something clearly meant for long-distance shooting. It’s bolt-action with its hexagon-wrapped barrel capped by a heavy suppressor unlike anything she’s seen hunters around here use. The scope atop is large, precise, and clearly expensive. Mounted at the front of the scope is another piece of gear Vi assumes is some sort of night vision. There’s also a boxy device near the front, probably a range finder. Everything is carefully wrapped in the same snowy camouflage. Next to the larger rifle is a small handheld computer-like device.

“I mean,” Vi starts, still staring at the equipment on the bed frame. “It was safe to assume you have some military background… But… Christ.” She turns towards Caitlyn who is walking over to the kitchen, turning on the faucet for water, and extracting a glass. Vi turns off the light in the bedroom and walks over to the kitchen. As she walks, Caitlyn is filling the glass before taking a sip.

“What do you want me to say?” Caitlyn asks, opening her arms outwards.

Vi shakes her head. And then she understands. Coming to stand across from Caitlyn she looks up at the woman as she takes the glass from Caitlyn’s hand, the glass Caitlyn has already taken a sip out of, and takes a sip herself.

“Just like there’s not much point in you telling me stuff about Power that I already know, there’s not much point in me telling you stuff about anything in here that you already know.” Caitlyn tilts her head sideways more than she nods, turning around to get herself another glass of water. Vi continues. “Living like this, with the weapons on the bed, I bet there’s nothing I can say that you haven’t already thought. The regimented setup, the starkness, the lack of furniture, the total lack of anything personal. I could voice my concerns, but I don’t get the context, and I don’t know enough to really help, so all I’d do is spew platitudes. And you don’t do platitudes unless someone has asked you to behave more human for their benefit.” Caitlyn has filled her glass. She tips it towards Vi the way people toast a point well made. Vi meets the glass halfway and taps their glasses together.

They both drink. Vi watches Caitlyn swallow. She watches the gullet move as it grants the water passage. They stare at each other.

“In case it wasn’t clear, I like you too Caitlyn,” Vi says, putting the glass down on the kitchen island behind her. “My brain keeps telling me you’re dangerous. And tonight I’m pretty fucking sure you’re the most dangerous person I’ve ever met. But you’re not dangerous to me, are you?”

“I’d really hope not,” Caitlyn says, blindly putting her empty glass away in the sink behind her.

There is barely a half-step between them. Vi can smell the stew on Caitlyn’s breath. “You were fucking amazing tonight,” she says, putting her wrists on the islands surface behind her, pushing her shoulders up and flexing her upper arms. “You are fucking amazing. You also look… Fuck if I know. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

Caitlyn smirks. “Well, now I know how to tell when you’re flirting.”

The redhead takes that half a step, closing the distance between them. Vi’s hand comes up to cup Caitlyn’s cheek, her thumb tracing the cheekbone. “Tell me to leave.” Vi’s voice is deep, sultry, and dripping with want.

A pair of very heavy deep blue eyes look straight into Vi’s eyes. “You should leave.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

The hesitation is palpable. The answer is obvious, but the words are not those words. Caitlyn glances, just for a second, over at the bedroom with its bed loaded with weapons, before returning to Vi. “You should leave.” The pressure is on the “should”.

“Yeah,” Vi says, all the way up into Caitlyn’s face. “I should leave.” She takes a step backwards. Looking away and breaking eye contact. “With the storm and all, I really shouldn’t be stuck here.” She looks back up at Caitlyn, the moment gone. “We still good?”

Caitlyn nods, her entire face a flushed smile. “Yes Vi, we’re good.”

Chapter Text

Caitlyn stares at the paperwork in front of her. She takes another sip of the coffee Maggie has made. It’s bitter. Barely drinkable. She tries to focus. Reading the pages feels like trying to claw yourself out of quicksand. Whatever brief moment of clarity she finds is immediately devoured by the mass of fog that lies over everything.

Outside, the storm is still raging. Maggie and Eli chatter about how it’s going to get better around noon, with the winds settling towards the evening. Their voices more distracting than helpful. Parts of Caitlyn wonders if she should have stayed at the guest house.

At least there she could attempt to think.

Without interruptions.

Like… this one.

The door to the station opens and Vi wanders in. Her face a big smile and carrying a large tray of coffees and a carton of… She stops by Maggie, handing her a coffee and offering a pastry from the box. She then walks into Grayson’s office, repeating the procedure to a somewhat shocked chief. Vi on the other hand smiles her way into the bullpen. As she reaches the open space, Eli stands up from the desk in front of Caitlyn and is about to say something as Vi offers him a coffee. “Cream, two sugars?” Vi smiles at him. He closes his mouth and takes the cup on offer. Vi opens the box of pastries and he retrieves a danish, settling back into his seat as Vi seats herself on Caitlyn’s desk.

“See, here’s the thing, I have no idea what you actually like to drink,” she says at Caitlyn, who stares at her, still trying to figure out what has happened since last night. “So, you know, being British and all, breakfast tea with milk?” She hands a cup to Caitlyn, who looks at the paper cup for a second before tilting her head at Vi.

“Thank you,” that’s very kind. “What did you get for yourself?”

Vi looks at the last remaining cup in the tray with glee. “Dark chocolate mocha with coconut milk.”

“Oh,” Caitlyn says, “that sounds lovely, thank you.” She reaches up and takes the cup of mocha from the tray, depositing the cup of tea back from whence it came. Holding Vi’s gaze she tastes the coffee and nods. “Oh, wow, that is very nice.”

Vi stares at her with amusement. Eli watches from his desk, trying to make sense of what he’s seeing, and lands on a possibility he sincerely hopes isn’t true. Rolling with it, Vi puts the tray down and takes a mouthful of the breakfast tea. And grimaces. “Do Brits really drink this stuff?” She opens the lid and looks at the contents before depositing the cup on Caitlyn’s desk. “Anyway, I couldn’t sleep last night. Do you know what I was thinking about?” She puts a foot on Caitlyn’s chair, right next to her thigh.

Caitlyn takes a deep breath. Her eyes close. This is why she doesn’t—

“—Refrigeration.”

Confusion apparent on her face, Caitlyn looks up at her. “Refrigeration?”

“Yeah,” Vi says, jumping off the desk, leaving the box of pastries behind. She walks over to the peg board, tapping at a picture of Atka. “There’s no frostbite on either body.” She has the full attention of both Eli and Caitlyn as she speaks. “But as you said Caitlyn, they are seated in a position of western-style prayer. So, they didn’t die on-site. And they didn’t die due to the cold. But, they were frozen in that position. So they would have to have been transported in that position. Which again implies that they would have to have been positioned like that before transport, somewhere where they could settle into the position they held when we found them.” Four pairs of eyes stare at her. “Hence, refrigeration.”

“They’d had to have been stored somewhere before they were moved.” Caitlyn starts to move towards the peg board as her thoughts are given voice. “And with the time it’d take, the perpetrator would need space. A single body could fit into a big free standing freezer.”

“No,” Vi retorts, with a smile.

Caitlyn pinches her brow. “No?”

The redhead shakes her head. “No. They were stored seated upright, in the position we found them, there is no evidence of compaction along either back or their shoulders. If they froze on their back, we’d see contact points. The only ones are on their knees and their toes. They were frozen in the position and the orientation we found them.”

Caitlyn stares at her, letting the argument settle, and then she starts to nod. Slowly at first, then more energetically. “That’s brilliant! How’d you…?”

Vi shrugs. “Like I said, I couldn’t sleep, so I figured I’d give things another look. You kept asking ‘why here’, so I figured I’d try to ask ‘how here’.”

The way Caitlyn looks at her makes Vi’s heart flutter. Admiration. From someone like her. For something she thought of. Not something she did. Not something she… No, for something in her mind.

The dark-haired woman chuckles. “Now I almost feel bad about taking your coffee.”

“Oh, no worries,” Vi smiles at her. “Now I know what you like.”

Eli stares at the pegboard, eyes narrowing as the pieces click into place. "Shit," he mutters.

Caitlyn glances sharply at him. "What?"

He straightens, shaking his head slowly, eyes never leaving the photos pinned up. "Tribal Health had an old reefer truck. They used it as a backup to move perishables and medication up to the remote clinics and elder housing when roads got bad. Went missing right before Christmas."

"Tessa’s old rig!" Vi exclaims suddenly, already pulling up a missing-vehicle database on her monitor, tapping rapidly. "That old beast had seen better days. The thing was half rust. The compressor was busted half the time."

"Yeah, we never did find it," Eli says, stepping closer to the board, staring at the pictures. "Nobody really looked that hard. They’d already got the replacement vehicle, shiny new grant-funded van, so nobody bothered much. We figured it was her brother Eddie selling stuff out the back door. Again."

"Or scrapped it," Vi sighs. "Wouldn't be the first time." Her fingers pause mid-type, her brow furrowing thoughtfully. "Could've easily been stolen. Those keys were always kept on a little magnetic box right above the rear wheel well. Half the Rez knew that. Compressor was shaky, but if someone patched it up, it would hold a freeze easy enough. Or just keep the engine idling."

Eli nods. "And that old freezer unit was plenty big. Big enough to walk around inside, let alone seat a couple of bodies."

The air in the bullpen grows tense, quiet except for the clicking of Vi’s keyboard. Caitlyn’s expression hardens. "Where was it last seen, exactly?"

“It was usually parked down at the old service yard off Depot Road, by the train yard,” Eli answers. “Anyone could have grabbed it.”

Caitlyn moves her focus from Eli to Vi. “We should make sure Eddie didn’t sell it.”

Over by his desk, Eli is already dialing.

The results are as expected. Eddie swears up and down that he didn’t sell or scrap the truck. He drove by the lot one afternoon and saw the vehicle missing. He called Tessa, she reported it stolen. There wasn’t any insurance to collect and it’s not like anyone really looked for the truck beyond checking some cameras. Without any evidence, the case closed a few days later with the plates still listed as stolen. The enthusiasm fades as everyone realizes they’re nowhere closer to figuring out anything than they were.

The morning stretches into a slow, grinding afternoon. The snow outside has eased, though the wind continues to hiss against the windows. Eli ends up leaving to help with an older lady who is stuck in a snow drift. Fluorescent lights hum in the bullpen, creating a faint buzz that sets Vi’s teeth on edge. Papers and files sprawl across every available surface, and the dusty air feels heavy with the frustration of too many dead ends.

Vi sips her fourth cup of coffee and grimaces at the burnt flavor. She glances at the clock on the far wall. They have been at this for hours. Caitlyn sits beside her, systematically cross-referencing multiple spreadsheets. Her posture is rigid, and her eyes move back and forth over the laptop screen in an unending rhythm.

Crowe, the shift manager from the Cut Bank West field, finally emailed them some rosters. The documents were attached to a curt message that offered little help beyond the raw lists of names and dates. There are timesheets, job roles, scribbled exit notes, and partial driving records that look only half-complete. There is also a note about some subcontractor that apparently placed men in both Cut Bank and Reagan fields.

Vi glances at Caitlyn. The woman is silent, methodical, the tension in her face growing with each line she reads. Vi exhales softly. She can feel her own shoulders knotting.

“Anything?” Vi asks, her voice sounding too loud in the near-empty station.

Caitlyn shakes her head slowly. “Not yet. A couple of names might match up with Eric’s timeline, but none that are definitely connected to the moniker Slick. I see three men who were assigned to both sites for a short period, and only one has any mention of partial drug testing failures, but he left months before Eric arrived.”

Vi groans, rubbing her temples. “Great.” She pivots her chair toward her own screen, where she has Kelsey’s social media accounts open in half-dozen windows. After the conversations they had, Kelsey gave them her password, allowing a look into her private posts. Caitlyn leans over, “How about your end?”

She smells of last night’s perfume and sweat. Vi inhales the scent and wants nothing more than to lean her tired head on that shoulder and go to sleep. She tries to focus on the screen, and takes a deep breath, inhaling more of her.

“Lots and lots of party pictures. Kelsey is high in most of them. Can you imagine posting this into the cloud? Even marking them as private, she’s sharing them with her friends. I mean… It’s there. Forever. And…” She shows another picture uploaded today. It is a headshot of Eric Kendahl from his police records. “Watch this,” Vi says, tagging the face as “Eric”, and leaning back. “Give it a second.” Understanding what is going on, Caitlyn looks over at Vi again. Like that. Vi smirks. “Not just a pretty face?”

“No,” Caitlyn says, still looking at Vi, “not just a pretty face.”

Vi blushes and turns back to the computer, who tells her it is done with the tagging. Out of five and a half thousand images, sixty-four matched. The system happily lists them all for her. Times. Dates. Locations. Vi shakes her head. “I’m so glad I was young before this was a thing.”

Caitlyn points to a picture of Charlotte, eyes half-lidded from whatever she was drinking, leaning on Eric. Behind them a broad-nosed bearded man in his mid thirties. He is in profile, in the back of the picture, wearing a cap. The beard is full, making him look even older than he is with the young crowd. Vi scrolls through the comments. “Delivery”. “Party favors.” “Slick bringing the goods.” The two women look at each other.

Vi clicks through more photos. Some are from two or three months ago, set in a dimly lit trailer that might have been near one of the oil sites. She scribbles notes on a legal pad whenever a mention of Eric or Slick appears, cross-checking timestamps with the rosters from Crowe’s email. It is all guesswork and half-formed connections. An eternity passes, or maybe just an hour, and neither of them speak beyond the occasional grunt or curse.

At some point, a door at the far end of the station creaks open, and the smell of stale coffee intensifies. Neither Caitlyn nor Vi look away from their screens. The atmosphere in the bullpen has turned into a bubble of data, exhaustion, and flickering hope.

Vi rubs her eyes and highlights a line on a battered printout. “There is a subcontractor named Westbridge Resources that moved crews from Reagan to Cut Bank West around the time Eric showed up. I have two names here, Silas Kramer and Thomas Krueger. One of them has a minor narcotics possession charge from last year.”

Caitlyn straightens. “That is better than nothing. Let me see that.” She pulls up a second spreadsheet, comparing it to the note she found about possible discipline for drug use from local and regional databases. Her finger traces rows of text until she settles on a single date, the same week Atka first mentioned a friend out on the rigs. “Thomas Krueger,” she says, “fired for failing a random test, never returned his ID badge, and no forwarding address.” She finds a picture. She stares at it in disbelief. He is in his mid-thirties, a broad nose that looks like it has been broken more often than not, and a beard that is instantly recognizable. She tugs on Vi’s arm who looks over at the screen, first half-interested and then her eyes open wide and before she has had the slightest moment to think about anything, she hugs Caitlyn tight and kisses her cheek.

Blushing, she releases a slightly jarred Caitlyn. A Caitlyn who looks over at her with her head tilted, her eyes low.

“Sorry,” Vi apologies. “Got a bit excited.”

“I noticed.” Caitlyn tucks a stray piece of hair back in behind its ear.

Vi tries to move them out of the moment. “We should probably leave…”

The wind lashes at Vi’s police truck, pushing against its heavy bulk, testing its grip on the icy asphalt as Vi carefully navigates the empty stretch of highway between Browning and Cut Bank. Darkness creeps in early, consuming the pale edges of day, fading into a twilight that’s cold and blue and endless. Thin snow dances over the blacktop, swept up and tossed by invisible currents, whispering muted threats against the windshield.

Caitlyn sits quietly in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead. Her body is here, but she is also somewhere else, deep inside herself, calmly checking off contingencies and possibilities.

“You really think Krueger’s our guy?” Vi asks softly, her voice breaking the careful silence. She glances at Caitlyn, whose face remains impassive, eyes fixed on the world outside.

“I think he’s close enough to Eric to tell us something worth knowing.”

Vi nods slowly, chewing her lower lip. She considers the reply and finds herself struggling to put the rest into words. She wants to say more. She wants to admit how badly she needs someone to pay. Someone real, tangible, someone whose door she can knock on, whose eyes she can meet. She takes a breath, long and deliberate, lets it out through slightly parted lips, fogging the glass beside her.

“I can’t stop thinking about Kelsey,” Vi finally says, eyes battling the wind-swept road ahead. “The pictures. She looks…” Vi stops, shaking her head. “She’s too young to be lost in that shit.”

Caitlyn stays quiet, her gaze still out there. Vi looks over, seeing her reflection in the window. The reflection is dim, blurred by the faint buildup of frost at the corners. Another gust of wind rakes the car, rocking them gently sideways. She waits a beat before responding.

“You can’t make choices for her,” Caitlyn says softly, her tone neutral, neither accusation nor absolution.

Vi’s lips tighten. She stares out at the desolate fields that stretch away to an invisible horizon. Snow dances on the edges of the road, spinning aimlessly, endlessly. She draws a slow breath, filling her lungs with cold certainty.

“She’s my sister. How do I stop trying?”

“You don’t,” Caitlyn answers simply. Her voice is calm, thoughtful, but not comforting. Comfort is not her territory. Honesty is. “You can’t. You just stay close. And you wait for her to choose.”

Thomas Krueger lives in a battered trailer perched on the edge of Cut Bank. The winds here are even fiercer, unbroken by buildings or trees, whipping across flat fields before battering the weathered aluminum siding. Vi parks a good distance from the trailer, lights off, engine silent, letting the truck’s heavy doors swing open slowly against the biting cold.

Stepping outside, Vi tugs her jacket tighter, feeling the icy air instantly sap warmth from her bones. Her feet crunch against frozen gravel, each step loud in the heavy quiet. Caitlyn moves alongside her silently, gaze sweeping the area methodically, taking inventory of every detail. The rusted truck parked out front, old tires stacked like forgotten sentries, a flickering porch light that barely holds back the darkness.

They ascend the short, creaking steps to the trailer door. Vi knocks twice, firm enough to carry over the wind. The noise inside stops instantly, then cautious footsteps approach the door. It opens a crack, revealing the suspicious eyes of Thomas Krueger. His beard is fuller than the pictures, his expression wary, guarded.

“Evening, Thomas. Deputy Lane, tribal police. Caitlyn Kiramman, FBI liaison. Mind if we talk for a moment?”

Krueger hesitates, eyeing them suspiciously, before nodding. He opens the door fully, stepping aside to let them in, retreating into the cramped interior without offering further invitations. The inside of the trailer smells of cigarettes and stale beer. Dirty dishes pile high in the small sink, and the faded brown couch is covered with discarded clothing.

Vi remains standing by the door, watching as Caitlyn casually steps toward the kitchen counter. A scattering of empty prescription bottles. A roll of cash. An old toaster. The blinds of the small window are shut and the browning curtains are as old as the trailer itself. She leans back against the counter, carefully observing Krueger’s movements, watching his eyes.

“So,” Vi starts gently, “we’re looking into Eric Kendahl.”

Krueger’s shoulders tighten visibly. His eyes dart away, landing on anything but Vi’s face. “Eric? Haven’t seen him around in weeks.”

Vi tilts her head slightly, patient, nonthreatening. “We’re hearing you two were pretty close. Close enough to maybe know why he might disappear.”

Krueger shakes his head quickly, defensively. “We weren’t friends, okay? We did business sometimes. A bit of partying. That’s it.”

“Why’d you stop?” Caitlyn asks without even slightly turning towards the man.

Krueger does however turn, finding her side. He looks at her as she studies his space, sensing something behind the quiet of her question. He returns to Vi, and sighs heavily as he lowers himself onto the edge of the couch. “Eric was getting weird. I don’t know, talking about stuff that made me uncomfortable.”

“What kind of stuff?” Vi pushes gently.

He fidgets, shifting awkwardly, uncomfortable under the combined gaze of the two women. “Girls. Young ones. He’d stare, you know? Watch them all creepy. We’d be at parties, he’d just… stare. And sometimes he’d get grabby. People noticed. Made me look bad, being around him.”

Now Caitlyn turns toward him, her expression hardens. “Did he hurt anyone?”

Krueger lifts his hands defensively, eyes wide with sudden panic. “No. Look, I never saw him do anything, you know, permanent. But he traded pills sometimes. With girls who wanted to party. Young ones, maybe too young. I told him to stop, cut him off. Didn’t want to get mixed up in whatever shit he was headed towards.”

Vi clenches her jaw, the familiar anger rising beneath her skin. “And you never told anyone? You just stopped dealing to him, pretending nothing happened?”

He winces, ashamed, glancing down at his dirty carpet. “I was afraid of cops asking questions, and losing the job. No one would believe I wasn’t involved. And I never saw him hurt anyone, just—” His voice trails off helplessly.

Vi stares at him, breathing heavily through her nostrils, feeling the tug between justice and rage. Caitlyn quietly steps closer, standing just inside Krueger’s personal space, her presence heavy and impossible to ignore.

“Thomas… Please...” Caitlyn says softly, her voice level and controlled, the word ‘please’ sounding like nails on a chalkboard. “You tell us what you know, or I will take it personally when I find out from others. We don’t want that to happen, do we?”

Krueger shakes his head quickly, almost pleading. “He was seeing someone down in Helmville! I swear, that’s everything. I don’t know what happened after I stopped selling to him. People stopped inviting me around anyway. I’m done with it. All of it.”

Vi watches the man quietly, her fists clenched inside her pockets, trying to let go of anger she knows won’t serve her here. She looks to Caitlyn, searching her face for guidance, finding only quiet confidence.

“Well, now,” Caitlyn finally says, smiling at the broken man. “That wasn’t so difficult now, was it? Oh, and stay around. In case we, unfortunately, need to talk to you again.”

They leave him sitting there, shoulders hunched, eyes cast downward, the cold wind slamming the trailer door shut behind them. The bitter gust pushes them back toward the waiting truck, silent beneath the bruised and fading sky.

Snow slants across the tall windows of the police station, clouds of powder swirling in fleeting gusts. Twilight is still hours away, but the wind robs the thin sunlight of its warmth. It’s early afternoon, but it feels like the day’s almost over.

Vi tugs the zipper of her fleece and glances around the bullpen. Maggie’s voice drifts from the reception desk, and a few feet away, Eli balances a phone between ear and shoulder, scribbling down notes on a battered notepad. Papers sprawl across desks in a small fortress of half-answered leads, each slip of paper another scrap in a murder investigation that’s drawn them all taut with exhaustion.

Beyond the hallway at the back, the small break area is an impromptu mess of microwave dinners, half-finished coffee cups, and leftover pastries from this morning. Vi sighs. She and Caitlyn decided to break for a late lunch half an hour ago, but something always pops up, be it a phone call, Grayson asking for clarifications before she talks to reporters, or a family member who calls only to be told they’re doing all they can.

Finally, everything quiets. Vi runs her fingers through short red hair, ignoring the knots of tension at the base of her skull. A subtle motion catches her attention. In the corner, near an open desk, Caitlyn stands against the pegboard where photos, maps, and scribbled data remain tacked in a desperate collage. Her eyes flick between the pinned pictures, now updated with Tessa’s old reefer truck. Her posture seems rigid. She’s had that stance for hours, reading, internalizing, formulating silent theories.

Vi clears her throat and motions with a subtle tilt of her chin toward the break area. “Time to eat?” She wonders if Caitlyn even heard. She seems somewhere else completely. Vi waits. And waits. And waits. And then Caitlyn’s head turns.

“Yes,” she says calmly, stepping away from the board. Her expression softens. “I could use something warm.”

They walk side by side, their footsteps echoing on scuffed linoleum. The station’s battered overhead lights buzz faintly. At what presumes to be a small kitchen counter, Vi microwaves some chicken soup Aponi delivered earlier. They both watch the soup turn around and around and around within the microwave. They look at each other, both about to laugh, thinking the sane thought about how going around in circles seems to be the thing these days. When the pling arrives, Vi spoons the soup into mismatched bowls. Caitlyn slides onto a worn plastic chair, crossing her arms over the table, her posture still.

“Feels like we’ve been chasing ghosts,” Vi mutters, stirring her bowl. Steam curls upward in a thin swirl. “I swear, half this morning was spent reading documents that lead nowhere. The only break was that reefer truck possibility, but then what? We’ve got two thousand square miles of reservation and four people. It’s not like we can even search for it.”

Caitlyn watches the steam rise from her soup. “It’s easy to get lost in minutiae,” she says softly. “But small threads weave tapestries.”

Vi raises a brow, half a smile. “You always talk like that?”

Caitlyn doesn’t answer immediately, focusing on a subtle swirl of steam. “I suppose,” she says at last, eyes flicking up. “It helps me keep perspective.”

Vi nods, tasting the broth. It’s warm, full, and surprisingly good. Her shoulders sink as the heat enters her body. Outside, the wind picks up, rattling the windows with a sudden gust. She wonders how many storms they’ve endured this winter, how many more will pass before the bitter cold relinquishes the land.

Eli ambles in, grumbling old people being stuck in the storm, and wanders off again.

They eat in the quiet hush, Vi devouring her soup in big gulps, Caitlyn taking slower sips, as though each spoonful is measured. When they finish, neither lingers. The lull in activity is brittle, a thin crust over roiling tension.

A storm has just passed, but both feel the worst is yet to come.

At half past four, the station phone rings with a jarring insistence that echoes in the corridor. Maggie answers. In the break area, Caitlyn lifts her head slightly, catching the shift in Maggie’s tone from casual to concerned. A moment later, Maggie’s voice climbs. “Vi, Caitlyn? We’ve got something.”

They converge at the reception desk. Maggie sets down the receiver, expression pinched. “Soyi Brave Bull’s car has been found abandoned near a campsite north of Two-Medicine. A park ranger spotted it. No sign of her. It’s completely snowed in.”

Caitlyn turns around to look at the missing persons posters on the wall behind her. Soyi Brave Bull was reported missing two weeks ago. Neither Maggie or Vi need to check the board, they already know.

“How long ago was the car found?” Caitlyn asks, voice level.

“An hour, maybe? The ranger took a while to get cell reception.” Maggie’s gaze flicks between them.

Without needing further prodding, Vi retrieves her jacket from the coat stand. “We’ll check it out,” she says. Caitlyn reaches for her parka as they exchange a silent look of grim anticipation before they head into the swirling cold outside.

The drive west winds through rolling plains dusted white, the two-lane road lonely under a broad, darkening sky. It is almost six in the evening and the sun has dipped behind the mountains, leaving a last bruise of purple and gold along the horizon. Long shadows loom across the drifts, the temperature plunging with the light.

And then even the last remnants of light disappear.

Vi focuses on the nearly empty highway, the truck’s tires crunching over patches of ice. Next to her, Caitlyn stares ahead, her silhouette etched by the faint glow of the dashboard.

A hush follows, broken only by the wind. Snow drifts swirl across lumps of scrub brush at the side of the road. The endless darkness blurs the boundary between sky and land, giving the place a dreamlike emptiness. Some primal sense prickles along Vi’s spine. She slows down. Caitlyn looks over at her, and then back into the road. And then she sees it.

Two pinpricks of light flicker on the road ahead. As the truck slows to a halt, from just beyond the arc of their headlights a shadowy four-legged figure walks slowly into the light. Its eyes reflecting a dull amber glint in the darkness.

A wolf.

Vi tenses. The creature stands proud and still, muzzle low, breath curling from its nostrils. She wonders if it’s alone. Usually, wolves move in packs. But not this one. This one appears solitary.

Then her breath snags in her throat. The wolf’s jaws grip something. Her brain refuses to process exactly what that something is.

“Stay inside.” Vi looks over at the source of the voice. Caitlyn has opened her jacket and as she pulls the door handle, cold air rushes into the cabin. Vi wants to say something, but Caitlyn is already outside, closing the door.

The truck’s headlights frame the wolf in a surreal tableau. The wind paints the road in streaks of white. Stopped right in front of the car, the wolf stands, its tail moving, its head alternating between the woman inside and the woman outside.

With it in its mouth.

The one that is outside walks beyond the vehicle. Caitlyn lifts a hand. Shoulder height. Her posture is as calm as it is deliberate. She edges a few steps closer, the wolf turning to face her fully. In its mouth, a frozen limb. An arm. Stiff, pale, and contorted, leading up to two hands pressed together as though in prayer. One severed at the mid-forearm, bones protruding, the other severed at the wrist. Frost covers the edges, ice crystals glint in the high-beams.

Blood chills in Vi’s veins.

Her mind tries to process it.

A severed arm, clasped in a prayer gesture.

She knows what this means.

She just doesn’t want to know.

The wolf growls, ears flattening. Caitlyn takes another step forward, voice low but carrying a quiet authority. “Easy there,” she says, the words lost in the wind but laced with calm. She doesn’t brandish a weapon, she only extends an open, gloved, left hand. Her right hand at her hip. “Drop it.”

Another growl.

The wolf’s head sinks.

A snarl.

It shakes its head.

Vi watches the two of them out there. Seconds feel like lifetimes. The wolf’s hackles rise. Again it snarls. But Caitlyn’s posture remains unwavering, that same eerie composure that has awed and unsettled Vi from their first meeting. The wolf releases a growly huff, swivels an ear toward the mountain ridges, then lets the arm drop onto the road.

The wolf lingers for a moment, as if locked in mutual understanding with Caitlyn, then slinks away northward into the dark, silent as a ghost.

Vi exhales a ragged breath. In the headlights, that frozen, prayer-clasped limb gleams like some horrific sculpture. Caitlyn kneels, carefully pulling out a large evidence bag from a pocket on her jacket. The wind tries to tear it from her grip. She folds it inside out, wraps it around the arm, and after closing it deposits it onto the bed of the truck. Vi watches her step by step, before Caitlyn enters the cabin and starts to buckle herself in. “We’ll track it south. Two-Medicine.”

Vi’s gaze drifts to the faint shape of the mountain slopes. Night is creeping in. A storm could brew anytime. It’s a massive region, full of gullies, forested ridges, and hidden coulees. Searching by night in the cold is dangerous as hell.

Not left to think, Caitlyn interrupts Vi’s thoughts. “We’re not equipped for this. I need my gear.” Outside the wind howls.

Vi nods slowly, swallowing the dryness in her throat. The terror of that severed, praying limb hangs over her like a silent condemnation. Another victim. Another monstrous staging. If they wait until morning, tracks might vanish in drifting snow. But diving in unprepared is suicidal. She steels herself. “Alright.”

“Call it in with Grayson, and get someone out to Soyi’s sedan. See if the park rangers can do a sweep.” Caitlyn’s voice is measured, but tension lines her jaw. She motions for Vi to turn around. “Let’s move.”

Their drive back to the station throbs with an unspoken urgency. Vi’s knuckles clamp the steering wheel as she drives faster than she’d like under these conditions. Her eyes flicker between the black road and Caitlyn lost in thought next to her. The frigid wind rattles across the windows. They pass the outskirts of Browning, the ghostly streetlights winking in swirling flurries. The station emerges under floodlights, half-lost in drifting snow.

Vi parks. Snow lashes the windshield as they step out into the bitter wind. Inside, Grayson, Eli, Maggie, and Viktor are already waiting, their postures tense, eyes lifted the moment the door opens. Grayson is about to start asking questions as Caitlyn produces the severed arm and offers it to Viktor, bagged and sealed. The atmosphere shifts. Everyone goes into a shock-laden hush at the presence of the limb.

“I’m not sure if I’m to thaw it or wait for the rest of the body,” Viktor tries as he takes a step away. Everyone looks at him. “I guess I will freeze it for now, in case.” He tries to smile and walks off downstairs.

Caitlyn turns towards Grayson. “I’m going to get my gear” She starts to turn towards the door.

“I’ll go with you, tracking the wolf,” Vi says, sounding more certain than she looks.

“Skis and snowshoes,” Caitlyn starts. Vi nods. Caitlyn continues. “Okay, I’ll be right back. Make it fast.”

Grayson steps halfway in front of the door. She looks into Caitlyn’s eyes, standing tall “Night in Two-Medicine is a gambler’s game, Caitlyn. One shift in the wind and you’ll be swallowed up, no matter how good your gear is.” Grayson’s jaw clenches. She glances at Vi, expecting caution or at least second thoughts. But Vi’s focus doesn’t budge.

“I’m going,” Vi says. “I saw that wolf, that arm. And I’m not sending Caitlyn out there on her own.”

Grayson tries again. “At least wait until dawn. We can muster a full team. Michael will have his SAR team ready. It’s safer.”

Caitlyn’s eyes are unyielding orbs of blue. “Safety is relative out there. Every hour is a lost chance. I’m going.” She turns, in that firm, final motion that brooks no argument. “You could order Vi to stay, but you can’t stop me from going.”

Tension gathers, thick as the swirling snow outside. Grayson exhales, her breath almost a growl. She eyes Caitlyn and then Vi each for a long moment, then shakes her head. “You better know what you’re doing. You go out there with her and you both vanish, that’s on me.”

Caitlyn dips her head. “We’ll check in via sat phone.” Another look at Vi. “Let’s get our things.”

They separate briefly. Caitlyn heads to the guest house; Vi remains at the station to grab her own gear. Thicker mittens, a heavier coat, extra flashlight, a headlight with extra battery, a small camp stove, a thermal sleeping bag. She takes out her cross-country skis from the equipment shed out back. She hasn’t used them much lately, but they’re in good enough shape. She checks the ties and the boots, which all look fine, and adds a second layer of socks.

Within twenty minutes, she’s outside again, loaded. Caitlyn idles in her black Suburban. Vi tosses her gear inside. The interior’s warmed slightly, though Caitlyn keeps her posture stiff. Caitlyn is no longer in her dark parka. She’s in a winter camouflaged set of heavy jacket and trousers, the same camouflage patterns that her rifle carries. In the back seat rests said rifle and a large backpack with folds that likely contain a tent, cooking kit, and other supplies. The station’s lights glow behind them, as if silently warning them not to leave.

“You ready?” Caitlyn asks.

“Yeah,” Vi responds. Then she tries to smirk. “Good to go.”

They head out, leaving the station behind. As soon as they hit the highway, Caitlyn picks up speed. And then more speed. Vi looks over at her and finds nothing but calm. She tries to relax, but the open road feels haunting. Even as stars begin to glimmer overhead, the horizon remains a menacing black. In the Suburban’s headlights, swirling gusts of snow swirl like restless spirits. Silence reigns in the vehicle.

Eventually, Caitlyn breaks it. She glances sideways at Vi. “There’s no shame in sitting this one out.”

Vi shifts, checking her boots on the floorboard. “I won’t slow you down.” She hesitates, thinking about the risk. But Soyi’s face, the possibility of her in some final, horrifying position, settles her resolve. “I’m good.”

They park almost exactly where they met the wolf. Caitlyn kills the Suburban’s engine. The hush envelops them. Darkness shrouds the sky except for faint starlight, and a precarious moon’s edge, half hidden behind a drifting cloud. The temperature has plummeted below zero. The land around them is a ghostly sprawl, lumps of white in every direction, occasional stands of skeletal pines, windblown ridges cresting toward distant peaks. Caitlyn moves out back, retrieving a warning triangle from the trunk and places it a fair bit back from the vehicle.

They both don balaclavas, the snug woolen fabric pulled tight, leaving minimal amounts of skin exposed to the weather. With their faces covered, they unload their skis and gear. Caitlyn methodically checks the magazine of her rifle before tucking it over her shoulder in a tactical sling, and then puts on her helmet, habitually clipping on a night vision set on top of it, before attaching a headlamp to the front of it. She hands Vi a similar helmet, getting a quizzical look in return. Caitlyn tilts it, showing its ear. “Comms,” she points to the wire gathered within, a small box with a button at the end of it. “Push to talk, attach to your belt, run it inside your jacket.”

Vi takes the helmet, which is almost shockingly light, and drags the wire through her jacket before attaching the device on her belt. She taps it. “How copy?”

Standing next to her, Caitlyn taps the button on her belt. “Copy good.”

“Thanks,” Vi says as she sets her sidearm in a quick-release holster on her heavy belt, and straps her 12-gauge across her back, and straps on her headlamp. They share a final glance of resolve, then clip into the skis. Vi fiddles with the headset on her helmet. “What kind of battery life do we get from these?”

“At this temperature? About 200 hours.”

Caitlyn doesn’t stop to study the surprise in Vi before setting off. A quiet tension hums between them as they glide forward into Two-Medicine’s wild edges. The wolf tracks are faint but visible in the starlight. Large paw prints pressed into the fresh snow, meandering southward. Despite the wind, the prints remain somewhat intact. Leading, Caitlyn turns on her headlamp and into the darkness they go.

The cold bites. Each inhalation stings their throats. The squeak of skis across compressed snow merges with the low hush of the wind. Occasionally, they pause to find the next paw print. Caitlyn scans the trail with practiced calm, a subtle confidence in how she moves. Vi trails a few feet behind, marveling at the hush of the land and the depth of the sky.

They quickly cross the frozen South Fork Two Medicine River. The wolf picked an easy straight path across the plains, but on the other bank, thick forests await. Tall pines loom in black clumps. The tracks angle left, heading deeper into a rocky ravine. The wind moans through the branches overhead.

Time feels slippery in the dark.

A few hours after that, turning off their lamps, they can make out the silhouette of Two Medicine Ridge against the sky behind. Turning the lamps back on, they watch the forests again, making it easier to move, but also removing visibility of anything outside of the cones of light.

They stare into nothingness.

And the wilderness stares back at them.

“I need a minute,” Vi says after they climb another few hundred feet up a ridge. She is breathing heavily. Her transmission carries the gasps as much as anything else.

“There,” Caitlyn points with her pole. “Out of the wind.”

The move back down the protected side of the ridge, feeling the wind pass above and not into them. They turn off the lights. Vi takes out an isolating pad and seats herself, turning towards Caitlyn, ready to apologize for slowing her down. Instead she is handed a set of chemical heat packs, already warming up. Caitlyn smiles at her. “For your feet.” Vi tucks each pack deep inside her boots and feels the warmth spreading. She returns to Caitlyn, again to apologize, but is this time presented with a spoon and the large thermos Caitlyn used for her chicken and pea lunch. Hesitantly, she takes the container and opens it.

And as soon as the smell from its insides hit her, she feels safe, warm, and whole again. Vander’s bison stew. She looks over at Caitlyn, who reads her mind. “Eat, I have another one.” She taps her backpack. “I’m going to call in.” She takes out her satellite phone and calls the station. The message is brief.

“We’re okay,” and then, “we’re on the wolf’s trail”.

Vi eats.

It is past ten at night.

She takes a sip of her coffee.

She’s out on skis in Two-Medicine.

Following the wolf’s trail into no-man’s land.

And here, with Caitlyn, she feels…

At ease.

Calm.

Past midnight they pass into the valley. Mountains come at them from the north and the south both. In front of them, another ridge to climb. They push up to the top, watching the snow blow out and over them from the other side.

Reaching the summit of the pass, Vi slows, poles planted as she peers across the snow-scoured rise. “Wait,” she says, voice crackling over comms. Caitlyn stops beside her, skis whispering to stillness.

Ahead, the wolf’s tracks vanish, erased by gusts and fine powder swept across the crusted surface. Where the trail had been clear in the lower timber, it now disappears into a drifted blur.

“Gone,” Vi mutters.

Caitlyn crouches, checks the last visible imprint with a gloved hand. Then she stands and glances back the way they came, before turning to a nearby pine. With practiced efficiency, she scores a shallow “X” into the bark with a hunting knife she draws horizontally from her back, attached to her belt. Once the knife is back in its sheath she ties a strip of reflective tape low on a branch.

“Marking last known,” she says quietly over the comms. “We split—twenty meter sweep. You take the north side of the ridge. I’ll cover the south. Keep line of sight when you can, comms if you can’t.”

“Copy.” Vi nods, breath fogging in the cold. The mic near her mouth crackles faintly as she moves off.

They arc outward from the marked point. Caitlyn turns her headlamp off, tucking down the night vision which brings the world alive in shatterings of green. She glides low and silent, scanning for breaks in the snowpack, snapped branches, scent marks… Once in the trees, she slows down and starts to spiral out from her initial entrance.

Vi works the northern slope, ducking low under wind-bent limbs. She knows these types of ridges. The wind here always carves sideways across the top, but animals, especially wolves will dip into the lee, follow edges, cut through low brush.

Fifteen minutes later Vi’s voice comes through the headset. “Got something.”

Caitlyn is already turning toward her. She glides over, and finds Vi crouched beside a low hollow near the edge of the slope. There, sheltered behind a snow-laced log, the pawprints return. Faint, wind-washed, but there.

“Smart bastard ducked the wind,” Vi mutters.

“Can’t say I blame him,” Caitlyn replies. She adjusts her rifle sling and looks east, toward the dark wall of trees with boulders below. She points down the slope with her pole. “We have the trail. Good job.”

They push beyond the boulders, edging along the ravine’s slope, mindful of ice beneath the surface. The trail takes them up the pass south of Half Dome Crag. The clock passes three in the morning. They have been on the move for seven hours. Vi watches Caitlyn push into the pass, driving upwards, seemingly impervious to even the concept of fatigue. Reaching the peak, she stops. She moves her hand out, gesturing for Vi to come up next to her.

Upon arriving next to Caitlyn, Vi can see why Caitlyn stopped. There, maybe fifty feet in front of them, in a round depression in the terrain, a body. It is on its side, it has been moved, and in the depression one can still now see traces of animals. Vi looks at the scene, as Caitlyn checks the GPS.

“Morningstar Mountain,” she gestures south-east. “Pretty much exactly ten clicks. Clear line of sight.”

Vi inhales sharply, her chest tight. She fights the wave of nausea. Fatigue and horror blending into an unholy sensation within her. She takes a deep breath and unclips her skis, pushing them deep into the snow, and takes her snow shoes from the backpack. Following her example, Caitlyn moves in behind her.

As they enter the depression, somewhere far to the east, a howl rises.

It is long, low, mournful. Both women pause, ears straining.

And then the night swallows the sound.

The two women look at each other.

Vi keeps on moving.

Heart pounding, Vi kneels by the body lying on its side. The dryness in her mouth is almost painful. Caitlyn increases the power, and the battery drain, on her headlamp. The harsh beams reveal further details. A neat swirl of twig idols stick up from the snow here and there, showing that the body has fallen sideways but otherwise not moved much. Caitlyn snaps pictures as Vi kneels next to the body. “She… might match Soyi’s build,” Vi says, voice trembling. The victim’s face is too encrusted in snow and ice to be certain. “Call it in.” She looks around in the depression. “I think we’re in a small kettle hole.”

Caitlyn nods, extracting her satellite phone again. She stares at the arrangement for a beat, then lifts the phone to her ear.

Minutes pass with clipped conversation. She relays coordinates to Grayson who is clearly just waking up. She will contact Michael Heavy Runner and they will dispatch a small SAR group, towing a sled, but it won’t be until the morning. It’s not like time matters for the body.

It’s already frozen.

Abandoned.

Dead.

They pitch the small expedition tent a few hundred feet from the corpse, near a clump of spruce offering partial windbreak. The process is mechanical, Caitlyn unrolls the lightweight double-lined shelter, anchoring with reinforced stakes. Vi helps, hands numb despite layered gloves. Once the tent is up, they crawl inside, lighting Vi’s small camping lantern. The ground is so cold it leeches heat through the thick footprints of their sleeping pads.

Caitlyn rummages in her pack, pulling out a thermos of warm tea, passing it to Vi. “Drink. Your lips are turning gray.”

Vi manages a grim chuckle, sips the tea, grateful for the bitterness that flows through her chest like a small mercy. “Thanks.” She rubs her toes, half numb in thick wool socks. Caitlyn sets aside her rifle and retrieves a very large heavy woolen blanket from her backpack. She pulls the blanket around Vi, with plenty of space to spare, folding it under and around her with the spare fabric.

“I’d like to check your toes,” she says as she is wrapping Vi in the blanket.

“I thought you’d never ask,” Vi chuckles.

Caitlyn smiles up at the woman, and takes off each boot and each layer of socks one by one, checking each toe methodically. Vi draws in a shaky breath. Once satisfied with one foot, she asks Vi for a fresh pair of socks and puts them on, before moving to the next foot, repeating the procedure.

“Your base layer is moist.” Caitlyn taps Vi’s calves and inner thigh without any sort of pretense. She looks up at the redhead still sipping tea. “You brought spares?” Vi nods. Caitlyn nods back at Vi and starts going through her backpack. “We should finish eating, change, and get some sleep. How are you feeling?”

“Pampered,” Vi chuckles again. “Cait, I’m fine.” Caitlyn stops moving and looks back at Vi, who apologetically shrugs. “Caitlyn. Sorry.”

Caitlyn returns to her backpack. “Cait is fine.”

Fifteen minutes later they are in their sleeping bags, bellies full of bison stew, and both surprisingly comfortable.

“Starlight was bright tonight,” Vi eventually murmurs, voice muffled by the blanket she is holding on to. “That soft cloud-like band overhead? That’s the Milky Way… It’s like we’re right under it. When I was a kid, I read books about how the light from stars is thousands of years old. Old enough to watch entire civilizations rise and fall.” She tries a weak smile. “Makes me feel small, but also connected, you know?”

Caitlyn stares up into the ceiling of the tent.

“Benjamin Red Crow said I was following the Wolf’s Trail.” She pauses. “He called it the ‘makoi-yohsokoyi.’”

The tent goes silent. “Shit,” Vi eventually says.

Outside, a distant wolf howls again, its voice echoing across ridges.

Calling its pack.

Three hours after sunrise, a small SAR crew arrives, hauling a collapsible sled. Michael Heavy Runner stands at the lead, face tight with concern. In the morning light, they carefully photograph the scene, each idol, each swirl of snow, each inch of the victim’s battered form. Then, with grim solemnity, they load the body for transport.

Another senseless casualty.

Another piece of a depraved puzzle.

Caitlyn and Vi can do little more than stand and watch.

Except they both watch the sun still rising above the peak of Morningstar mountain.

The ski trip back feels even longer, exhaustion creeping into every movement. But daylight at least grants them better visibility, allowing the shapes of the land to emerge from the shadows of the night. By the time they reach the Suburban, dusk is already falling. They stow their gear, and get into the car. Caitlyn drives back towards Browning, setting the temperature high for the passenger area, where Vi is fast asleep.

At the station, the usual bustle of a new crime scene is in full swing. Grayson meets them with quick, terse questions. They hand off samples, notes, and recollections. By now, the entire department hums with a subdued urgency.

Vi can barely stand by the time they finish. Her legs ache from hours on skis, her eyes grit-laden from lack of sleep, both in hours and in quality. Her gear clatters down. She drops into the old chair, its cracked vinyl biting into her back. The lights overhead flicker. Her body buzzes with leftover adrenaline and nothing else. The lights overhead flicker. She’s vaguely aware of Caitlyn stepping away to speak with Grayson. Once the last remnants of adrenaline fades, the air feels unbelievably heavy.

“Vi, there’s a cot in the back,” Maggie says softly. She appears at Vi’s side, placing a hand gently on her shoulder. “We cleared the back office. Go rest.”

Nodding blearily, Vi pushes up from the chair and drifts down the hall. The small space is cramped, mostly used for overflow supplies. A rickety cot stands by the wall. A single blanket. She collapses onto it, not bothering to remove her boots or even her fleece layer, allowing exhaustion sweep her away. In the half-lidded gloom, she vaguely wonders where Caitlyn will sleep.

Then blackness claims her.

She doesn’t know how long she’s been out when her cell phone’s shrill tone jolts her awake. Her phone vibrates in her pocket. Disoriented, she sits up, heart pounding, blinking into the darkness. Everything feels surreal, her body half-frozen in place, muscles sore from the trek.

Vi rubs her eyes, seating herself on the cot. She answers the phone. She fails to understand what the person on the other end is saying.

It takes three tries.

Moments later, Vi is stumbling out of the office. Caitlyn turns to say something, but stops everything when she sees Vi’s expression. The redhead stands there. Frozen. “Powder,” she says. “Hospital.” Her eyes open wide. “Coma.”

Chapter Text

The wind slaps Vi awake. Her mind races with guilt, fear, heartbreak. She thinks of that last morning she saw Powder, the half-smiles, the restless energy. How could she let this happen again?

Caitlyn guides her. Opens a door. Settling her inside. Passenger side. The Suburban. Vi sits there, numbly staring out into space as Caitlyn buckles her up. There are voices. Distant. Like they are under water.

Everything is under water.

Everyone.

Especially her.

Caitlyn taps her thigh, says something directed at her. Points to the footwell. Then the door closes and she jogs around to the driver’s side door. She opens the door and gets inside, behind the wheel. Again Caitlyn speaks towards the passenger seat.

There are too many syllables.

Caitlyn smiles at her. Vi tries to smile back. The next thing Vi knows she is throwing up. Into a bucket. Held by Caitlyn. Both her and the bucket. A firm hand first taps, then rubs her back. A familiar face enters her field of view.

A beautiful face.

Deep blue eyes.

Vi wants to go swimming in those eyes.

But her body doesn’t want to swim.

It wants to drown.

The Suburban slices through the night.

Snow sweeps across the headlights in sheets. Thin at first, then heavier, the Montana dark swallowing everything outside the beams. Caitlyn keeps one hand firm on the wheel, the other resting near the gear selector. Her eyes flick from road to gauges to mirror, back again. She drives due east. Highway 89 is a few miles shorter but interstate 15 will be safer to do at speed.

The northern wind is high and erratic, curling low from the ridges like it wants to tip them sideways.

In the passenger seat, Vi barely moves. She’s curled in on herself beneath a thick blanket, head tilted against the window. Her breath clouds the glass in slow, uneven rhythms. Every few miles she stirs, but it’s aimless. Like a sleepwalker unsure if she’s dreaming or drowning.

Caitlyn doesn’t speak.

Not yet.

There’s a time for questions.

And there is a time for comfort.

So far, this time is neither.

She adjusts the cabin heat up a few notches. Seeing the blanket slipping, she reaches over and tucks the blanket back over Vi’s legs. Vi doesn’t react. Her eyes are open, but they aren’t tracking anything.

The tires shudder slightly. A patch of ice. Caitlyn lets off the gas, coasts through it, then gradually eases back to speed. Her focus sharpens. The storm has softened since earlier, but the roads are still treacherous. And they have a hundred miles to go.

She risks a glance at Vi. The redhead’s mouth moves, soundless. Caitlyn leans slightly toward her.

“What was that?”

Vi’s lips twitch. She blinks slowly. “They called.”

Caitlyn nods once. “The hospital. In Great Falls. You told me.”

Vi doesn’t answer. She just looks down at her hands like they don’t belong to her.

Caitlyn adjusts her grip on the wheel. “We’re on our way Vi. You did good.”

Still no response.

The miles slip by. Frost feathers up the corners of the windshield. Caitlyn toggles the rear defroster and glances at the dash. Plenty of fuel. Tire pressure stable. Temperature still dropping.

Somewhere behind them, the reservation is folding itself into the storm.

As they approach Valier, Caitlyn turns on the emergency lights.

Vi doesn’t move.

Caitlyn glances at her briefly. The lights bounce off her face in slow pulses. Blue, red, white, blue again… Painting her like something out of a dream. Her eyes open but still unfocused, staring out at the houses slipping past, at the reflections twisting in frozen window panes. Her jaw is tight. Shoulders locked.

She doesn’t speak.

Caitlyn says nothing either.

There’s nothing to say that won’t hurt more than silence.

The narrow road cutting through darkened homes and closed gas stations. The storm has eased, but ice still clings to the asphalt in long, jagged streaks. Outside, a street lamp flickers. A dog barks once, then goes quiet.

They glide through the center of town like a warning wrapped in steel and light. One or two locals turn toward the road, squinting through frost-glazed windows. The Suburban doesn’t stop.

It barely even slows.

Caitlyn keeps her hands steady on the wheel, her knuckles just beginning to pale. Her eyes flick from the road to the GPS, then back to the snow-drifted highway. In the corner of her vision, Vi exhales. A slow, trembling breath. She closes her eyes.

And the lights keep spinning, slicing across the heart of the sleeping town.

Once back on the open road, Caitlyn turns the lights off.

Vi shifts again. A low sound escapes her throat. Caitlyn looks over.

“Do you want water?”

Vi doesn’t respond. But her hand reaches, slow and clumsy. Caitlyn offers her a thermos from the console. Vi grips it with both hands like it’s the only thing anchoring her.

One sip. Two. Then she stares at it, as if confused by its existence.

Caitlyn keeps one eye on the road. Her voice remains calm. Even. “You’re here, Vi. You’re still here. We’re almost at the I-15.”

Vi’s throat bobs. Her voice is paper-thin. “I should’ve known. I should’ve seen it coming.” Caitlyn doesn’t interrupt. She waits for Vi. Just in case.

After a long moment, she answers softly. “You’re not alone. We all miss things.”

“I missed everything,” Vi whispers.

Caitlyn taps the steering wheel with her thumb, but her voice doesn’t waver. “You’re there for her. You’ll be there for her. You can’t... You just can’t live her life for her. No matter how much you want to.”

The road curves. A gust of wind slams against the driver’s side. Caitlyn eases into it. Her hands are calm. Her shoulders tight. And then the intersection onto I-15. She turns south and picks up speed.

It’s not the first time she’s driven into darkness with someone breaking apart beside her.

But it never gets easier.

Vi lets the thermos drop into her lap. Her head sinks forward. “I don’t even know what I’m going to see when we get there.”

“Whatever it is,” Caitlyn says. “We’ll see it together. I promise.”

For a moment, that seems to ground Vi. Her shoulders slump, but not from defeat. It is more like… Release. Like something inside her has let go of its grip just a little.

Caitlyn presses on, guiding the Suburban southward. The night wraps around them. Everything feels distant. The frost on the windows, the hum of the tires, the wild expanse of prairie lying dormant beneath the snow.

She watches the road.

She watches Vi.

She watches for the next sign of life.

Because the drive isn’t just about getting there. It’s about making sure Vi arrives.

Intact.

Whole.

Able to walk into that hospital and still be the person who matters.

The parking lot of Great Falls Clinic Hospital is half-frozen, the snow banked in gray ridges where plows scraped through earlier in the day. Sodium lights buzz overhead, casting long amber shadows across the icy asphalt. Caitlyn swings the Suburban into a space near the ER entrance. The engine idles for a second before she shuts it off.

Vi doesn’t move.

Not right away.

She stares at the glass doors ahead of them, their bright interior lights too clean, too clinical. Like the world inside belongs to someone else. Like walking through them will make this real.

Caitlyn doesn’t prompt her. She unbuckles, exits the vehicle, and circles around to the passenger side. Quietly opening the door she crouches to meet Vi’s gaze, but Vi isn’t looking at her. She’s looking at her hands again. Trembling. Empty.

“Vi,” Caitlyn says gently.

Vi blinks, her eyes bloodshot. She nods.

Caitlyn helps her out, not quite holding her but close enough that if she falters, she won’t fall. She steadies her all the way through the front doors.

Inside, the ER atrium is harsh with light and disinfectant. A receptionist behind plexiglass asks for identification, name, relation. Vi fumbles with her wallet, her ice-cold hands shaking so badly that Caitlyn eventually reaches over, “Powder Lane,” she says, flashing her FBI identification. “Minor. Emergency call. This is her sister, Vi.” Caitlyn helps Vi fold her wallet and put it back into the jacket pocket.

The receptionist taps something into a terminal. "ICU, east wing. Room 413. She's stable, but visitors are limited to two at a time. Mask required. Here—"

Caitlyn takes the offered masks and touches hands briefly as she hands one to Vi, who barely manages to loop it over her ears. She’s breathing hard, shallow. Caitlyn reaches over and ever so gently takes hold of her cold hand. Vi moves her focus to the hand holding hers, trying to figure out exactly what is going on.

Entering the elevator, Caitlyn waits for a moment, seeing if Vi chooses the floor. When she aimlessly stares out into space, Caitlyn presses the button for the fourth floor. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead. The walls are beige. Music plays softly, pointlessly, through ceiling speakers.

Caitlyn watches the numbers tick upward. Vi watches the floor, her arms wrapped around herself like they’re the only thing keeping her contained.

The doors slide open on a dim corridor. The intensive care unit is hushed, full of the low hum of machines and the beeping of monitors that feel too loud in the sterile quiet.

A nurse in blue scrubs leads them to Room 413, speaking in low, clinical tones. Suspected opioid overdose. Naloxone administered. Intubated briefly. Stable now. Still unconscious.

“She’s breathing on her own,” the nurse says softly, almost trying to help. “Her vitals are holding steady. That’s a good sign.”

Vi walks into the room like she’s walking off a cliff.

Powder looks impossibly small in the hospital bed. Tubes trail from both arms. A cannula curls along her cheeks. Her hair, once a riot of blue, is flattened against the pillow in uneven clumps. Her skin is pale. Not deathly, but wrong. Washed-out. Empty.

The monitor beeps.

A steady rhythm.

Alive.

But nowhere near awake.

Vi stares for a full minute before moving. Caitlyn stands by the door, watching Vi drag a plastic chair from the corner, scraping it roughly across the tile, and sits down beside the bed. She reaches out and takes her sister’s hand.

It’s cold.

“I’m here,” she whispers, but it barely sounds like her voice. Her head drops forward. She holds Powder’s hand like it’s the only thing in the world that’s real.

Half an hour later, the doctor comes. A tall woman in her early 50s with the demeanor of someone who’s had this conversation a thousand times.

“It was a mixture,” she says, gently. “Benzos. Oxycodone. Maybe more—we’re still doing a tox screen. The Narcan helped. The fact that she responded quickly is promising. But we don’t know how long she was unconscious before she was found. We won’t know about lasting effects until she wakes up.”

“If,” Vi says, barely audible.

“When,” the doctor corrects her. “Statistically, odds are good. But it could be hours. Could be days. We’ll be monitoring closely. Your sister is in good hands.”

She offers a number Vi doesn’t catch. Caitlyn does. She writes it down. She thanks the doctor, softly. The woman leaves.

A few hours later, a nurse comes in to check on Powder, seemingly content with the situation. She looks over at Vi, still hunched over the bed holding her little sister’s hand. “You should rest,” she says gently. “We have a family room down the hall.”

“I’m not leaving,” Vi says, her voice hollow. “Not until she opens her eyes.”

The nurse looks at Caitlyn, who nods and speaks softly. “We’ll behave.”

The nurse considers, then nods. “Keep the room quiet. If anything changes, we’ll let you know.”

She leaves. Caitlyn moves a little closer. Stands beside Vi now, hand resting on the back of her chair. Vi’s jaw is set. Her eyes never leave Powder’s face.

“You should rest,” Caitlyn says quietly.

Vi shakes her head.

“You’re not helping her by falling apart,” Caitlyn adds, but there’s no bite to it. Just calm honesty. “You need to sleep at some point.”

Vi finally looks up. Her face is streaked with quiet tears. “I’m not leaving her alone. Not again.”

Caitlyn doesn’t argue.

Instead, she moves back toward the door. “I’ll check in with the front desk. Find out what’s possible.”

Vi nods absently. She doesn’t move.

Caitlyn steps out into the corridor and closes the door behind her. The light here is dimmer, the walls quieter. First things first. She dials Grayson, shielding the phone with her hand to keep her voice low.

Grayson answers on the second ring, her voice clipped but alert. “Talk to me.”

“She’s stable. They’ve got her in the ICU,” Caitlyn says. “Vi’s staying overnight.”

A short pause. “And you?”

“I’ll stay too. We’ll check in tomorrow morning once we know more.”

Another beat. “You need anything?”

“No. We’re good.”

Grayson exhales slowly. “Alright. Stay warm. Watch out for her, yeah?”

“I am,” Caitlyn says. “I will.”

She hangs up. Tucks the phone away. Stands for a moment in the hush. Then quietly walks back down the corridor to find someone to talk to about staying overnight.

When the nurse returns a little after midnight, Vi hasn’t moved. Caitlyn has taken a chair opposite Vi and is breathing slow deep breaths. The nurse checks the monitors and gently shifts Powder’s IV line. She glances at Vi, still hunched over the bedside, one hand clutching her sister’s, the other limp in her lap.

“Visiting hours ended a while ago,” the nurse says softly, not unkind. She glances over at Caitlyn, who nods. “We have a family room down the hall with cots, blankets. It’s quiet.”

“I’m not leaving,” Vi mutters. “Not again.”

The nurse glances again toward Caitlyn, another nod, this one almost imperceptible. The nurse nods back and slips out quietly.

Caitlyn waits until the footsteps fade, then walks to Vi’s side and crouches next to her. Close, but not touching.

“You’re not helping her by falling apart,” she says, voice calm. Not judgmental. Just true.

Vi doesn’t look at her. “I’m fine.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m not leaving.”

Caitlyn glances toward the door, then back. Her voice softens, but her tone doesn’t bend. “You said you’re here for her, right? That means being ready when she wakes up. That means standing up, thinking straight, and not passing out face-first in the tile.”

Vi flinches.

Cait doesn’t let up. “Ten minutes. That’s all I’m asking. We’ll be just down the hall. If anything changes, I’ll bring you back myself.”

Vi finally lifts her head. Her face is pale, blotchy from suppressed tears. Her eyes are glassy and red. “I can’t.”

“You can.” Caitlyn stands, reaches a hand out. “Come with me. Just for a little while.”

Vi hesitates. Then, slowly, she lets go of her sister’s hand and takes Caitlyn’s. Her legs are unsteady as she rises.

She doesn’t look back.

The family room is dim and windowless, with two cots along one wall and a plastic coffee table covered in old magazines. A cart in the corner holds paper cups, lukewarm water, and a basket of pre-wrapped snacks. Caitlyn flips the light on low, grabs two blankets off the shelf, and drops one on the nearer cot.

“Here.”

Vi just stands there. Silent. Frozen.

Cait walks over, unfolds the blanket for her, pats the cot like it’s a landing pad. “Sit. Lie down. Breathe.”

Vi does. Sort of. She perches on the edge like she’s afraid to let gravity do the rest. Her fingers tremble as she tries to pull the blanket over herself.

Then her breath hitches.

Just once.

Caitlyn doesn’t move. Doesn’t comment. Just waits.

And then it happens — not loud, not sudden, just a quiet, unstoppable collapse. Vi’s shoulders begin to shake. A broken sob slips through her clenched teeth. She curls in on herself, arms around her ribs like she’s holding everything in. It pours out of her. A torrent that has been held back for way too long. It washes over everything, vomiting all the pain inside out.

“I should’ve known,” she whispers between gasping breaths. “I should’ve stopped it. I always think I’ll see it coming next time.”

Caitlyn crouches in front of her again. Not too close. “You’re not God, Vi. You don’t get to know everything. You just do your best. And you did.”

Vi shakes her head. “Not enough.” The sobs are still there, but the pressure is lessened now.

Caitlyn lets the silence stretch a beat before speaking. “You’re not leaving her now. Right now, that’s what matters.”

Vi finally lies down, her back to the wall. Her breathing is ragged, but the worst of it has passed. Her bloodshot eyes stay open, looking up at Caitlyn.

“You gonna stay up?” she murmurs.

“I’ll be right here,” Caitlyn says.

A few minutes later, Vi’s breathing evens out.

Cait waits another five minutes before seating herself on the second cot next to Vi, taking off her boots and folding her jacket as a pillow. She sets the vibrating timer on her phone for ninety minutes, stuffs it into her jacket under her head, stretches out, and closes her eyes.

She’s asleep in under thirty seconds.

Not because she’s detached.

Because she knows she’ll need her strength.

Because she’s done this before.

Because Vi’s safe.

Because that’s the job.

The room is still and low-lit, the only sound the faint hum of hospital HVAC cycling through unseen vents.

Vi wakes slowly.

Her eyes are gummy, her mouth dry. She blinks at the ceiling, momentarily unsure where she is. The cot under her feels like stiff foam over steel, and for a second she thinks maybe she never left Powder’s room.

Then she realizes why she woke up.

She tries to recall where the bathroom is.

On the cot next to her, Caitlyn is fast asleep. Vi tries to move carefully past her, only to spot something between the cots. It’s Caitlyn’s phone. Vi reaches down and pulls it up, its screen lit up with a countdown that has under half an hour left.

Vi slides off her cot as she stares at the phone. Caitlyn is still asleep, lying on her side with one arm tucked beneath her head, the other curled toward her chest. Her breathing is slow, steady. Peaceful, even. It’s the first time Vi’s seen her fully relaxed.

She studies the phone.

A ninety-minute timer. Twenty-four minutes left.

Vi’s thumb hovers over the dismiss button. A quiet realization flickers in her chest. Caitlyn planned this. She hadn’t just passed out from exhaustion. She’d calculated the time she could rest, set a boundary for herself, and done it.

All while Vi was falling apart.

Vi silences the timer, then hesitates. Her gaze flicks to Caitlyn again. She almost looks younger in sleep. Not innocent, but... unburdened, just for this sliver of time. She places the phone carefully on the coffee table. She finds a pen and one of the blank patient feedback forms nearby. On the back, she scribbles:

I’m okay. Bathroom + checking on Powder.
Also, you deserve more than 90 minutes of sleep.
— V

She sets the note beside the cot, edges it toward Cait’s arm where it might brush her when she stirs. Then she pulls her blanket around her shoulders, steps into the hallway, and pads quietly away.

Vi steps into the room and closes the door behind her.

Powder hasn’t moved.

The monitors beep their soft, mechanical reassurance. Oxygen, pulse, blood pressure. Everything holding steady. The nurse at the station had nodded as Vi passed, recognizing her, offering a silent thumbs-up. Nothing’s changed.

She doesn’t cry this time.

Instead, she drags the chair closer and sinks into it, tucking her legs up under her. The blanket slips off one shoulder, but she doesn’t bother fixing it.

She takes Powder’s hand.

It’s still cool, still limp, but no longer foreign. Not like just a few hours ago. Vi strokes her thumb along the back of her sister’s knuckles and exhales.

“You’re still here,” she murmurs. “I didn’t know if you would be.”

She sits with the silence for a while, letting it settle.

“I should be angry, but I’m not. I’m just... tired. I know you are too. I don’t blame you, Powder. I don’t know if I ever could.”

She pauses. Brushes a lock of hair from her sister’s forehead. It springs back up, stubborn and bright, still clinging to its fading color.

“Cait’s probably gonna kill me for being out of bed. She set a timer. Ninety minutes. Like it’s a mission checkpoint or something.” A faint smile tugs at her mouth. “She’s scary-good at this.”

Powder doesn’t stir. But Vi doesn’t mind.

“I just wanted you to hear this,” she says. “I’m not leaving. I’m not going anywhere. Even when you wake up and hate me for whatever rehab hell they put you through... I’ll still be here.”

Her voice gets quieter, soft enough to disappear under the machines.

“I love you, Pow.”

She leans forward, presses a kiss to Powder’s temple, then smooths the blanket over her again. She lingers for just a moment.

Then she stands and walks quietly out of the room.

Vi steps back into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind her. The hospital is quieter now. Dimmer. The night shift hush is settling in.

She stops by the corner near the family room, wraps the blanket tighter around herself, and stares down at her phone. One contact hovers at the top.

Dad.

She hesitates. Her thumb lingers over the screen. Then she taps “call”.

It rings.

Once.

Twice.

“Hey kiddo, what time—”

“Powder’s in the hospital.”

A pause.

“What?”

“She overdosed. Great Falls. They stabilized her, she’s still unconscious. But—” Vi swallows. “She’s breathing on her own. She’s… here.”

A long breath on the other end. “Are you okay?”

“I’m… not great. But Cait’s here.” Her voice trembles. “I’ll be okay.”

“I’m on my way.”

The lights haven’t changed, but the air feels different now. Softer, somehow.

Caitlyn hasn’t moved. Her head still rests on her folded jacket, but the note Vi left is no longer where she placed it.

Now it’s tucked between Caitlyn’s fingers.

Vi doesn’t say anything right away. She climbs back into her cot, slides under the scratchy hospital blanket, and shifts to face the other woman.

Caitlyn stirs, clearly aware of Vi’s presence. Her eyes open, half-lidded. She watches Vi settle in.

“You good?” she asks quietly.

Vi nods. “Yeah. For now.”

Caitlyn studies her for a second before asking. “How’s she doing?”

Vi’s voice is softer now, steadier. “Still out. But she’s warm. Breathing easy.”

A small nod from Caitlyn. Her eyes drift closed again. “Good.”

Vi hesitates. “I called Vander.” Caitlyn’s eyes open again. She waits. “I thought you might have,” Vi adds.

“Not my place.”

“Thanks,” Vi pauses. “He’s coming. Should be here in the morning.”

“Then he’ll find you here,” Caitlyn says, voice low and steady. “Right where you’re supposed to be.” Then she reaches over and takes Vi’s hand. She squeezes it gently as she closes her eyes.

Vi hesitates. Then, barely above a whisper: “I mean it. Thank you. For everything.”

Caitlyn’s eyes stay closed, but her voice is clear. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I know,” Vi murmurs. “That’s why I did.”

A pause. Then Caitlyn exhales, the sound quiet and full of something like understanding.

The silence that follows feels held, not hollow.

Vi closes her eyes.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, she drifts off without fear.

The knock is soft, but firm. Enough to stir Vi from the shallow, exhausted doze she’s slipped into. Caitlyn blinks awake beside her on the cot, instantly alert, even before her eyes open fully.

They glance at each other.

Vi’s hand is still resting in Caitlyn’s, their fingers loosely entwined in a quiet kind of anchor.

Another knock. Caitlyn shifts, then gently squeezes Vi’s hand once and releases it. They both sit up, Vi’s breath catching in her chest. She smooths her hair with shaking fingers. Next to her, Caitlyn is on her feet, pulling the jacket over her shoulders, picking up her boots, and slotting her phone into a pocket.

She takes half a step towards the door, pausing just before opening it, glancing back. “You want me to stay?”

Vi shakes her head. “Just give us a minute?”

Caitlyn nods, her expression soft. She opens the door, nodding to Vander who is just about to knock once more. “Sir,” she says, and then walks over towards the bathrooms.

The big man looks at Caitlyn leaving before turning back to the family room. He has snow in his beard. The lines around his eyes are deeper than Vi remembers. He looks tired. Drained. But not surprised. They have walked this road before, and maybe he knew they would walk it again.

He peers into the room, eyes eventually landing on Vi.

She’s standing now, wrapped in the hospital blanket like it’s armor. Pale. Hollow-eyed. But here.

“Hey, kiddo.”

“Hey, Dad.”

He steps inside, quietly closing the door behind him. Doesn’t rush her. Doesn’t reach out. Just stands there, taking her in. A long, assessing look at the woman in front of him.

For a second, she forgets how to breathe.

Then she’s moving, stepping forward, and he catches her in a hug that is all arms and warmth and quiet strength. She doesn’t cry. Not this time. She just holds on.

They sit together on the edge of the cot. Vander’s hands are rough and warm, resting on his knees. Vi’s blanket is still around her shoulders, the ends tucked under her arms like she’s holding herself together.

“I saw her,” he says softly. “Talked to a nurse. They say she’s stable. She still tucks her hand under her chin like she did when she was little.”

Vi nods, her voice low. “She was barely breathing when they found her.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t scold. “But she is now.”

“Yeah.”

A long silence settles between them. Vi stares at the opposite wall, fingers fiddling with the corner of the blanket. “I should’ve seen it coming. I was right here. I should’ve—”

“Vi.” Vander’s voice cuts through gently, but firm. “You’re not the one who made her choices. You’ve been carrying her on your back for years, kiddo. I know you. I know you did everything you could.”

“I’m sorry it took me so long to call you. I… I just lost it last night. I don’t even remember getting here. Then I… I don’t know, I just…”

“It’s fine Vi, you came here for her. We’re here now. It’s okay. You did good, kiddo.”

Vi’s eyes brim, but she doesn’t let them fall. “I don’t want to leave her.”

“You’re not,” he says. “You’ll still be here. You’ll always be her sister. But right now?” He leans in a little. “You’ve got a job to do. The darkness taking place out there? Someone has to stop it. It’s tearing the community apart.” The redhead nods. Her head feels heavy. Full of unfamiliar mass. “Caitlyn drove you?”

A bit of a sniffle. “Yeah. I think so. I remember bits. Flashes. I think I threw up in her car.” She tries to laugh at it, but her body doesn’t really respond.

Vander smiles faintly. “We can—“

There’s a knock on the door, and then the door opens. Caitlyn looks inside, she smiles, and only needs to say a name.

“Powder.”

Room 413 is the same.

Soft beeping. Steady lines on monitors. A nurse checking vitals quietly at the far side of the bed. Vander and Vi both hover over either side of the bed, Vi’s thumb brushing the back of Powder’s hand in slow, steady passes.

Caitlyn lingers just outside the room, giving everyone space.

“Give her a moment,” the nurse says to those inside. “She’s a bit to and from. It’ll take a while before she’ll be all here.”

Powder’s eyelids flicker.

Vi sees it first. The tiniest twitch. Her breath catches.

The nurse glances over, sees the same thing. Moves to check the monitors. No spikes. No distress. Just motion. A murmured “That’s good,” under her breath.

Powder’s lips part.

Then a breath—ragged, but hers.

Vi leans in, brushing hair back from her sister’s forehead. “Powder?” she says softly. “Hey. Can you hear me?”

A frown. The faintest wrinkle between pale brows.

Then, barely audible: “...Vi?”

Vi’s throat locks up.

She squeezes her sister’s hand. “I’m here. You’re safe. We’ve got you.”

Powder’s eyes open—barely, and only for a second. But it’s enough. Her gaze shifts weakly to the other side of the bed.

“Dad?”

Vander’s voice breaks for the first time. “Right here, sweetheart.”

“Sorry,” Powder says, each syllable battling fatigue.

Vi keeps rubbing her hand. “It’s okay Pow, we love you.”

The girl lets out a slow, shuddering breath. Then her eyes close again, and her grip on Vi’s hand tightens—just a little.

But it’s enough.

Caitlyn is standing just outside when Vi steps back into the hallway. She turns when she hears the door click shut behind her, her gaze flicking across Vi’s face, and then handing Vi a cup of coffee and a sandwich. Vi looks at the offering and feels her entire body relax. The coffee is a mocha, rich and chocolaty. She leans into the wall as she takes another sip. She then takes a bite out of the club sandwich. She looks over at Caitlyn who is finishing her own coffee, staring at the door to room 413.

“He’s staying with her,” Vi says, voice steadier now. “She’s going to be in and out of it for a while. I think I’m good to go back to work.” Caitlyn nods, silent. “He’s just here…,” Vi adds. “Like always. He’s gonna take care of her while we’re gone.”

There’s a pause.

Then Caitlyn reaches out, brushing Vi’s fingers lightly, and asks, “You can stay with your family, it’s okay.”

Vi doesn’t answer immediately. She looks at the door to Powder’s room, then back at Caitlyn.

“There’s a killer out there.” A pause. “I’m going to be okay. I think I have to be.”

Caitlyn gives her a faint smile. “That’s usually when you are.”

Vi stares out across the frozen landscape.

The endless spaces of white are everything.

And nothing.

She is a passenger.

In the car.

In her mind.

In her life.

The sun was low and fat and golden, dragging long shadows across the two-lane coastal road. Every few minutes, the trees peeled back to reveal flashes of the ocean—blue and endless, glittering like someone had scattered a million diamonds across its surface. Salt rode the air in soft curls, mixing with the smell of warm vinyl, old snacks, and coconut-scented sunscreen. The windows were down just enough to let the wind thread through their hair. It was one of those days that didn’t seem like it could ever end.

Their mother was singing along with the radio, a song none of them knew the words to but all of them felt. Her voice was light and fluttery, and she kept turning around to smile at them. Powder sat cross-legged in the middle of the backseat, scribbling something incomprehensible in a sticker-covered notebook. Vi was trying to read, legs tucked up beneath her, but kept getting distracted by Powder humming off-key. In the driver’s seat, their father was trying to remain patient.

“You’re doing it wrong,” Vi muttered.

“I’m not,” Powder said without looking up.

“You spelled your own name backwards.”

“It’s creative.”

“It’s wrong.”

“Is not.”

“Is too.”

“Elbows down,” their mother called gently.

Their father glanced in the rearview mirror. “Do we need to pull over?”

“No,” they both said.

“Because I will,” he added, mock stern.

Vi stuck out her tongue. Powder kicked her shin.

“Ow! Okay, that’s it—”

“Girls.”

His voice softened. He took one hand off the wheel and turned around—just enough to look at them properly, to smile with that warm, exasperated kind of love that only came when he was tired and full of sunshine and just a little bit done.

“I know it feels important right now,” he said. “But trust me. Whatever it is—who said what, who’s breathing too loud, who looked at who weird—it’s not worth wasting a day like this. You’ll forget—“

It happened like a breath being sucked from the sky.

Headlights.

A flash. A scream. Not hers.

A violent, full-body pull as the car veered.

The sound, impossibly loud, impossibly close, of metal shrieking and the road giving way.

The seat belt locked, cutting hard into her collarbone. Glass shattered around her like ice, catching the sunlight in bursts of strobe-white.

The car flipped.

Once.

Twice.

There was no up. No down. There were only just flashes. Her mother’s hand braced against the dash, Powder’s notebook flying past her face, the ceiling collapsing inward, her father’s voice rising into a guttural shout cut off like a wire had been snipped.

Then…

Stillness.

No birdsong. No engine. Just a faint ticking noise, something leaking.

Vi hung sideways, suspended by the seat belt, blood in her mouth. Powder was slumped against her, breathing. Maybe.

The windshield was gone. The air smelled like antifreeze and the sea and something burning.

Her mother didn’t move. Her hair was tangled in the steering wheel, her head bowed like she’d fallen asleep at the worst possible time.

Her father…

Vi turned her head. Slowly.

His face was a mask. His eyes didn’t blink.

She reached for him, hand trembling.

He didn’t reach back.

Then the lights came. Red, blue, white… Spinning across the wreckage. A door groaned open. Hands grabbed her, voices shouting too fast to understand.

Powder whimpered. Vi held on.

She never saw her mother open her eyes.

She never saw her father at all.

Vi’s focus drifts across the frozen lands outside of the window. She’s not in the back seat. She’s in the front, next to Caitlyn, with a dull ache in her throat. The Suburban hums along an icy highway, heading north. The sky outside is gray and restless, cold edges of low-hanging clouds caging the horizon. She rubs her eyes, making sure she’s awake.

“You good?” Caitlyn’s voice is soft, barely more than a murmur. She doesn’t turn her head—her focus stays on the highway, hands even on the wheel. The roads are slick with patches of refrozen slush. Now and then, wind skitters across in ghostly curtains of powder.

Vi exhales. Her chest feels like it’s half-collapsed. “Yeah,” she says. It isn’t a lie, exactly, but it sure as hell isn’t the whole truth.

For a few miles they don’t speak. Vi stares at frosted fields that slip past like illusions. They’re not too different from the fields where it all ended. Just the wrong color. She can’t stop the flicker of memory. Powder’s hair was bright even then, blue, the tips dyed a rebellious swirl of pink. And that day, father had teased them about hair dye, about how it might catch on if the older folks in town wanted something new. Then the fight started for no good reason. And that was it.

Caitlyn senses she’s drifting. “If you want to talk,” she says, quiet, polite. “I’m safe. Whatever you need.”

Vi’s breath catches in her throat. She folds her arms across her chest, the seat belt tight. She is so heavy. Maybe she can try. With her. To lighten the load. Maybe. Just maybe.

“I’m just… thinking how we got here. Me and Powder. Actually all of us, in a way.” She lifts her gaze to the side mirror. There is nothing there but the swirl of dusty snow behind them. “We had no one left. My parents died in a car wreck. I was seventeen. She was eleven. I couldn’t stand the idea of having social services separate us, so I… I just grabbed her, and we left. Ended up drifting around for a few months.” She snorts, a humorless laugh. “Worst period of my life. Sometimes we slept in the car. Sometimes we found a neighbor or a friend. Then we crossed paths with Vander. He let us follow him back north. That’s how we ended up in Browning.”

Caitlyn lets the words linger. They are what matters. The words. Her words. Caitlyn allows those words to live in the cabin. Without interruption. Without disturbance.

Everyone talks. Everyone asks. Everyone promises.

This is a lesson Vi has been taught over and over and over again.

Even Vander.

From the driver’s seat there is none of that. As the silence lingers, Vi turns to look over at Caitlyn. Who returns the gaze.

And bears witness.

Arriving at the station, Caitlyn parks next to Vi’s truck and kills the Suburban’s engine. Silence envelops them like a heavy blanket.

Vi rubs her face. She stares at the door. “Right. Check in. Hear what...” Her words peter out. Fading into nothingness. The world feels endlessly heavy and ephemeral all at once.

Caitlyn puts a hand on her thigh.

She says nothing.

The response is a smile.

Vi steps out into the cold.

It smells… Cold. It smells… Fresh. It smells… Familiar.

Like home.

If such a thing ever existed.

Vi takes a deep breath and pulls the door open. As soon as she does so, every face inside turns towards her. Maggie stops driving her coffee, Eli stares, and Grayson comes walking out of her office.

“Vi,” Maggie tries, putting the coffee down as she walks around the reception towards the two of them. She passes through the empty space between her and Vi, enveloping Vi in a hug. “How is she? How are you?”

Vi smiles. It’s shallow. Tired. “She’s stable, woke up briefly, sleeping. I’m okay.”

“Good, that’s good”, the older woman holds Vi’s shoulders firm as she speaks.

Eli is there, right there, next to Vi. “Sucks man, hope she gets better soon.”

“Yeah,” Vi mutters. “We all do.” Maggie hugs her again. Vi is a rag doll, offering no resistance.

Grayson has been waiting for her turn. It has arrived. From behind Maggie, as Vi watches her boss over the shoulder, Grayson produces a soft cough. Maggies releases Vi to allow the two to look at each other, unobstructed by bodies. At least her body.

“If you need some time, we’ll all understand.” Grayson sounds sad. Empathetic. Like one is supposed to. She wants to sound understanding.

She is not.

Vi nods politely. “Thank you, but I’d rather work. What do you have on the docket?”

“Uhm,” Grayson lifts her head, trying to think of what to offer. While she thinks, Maggie speaks.

“Soyi studied with Ben, they were close. We should talk to him.” She looks from Vi to Grayson and back to Vi. There is nodding.

“You up for that?” As she looks towards Vi, Grayson now attempts to be polite.

She probably thinks she is.

But she is not.

Letting it all go, Vi nods. “Yeah, we’re up for that.”

Back outside, Vi stops at the stairs. She takes a breath and gathers herself. Caitlyn stops a few steps ahead of her, not looking back.

“They mean well,” Vi offers.

Caitlyn turns around. “People often do. Doesn’t mean it works well.”

Vi looks away, and then back at Caitlyn.

“I just… I just don’t want you to think badly of them.”

The dark-haired woman takes the necessary steps towards Vi to close their distance. Standing right in front of the stairs, right in front of Vi, Caitlyn looks up at the worn face.

“Even now you’re protecting people. You’ve had a rough night, a really shitty day, and still, here you are, telling me not to think badly of them. That’s where your mind goes.”

“I just…” Vi has no idea where that thought is going. Her voice drifts off into the cold. Her gaze drifts off to the side, avoiding Caitlyn. “I’m…”

“You’re trying to save everyone else because with what has happened to you, you’re terrified of not being a good person.” That brings Vi’s eyes straight back to lock onto Caitlyn’s. “But you are a good person. Taking care of yourself? Considering your own needs? That doesn’t make you a bad person. It makes you human. And it’s hard to be a good person without first being human.”

“You think I’m a good person?” The voice is feeble. Scared. It is a question never before asked outwards, only inwards. Always inwards.

“You’d walk through hell for people. Even people you don’t much like. And you do it because you want to make their lives better. That’s a good person.”

The redhead tries to smile. It kinda works. “Thanks.”

Caitlyn extends her hand. “How about we drop by my place first so I can freshen up, and then we can go to your place so you can do the same. After that we’ll head out to talk to Benjamin Red Crow?” It is half a question, half a statement of fact. Vi gives her a shallow nod and a soft smile.

“Yeah,” Vi says, taking the hand on offer. Even through her glove it’s warm. Firm. Solid. “That sounds good.”

The guest house is cold, even after the door shuts behind them. It smells empty—like no-one lives here. Caitlyn walks in like she owns the silence. She peels off her gloves, depositing them in a basket in the entrance area.

“I’ll be five minutes.” Her voice is relaxed. Warm. She smiles over at Vi who barely manages a nod. Her legs carry her to the edge of the mattress, but she doesn’t sit. She just stands there, arms crossed tight, staring at the space around her, as Caitlyn disappears into the small bathroom.

The kitchen counter is clean. The kitchen island is clean. The blankets on the mattress to Vi’s left in the living room are neatly arranged. Around the bed are the same pictures. The same twig figurine. Vi leans down to look at a thick stack of freshly printed sheets, stapled together in sets. The title of the top of each page reads “Serial Murder and the Psychology of Violent Crimes”, with a smaller title below. The first set has the subtitle “Normalcy in Behavioral Characteristics of the Sadistic Serial Killer.” She stares at the papers as she hears the sound of running water from the bathroom, then the rustle of clothes, before the soft thunk of a small toiletry kit hitting the counter.

She looks at the next stapled set of papers. “Compulsive-Repetitive Offenders.” The next is “Narcissism, Sadism, and Loneliness.” After that comes “Criminal Profile Construction and Investigative Procedures”. All are from the same major work. All have notes in them. In one of the last pages of the last work, Vi reads a note in red ink, written in Caitlyn’s handwriting: “Ritualizing or communicating? Check body orientation again. For us or for them?”

When the door opens again, Vi looks up at the woman she is working with. She expects Caitlyn to be fully dressed.

She’s not.

Caitlyn steps out with a towel slung low around her hips, hair damp and pushed back, a fresh sports bra hugging her ribs. She moves toward the bedroom, completely at ease, casting a glance over at Vi standing there with the papers, speaking as if nothing is out of the ordinary.

“‘Compulsive-Repetitive Offenders’ by Schlesinger is useful to help differentiate between symbolic ritual and pathological repetition. Deliberate staging versus psychological compulsion.”

Vi turns away instinctively, and then… doesn’t. She lets her eyes drift back. Just for a second. Vi doesn’t mean to look. She just... does.

There’s a pale scar, small and deep, just below Caitlyn’s ribs on the right side. Circular, tight-edged. Like something drilled through.

Caitlyn stops in the bedroom. Her voice floats out as if she can feel Vi watching her.

“Through and through. Years ago.” A pause. “Nothing vital.”

Vi doesn’t know if she’s supposed to answer. Her throat’s dry.

There are other marks. Small white striations along her flank, one just above the hip. Lines like fragment trails, healed over long ago. Caitlyn’s upper body disappears under a fresh long-sleeved wool thermal layer. The towel gets hung up on a hook next to her. The back of her right thigh has a long straight surgical scar. Thermal pants come on, sticking to her like paint. Making her seem uniform. Solid.

Unscarred.

Vi tries to return to the papers, but her mind is elsewhere. This is personal. Private. And Caitlyn doesn’t seem to care. In the slightest. The tall woman finishes with pants and a dark green fleece jacket zipped halfway.

“I’m fine with you driving, but I can take us to your place, and we can see after that?”

“Yeah,” Vi nods. She bends down to deposit the papers back on the floor. “Please.”

The house in North Browning is small, the kind that tries hard to be warm but never quite forgets the cold. The snow has been cleared from the path in lazy arcs, and the porch light buzzes dimly overhead, even during the fading light of the day. Vi’s hand trembles as she unlocks the door, the keys cold and unfamiliar in her grip. She pushes it open with her shoulder.

The space greets them with stillness.

Caitlyn steps in behind her but doesn’t speak. She unlaces her boots near the door and sets them neatly aside, then sinks into the corner of the faded couch with the ease of someone trained to take up as little space as possible.

Vi drifts forward.

It’s not messy, exactly. Just... lived-in. The collection of boots by the door come in two sizes. The jackets obviously fit two different people. There’s a small patched and painted denim jacket slung over a kitchen chair. A scratched coffee table littered with mismatched coasters and half-read paperbacks. There’s a scent of old shampoo and synthetic vanilla that belongs to Powder’s cheap hair products.

The smell hits Vi in the chest like a sledgehammer.

She loses her breath for a moment.

And then finds it again.

She doesn't go to her room first. Her feet take her down the short hallway, where the second door on the left yawns open. Powder’s room.

It’s a riot of posters, fleece blankets, and LED string lights half-flickering along the wall. The bed is unmade. A makeup bag is open on the floor, contents spilling like a minor explosion of color and glitter. There’s a half-eaten bag of chips on the desk. Vi walks in slowly and picks up the sweatshirt dumped unceremoniously on the bed. She presses it to her face.

It smells of her.

Powder.

Her little sister.

Who is not here.

Who is in the hospital.

Vi doesn’t cry. But her eyes are glassy by the time she turns to leave.

Caitlyn hasn’t moved from the couch. Brief glances follow Vi’s movements.

She does not speak.

She only waits.

Vi walks across the hallway and into her own room.

It’s stark by comparison. Clean lines. Neutral tones. A cork board on the far wall with pinned photographs — a childhood picture of her and Powder, one of the ceremony when she became a police officer, a candid picture of the two of them at the Browning Rodeo… She picks up a pair of clean jeans, a navy hoodie, and some fresh underwear and moves into the bathroom. She washes up, changes, runs a brush through her tangled hair without much conviction, before she emerges into the hallway again.

When she re-emerges, Caitlyn is still there.

Vi crosses her arms, protecting her core. “I don’t know how long it’s gonna feel this weird.”

Caitlyn rises as she looks over at her, offering a faint nod. “It’ll feel less weird when she’s home.”

Vi nods. Her brain fails to find words.

Then Caitlyn speaks again, voice low. “Do you want to check in with Vander?”

Vi hesitates. Then she exhales. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”

She retrieves her phone, steps into the hallway, while Caitlyn turns her gaze back to the kitchen window, watching frost gather on the edge of the pane.

The wind outside hums like static.

It moves through bare branches and across the stone walls, carrying a thin, highland chill that creeps in through the cracked window with its frozen corners. Beyond the glass, jagged dusty mountains catch the last rays of golden light. A goatbell clinks distantly, swallowed quickly by the wind.

Nadjia sits on a low stool, Caitlyn’s phone pressed to her ear. A woven shawl slips down one shoulder. She turns slightly away, not enough to hide the way her shoulders curl inward, nor the way her breath clouds faintly in the air.

“Mâdar?” Her voice is low. Rough around the edges. Dari, spoken gently, breaking in the middle like a wave collapsing on sand. “Man khub nist… Na. Na, hâle man khoob nist.”

Caitlyn stays still. Silent in the doorway. The quiet making her unable not to listen.

I’m not okay.

Nadjia wipes her cheek with the edge of her sleeve. “Akhund raft. Unhâ… un hâlesh râ gereftand. Man—” Her voice falters. “Man bayad be jâye u bâsham.”

Akhund is gone. They took him. I have to be him now.

The silence between her words says more.

Caitlyn watches her. The grief coiled tight in her voice. The burden. The choice.

She will never forget that look.

A lifetime later, through Caitlyn’s scope, it is the same face.

Long black hair pulled back.

Brown eyes flicking sideways.

Mouth half-open to say something.

A wide-shouldered man behind her, holding her in place.

The crosshairs hover.

Caitlyn’s finger doesn’t move.

And then Nadjia disappears.

Just disappears.

Vi returns from the hallway. She looks lighter. She smiles over at Caitlyn. ”She’s been in and out a bit, but Vander got a few words in with her.”

She is met by a soft smile. “Good to hear.“ For the first time in their time together, when Vi looks at Caitlyn, the woman made of solidity itself seems tried. Slowly she retrieves a set of keys from her jacket pocket, offering them to Vi. “Mind driving? I could use the rest.” She gives the moment a beat. “If you’re good with that?“

Vi looks at her, smiles once more, nods, and takes the keys.

Chapter Text

The fading light of another day washes over the plains of the reservation. Vi looks over at Caitlyn in the passenger seat. The woman had barely strapped in before she fell asleep. Her breathing is slow. Steady. Calm.

Vi tries to piece together Caitlyn’s last few days. They did the nighttime trek to find Soyi. They went to bed sometime around four in the morning. They slept for a handful of hours. Then came the trek back out, another half-day of skiing through the wilderness. By the time they got to the station, it was dark. Maggie had prepared a cot and Vi crashed hard. She woke up to the phone call.

And Caitlyn drove her to Great Falls.

And Caitlyn stayed with her.

And Caitlyn stayed awake with her.

Until finally Caitlyn allowed herself to sleep in the family room next to her.

Vi shakes head. She tries not to feel guilty. She doesn’t really succeed. When they reach East Glacier Park, Vi decides to make some changes to the plans. She calls Ben, speaking quietly, asking if it would be okay if they talked over food. They’ve had a bit of a day and all.

Ben asks about Powder.

Vi doesn’t lie.

Caitlyn stirs awake at the soft press of Vi’s hand on her shoulder. She yawns, disoriented, and sees the final thread of daylight slipping away behind the mountains. Every part of her feels hollow. The truck has stopped outside Benjamin Red Crow’s cabin. Vi reaches over the seat and grabs a big paper bag; the mouth-watering smell of freshly prepared food wafts into the cold evening air.

“I called ahead,” Vi says, nodding at the bag. “We haven’t eaten much, and, well, I thought Ben might appreciate a meal with the company.”

Caitlyn nods, still groggy. She steps out into the snow, blinking at the porch light. Vi takes her hand, leading her across the silent yard. It’s oddly peaceful. There is no wind to disturb the wind chimes hanging on the porch. Vi knocks once, softly. The door opens almost immediately.

Benjamin Red Crow stands there, smiling. He’s not the picture of mourning one might have expected. Despite everything, there’s an undercurrent of warmth in his eyes. He nods deeply at the two of them.

“Come on in,” he says, stepping back to let them pass. “You must be chilled through.”

Inside, the air is a welcoming mix of woodsmoke and herbs. A log fire crackles in the stone hearth. Shelves display carvings, beadwork, and battered books. As Vi sets down the paper bag, the aroma of wild game chili, smoked trout cakes, and roasted vegetables mingles with the homey scents of pine and sage.

“I hope you’re hungry,” Vi says, slightly sheepish. “We brought enough to feed an army.”

Benjamin lets out a low chuckle, bright despite the day’s sorrow. “In my mind, there’s no such thing as too much food when folks come together.”

They gather around the table. Caitlyn and Vi unpack the dinner. Bison and veggie wraps, a Three Sisters grain bowl loaded with beans, squash, and corn, smoky fish cakes, and a bowl of game chili. Ben fetches chipped ceramic bowls and wooden utensils, placing them carefully on the table. He disappears into the kitchen alcove and returns with a ceramic teapot and a cluster of enamel cups. Steam curls upward, the scent of mint and sage blooming.

“Tea goes with everything,” he says, pouring a measure into each cup. “Especially conversation.”

Vi glances between Caitlyn and Benjamin. “We really appreciate you seeing us. I know…” She hesitates. “I’m sorry.”

The old man’s weathered cheeks tense almost imperceptibly. His voice is steady. “Soyi came here to learn, to hear our stories, and to tell her own. That’s what made her so dear to me. She never rushed. She listened. She had time for words I hadn’t spoken in years.” He fixes them with a gentle, but pointed gaze. “Her story doesn’t end with what happened to her. Not in here,” he taps a hand lightly against his heart. “And not if I have anything to say about it. The person who…arranged those scenes,” he continues, carefully choosing his words, “is telling a different story entirely. I refuse to let that overshadow Soyi’s truth.”

They settle into their seats. Steam from the tea drifts alongside the savory fragrance of the food. In the corner, the fire in the stone hearth pops softly. Caitlyn picks up a spoon and stirs her chili.

Benjamin meets her gaze. “I know you’ve seen things you wish you hadn’t,” he says. “But remember: every act, every ritual, every little symbolic detail is part of a bigger story. Whoever is doing this wants us to believe their version. They want us to feel it. But our own stories are strong, too.”

Outside, the last light fades. The change in temperature leads the winds picking up, causing the wind chimes on the porch to sway, making them hum in ethereal tones. Somehow, the darkness beyond the cabin walls feels less oppressive with a warm cup between their palms and something like hope in the old man’s steady voice.

They share the meal in a quiet hush that is neither morbid nor entirely subdued. Benjamin speaks of Soyi’s curiosity, her love for subtle details, the way she would ask questions about the old songs long after everyone else fell asleep. He smiles at the memory. Every so often, he glances at Vi and Caitlyn, ensuring they understand another story. His story. A story where Soyi is more than a victim, more than a name in a file. She was a story in motion, a tapestry still unfolding in his heart.

Vi listens and nods, then asks the question that had been bugging her. “Do you know why her car was snowed in near the trail head?”

Benjamin shakes his head. “She talked about spending some time in the mountains, finding her place. Said she’d be gone for some time. She did that every so often.”

“Spend time in the mountains or be gone for some time?” Four eyes turn towards Caitlyn who is asking the question.

“Be gone for some time,” Benjamin clarifies. He takes another sip of his tea. “She was torn between lives. It wasn’t my place to push. There was a lot of pull.” He pauses. Smiles. Leans back into his chair. It creaks. “Have you spoken to her parents?”

Vi and Caitlyn exchange a glance. It is Vi who answers. “Grayson did. We...”

“Yeah,” Benjamin nods. “Ohkoyi nitsiitapiiwaawa. Pain is part of us all.”

The drive back towards Browning goes slow. Vi drives. Caitlyn has extracted the magazine from her sidearm. The redhead casts a quick glance over at her passenger. She tries to make herself sound casual. It only sort of works.

“I thought you were good at waiting. Small threads weaving tapestries and all that.”

Caitlyn takes a deep breath through her nose. She exhales slowly as she speaks. “I’m good at waiting. I’m good at patience. I’m good at following patterns.” She slots the magazine back into place. “I just usually know who I’m hunting.”

“You do a lot of that?” Vi stares into the enveloping darkness up ahead. “Hunting people?”

Caitlyn holsters her sidearm. “This place is just like everywhere else I’ve ever been.” Vi looks over at her. Caitlyn does not return her gaze, instead staring into the cones of light in front of the car. “There are bad people in the world. And we have only one solution to bad people.” She turns away from the light and into the darkness next to the car. “The only solution to bad people is to send someone to hunt them. Someone worse.”

The conversation deflates. Devoured by the darkness. The darkness inside the car. Time ceases to exist. Vi takes a deep breath. She exhales, she moves on, she looks at the clock in the car. It’s late, but not too late. She speaks softly. “Soyi’s parents live in Durham. It’s a small detour between here and Browning. I’d like to show my respects.”

From the passenger seat she is given a curt nod. “Would you prefer to do it alone?”

“They might appreciate seeing someone come to help.”

“Alright.”

Fifteen minutes later they pass through Durham. It is a mere collection of a half-dozen reservation houses. Vi parks in front of a modest single-story house with faded blue siding and a porch sagging gently beneath the weight of old snow. Smoke drifts lazily from a narrow chimney. Behind it there is nothing but darkness for eternity.

They exit into the cold night, with Vi leading and Caitlyn following, walking slowly across the snowy yard. Through the thin curtains, a soft, yellowish glow outlines silhouettes moving quietly inside. Vi knocks. Once.

The door opens to reveal Maria Black Wolf, Soyi’s mother. Her face is lined with exhaustion, dark circles etched beneath her eyes. Recognition flickers warmly as she sees Vi, immediately stepping forward to wrap her in a strong, heartfelt embrace.

"Vi, thank you for coming," Maria whispers, voice thick with quiet grief. Her gaze shifts to Caitlyn standing a respectful step behind. She regards the woman for a long moment. “You’re the FBI woman.”

Caitlyn nods. “Yes Ma’am, I’m sorry for your loss.”

"Thank you," Maria says politely, but her words towards Caitlyn carry an edge to them. Maria moves aside, gesturing for them both to enter.

The same small entrance area. Outer layers are deposited in silence. Maria waits for them both. Once in the house proper, the quiet makes it feel hollow despite being warm. The scent of burning sage and cedar fills the air, mingling with the faint aroma of cooked food. Candles burn quietly on the mantle, surrounded by photographs in mismatched frames… Soyi, bright-eyed and joyful at graduation; a family portrait from years earlier; and their son, Nathan, solemn-faced and distant, an old photo from before he fell into trouble.

Vi and Caitlyn are led into the small living room. Elias Black Wolf, Soyi’s father, rises from a chair near the wood stove, extending a strong, calloused hand to Vi. “We heard about Powder,” he says gently. “We’ll keep her in our prayers.”

“Thank you,” Vi says, her tone as sincere as can be. Next to Maria, Elias gives Caitlyn a polite nod but doesn’t extend his hand.

"I’m sorry for your loss," the taller woman says, carefully meeting his wary eyes. He merely nods again and moves towards the low coffee table in the middle of the living room.

They settle into seats around the table. Maria pours coffee into chipped mugs, setting each one carefully in front of her guests. She hesitates only briefly before speaking.

“Grayson told us you found her,” she starts softly, her voice shaking. She moves her focus between the two women.

“We did,” Vi answers.

“They’re not letting us see her.” Maria grabs her husband’s hand and squeezes hard. The two of them exchange a concerned look.

“I’ll see what I can do about that,” Vi tries. “But, well, with the ongoing investigation and everything… There was no missing persons report? Did you expect her to be away?”

Maria steadies herself with a deep breath. “She said she was going up to the mountains, said she needed space. To listen to herself again. It wasn’t unusual. She’d been… restless lately.” Her eyes drift toward a photo of Nathan. “She always felt everything deeply.”

Vi leans forward slightly. “Do you know if anyone was going to meet her there, or if she planned to meet someone afterward?”

Maria shakes her head. “She just said a week or so. She liked being up there alone. Soyi always came back stronger. Clearer.”

Caitlyn shifts slightly, her voice quiet and respectful but clinical. “Can you tell us exactly when she left?”

Elias’s eyes narrow slightly as he regards Caitlyn. “Last Tuesday. Early. Before sunrise. She didn’t want anyone to make a fuss.” He glances at Vi, clearly directing his words to her more than Caitlyn. “She wanted peace.”

“Did she take anything unusual with her? Anything that might indicate she planned a longer trip?” Caitlyn continues.

Maria shakes her head, her growing frustration barely hidden. “No. Just her usual things. You know, camping gear, notebooks, camera. She took photos. Nature mostly. Said she was collecting stories, learning more about who she was and who we are. She never asked for trouble.”

Elias’s voice cuts in quietly. “And she didn’t expect trouble to find her either.” He looks away, jaw set tightly. “Trouble found Nathan, and now it found her. All this trouble, and what do we get? No answers, just visits. No justice, just sympathy.”

A tense quiet settles over the room, broken only by the gentle crackling of the stove. Caitlyn holds Elias’s gaze, her expression steady but empathetic. “We’re doing everything we can,” she says carefully, knowing the words fall short.

Elias’s voice softens, turning back to Vi. “I know you are, Vi. And we’re grateful for you.” He hesitates. “It’s just… hard.”

Vi reaches out, lightly touching Maria’s hand, offering silent solidarity. Maria clasps Vi’s hand tightly, drawing strength from the connection.

Eventually, Vi stands slowly. “Thank you for talking to us. We’ll do everything we can to find answers.”

Maria rises as well, squeezing Vi’s hand one final time. “I know you will, Vi. We know you will.” Her eyes drift briefly to Caitlyn, offering a polite but distant nod. “Thank you both.”

Outside, the night has settled deep and cold around them. As they walk back to the truck.

“You’ve built something special here,” Caitlyn offers. “Trust doesn’t come easily.”

Vi shrugs lightly, opening her door. “It took a long time. But once you’re here, really here, you’re family. They’ll accept you eventually. It’s just—”

“Different,” Caitlyn finishes for her quietly, climbing into the passenger seat. She doesn’t sound bitter, only honest. “And some gaps aren’t so easily bridged.”

Back on the road, the cabin is saturated with silence. Until Vi’s phone rings. The display informs them both that the caller is Vander. Caitlyn looks briefly at the phone and then at the outside.

“You can pull over, I’ll give you some privacy.”

“What? No. It’s fine.” She punctuates the statement by answering the call, putting it on the handsfree in the truck. “Hi Dad,” she says. But the caller is not her dad.

“Hi Sis,” a tired voice says from the other side. Vi’s entire face lights up.

“Pow! I love you! Thank you for calling!”

“I… Love you too.” There is a pause. Vi looks down at the phone, swallowing a breath before she returns her focus to the road. “They’re keeping me for a few more days. Vander left me alone for a moment. Told me to call you. Almost didn’t want to. I’m sorry. I messed it all up. I always mess it up.”

“Don’t be sorry! I love you Pow. It’s okay. I’m just happy you’re okay.”

“Sis, when I’m back, I don’t want to… go back, y’know?”

“I know baby girl, we’ll figure it out. Just take care of yourself right now, okay? I love you, we both love you, and we just want you to come home to us.”

There are sniffles from both sides of the call. And then another voice is heard from the other side.

“A nurse is here to… I’m going to call you later Sis, okay?”

“Love you Pow, thank you for calling, we’ll talk later!”

“I love you too big Sis, talk later.”

The other end hangs up. Vi’s face turns from a smile to a grin. She looks over at Caitlyn, almost giddy. “How about I buy you a beer?”

Vi parks the truck in front of the Last Drop. She smiles over at Caitlyn who returns a soft smile. It was not like she was going to refuse.

The offer of a beer is like a call.

From one wolf to another.

Gathering the pack.

They enter the bar and Vi walks straight towards the tall counter, behind which stands a dark-haired young woman. Following behind her, Caitlyn takes in the scene. Ten patrons. Six look like they come from the oil fields. The foreman they spoke to, Crowe, is sitting at a booth by himself, the opposite seats probably taken by the trio playing pool next to the emergency exit.

The woman at the counter greets Vi with a wave and a warm smile. Vi seats herself, and a beer arrives in her hand moments later. Caitlyn seats herself next to Vi, ordering a beer from the woman working the bar by herself. She is in her twenties, with a pair of deep chestnut eyes that have seen more in those years than she has been able to process. There is something about the eyes that is familiar. It is not immediately apparent to Caitlyn from where.

The rapport the woman has with Vi makes it clear that they have flirted before. Even when asking about Powder they are close. She holds Vi’s hand, they talk in half-sentences, she offers sympathies.

“This is Caitlyn, she works for the FBI.”

The woman offers her hand with a smile. “Mika.”

Caitlyn reaches over and takes her hand. “Caitlyn Kiramman, pleasure to meet you.”

While still holding the hand, Mika looks at Caitlyn. “You’re the one who told my sister you were a hunter.” She releases the hand. Vi looks over at Caitlyn who provides a shallow tilted nod. Mika looks at her. “I’ve seen a lot of hunters come through this place, you don’t look like one of them at all.”

“I’m not.” Caitlyn follows up her answer by taking a sip of her beer.

Mika stares at her. “Whomever did this deserves to be hunted. Into the ground.”

Across from her, Caitlyn doesn’t even flinch. “I’m here to do a job.” Vi’s eyes are fixated on Caitlyn, soaking up every last movement of her face. She seems to perfectly at ease being this… whatever this is.

“I hope you do it well,” Mika adds as she nods to Vi and moves off to serve a few of the guys from the oil fields who are calling for her. By name.

“You told her sister you were a hunter?” Vi’s focus hasn’t left Caitlyn.

“She was afraid. I know I shouldn’t have said anything, but I wanted her to know that those who do acts like this do not do so with impunity.”

“You could just have told her you were FBI and that you were working on keeping her safe.”

“I could have, but most of the people here have heard that story before. And as Elias said. ‘No answers, just visits. No justice, just sympathy’.” She nods towards Crowe sitting by himself. “I’d like to get some answers. And then some justice.”

Caitlyn gestures for Vi to slide in first, following her into the booth. The tall muscular man looks up at the two of them as they seat themselves, beers in hand.

“Those seats are taken,” he starts, his voice flat. “You should probably find somewhere else to sit.” He takes a big swig of his beer, a tattoo visible on his wrist as he does so.

“Eric Kendahl.” Vi looks at Caitlyn. She sounds impatient. Worn. Like this has gone on for too long and that she’s done with it all.

Crowe shrugs. “Haven’t seen him in a while. We’ve been over this.” He casts a glance over Caitlyn’s shoulder at the men playing pool. Vi follows his look. The men have noticed the two of them taking their seats.

“No,” Caitlyn states. “We haven’t. You have. We haven’t.”

“Cait?” Vi uses the name as a question, her gaze moving between Crowe, Caitlyn, and the men moving from the pool table.

“This conversation is going to happen. Your friends can either go back to playing pool, or they can spend the night in a cell. I’m fine either way.” If Vi’s voice leaked of nervousness, Caitlyn’s voice carries only certainty. Crowe straightens his back into the seat. He stares at the woman seated across from him. She raises her head slightly and matches his gaze, looking into his eyes. He reaches for his beer again, sleeve slipping just enough once more. The tattoo becoming clearer. A skull with a knife in its teeth, a small cap on its head. Her gaze briefly settles on it. She lifts her eyes, catching his.

“Rangers lead the way,” she says, nodding at the man’s arm. Vi turns her head over to look at Caitlyn. The tone in her voice changed. It presents something different. An understanding.

Crowe pauses mid-drink. Still he stares at Caitlyn. His focus moves from her eyes to her posture, to the way she sits, to the way she seems aware of everything that is going to happen around her. He shakes his head slightly, a small smile, and then a nod. He waves away the people by the pool table. Reluctantly, they return to their game.

“I don’t think we led people like you anywhere. We mostly followed.” Vi’s attention snaps up sharply from the people returning to the pool tables and back onto Caitlyn.

“We all shoveled the same shit,” she says.

The man looks at her. His eyes narrow.

“We had some frogmen sit in for a few weeks, waiting on something or other. Tip-of-the-spear types. Sat and drank with us, all chill, and one morning they were just gone.” He takes a mouthful of his beer. Vi watches him intently. In her mind the term he said with such respect repeats in her mind, over and over and over again. Tip-of-the-spear. “A week later, someone from Alpha Company said one of their guys who’d been captured had managed to escape and made it back home.”

That is allowed to linger between them. The silence lasting long enough that Vi wonders if she should say something. “Good for him.” Caitlyn finally says. Her voice calm. Casual. Even staring at her face, Vi can’t read a single emotion.

“You carry it well,” Crowe says. “I sometimes feel like I left most of myself back there.”

Caitlyn nods gently, her eyes distant for a fleeting second before focusing again on him.

“We all did.”

He still stares at her, then he raises the beer at her.

“To long walks and cold nights,” he says.

She raises her beer and clinks her bottle to his “Long walks and cold nights.”

He finishes the rest of his beer, depositing the empty bottle on the table. He stares at Caitlyn, and again he shakes his head. “Dunleavy is a lucky man. I was too busy looking at him to look at you. What are you doing here?”

Caitlyn raises one shoulder in a shrug. “My job.”

The big man laughs. “And you think Eric is your man?”

“He’s a person of interest.”

Vi leans back into the corner of the booth, sipping her beer as she watches the two of them talk. This woman was in her home. This woman ate with her family. This woman took her to see her sister. And yet, she has no idea who this woman is. At least not the way Crowe seems to.

“I can’t see Eric doing what the news has reported. He doesn’t have the brains to do it.” Crowe says with a sigh. “I can see him wishing he had, or at least wish he had if there had been a sexual component. Was there?”

Caitlyn shakes her head. “So you’re saying he’s not our man?”

“I’m saying that there are a lot of bad men out there, and Eric is certainly one of them, but the shit that has been on the news? That doesn’t just require a bad man. It requires a bad man with a plan and an ability to follow through on it. Eric? Eric ain’t that.”

Seated back at the bar, Caitlyn takes another small sip of the single beer she has been nursing. Vi is on her second, downing it fast, only stopping to probe Caitlyn with a directness fueled by alcohol. “You want to talk about it?”

The dark-haired woman turns to face Vi. She sighs. “About what exactly?”

Vi flashes a wide smile at Caitlyn. Her lips part, Vi licks her lower lip just so. “About yourself? Crowe seemed to get it. Tip-of-the-spear? What did he mean by that? You said he was an army ranger. That’s pretty hardcore, as their motto says, they lead the way, and yet he said he never led people like you.” She tilts her head slightly, still smiling. “People like you?”

The face Vi is staring into is unreadable. It is devoid of anything as rudimentary as human expressions. The face sighs again. “Vi, I don’t want to lie to you.”

No matter the lack of expressions from the face she finds infinitely fascinating, Vi is nothing but cheerful. “Then don’t.” There is no frustration, no anger, no resentment. Just hope. Of something different.

“That’s not how my world works.” A deep breath. ”At least not that part of my world.”

“Okay,” Vi reaches over and takes Caitlyn’s hand. “You did some secret stuff. You were good at it. You did some stuff that left a mark. Yesterday was shit, but today has been a good day. My sister told me she loved me, so I’ll tell you what Caitlyn Kiramman...” Caitlyn blinks, looking into pools of eyes a brilliant powder blue. “You’re a good person.” Caitlyn blinks again. “It’s like you try to divorce yourself from this world, and yet you still fight for it. The only people who do that are good people.” Caitlyn swallows. A thumb draws gentle circles over the back of her hand. She feels warm. Properly warm. She can’t remember the last time she felt properly warm. “You’re a good person Caitlyn. Allow yourself to believe it.”

Vi slams Caitlyn’s back into the wall by the coat rack in the guest house. The drive had been pure torture. Constant glances across the center console, hands touching. Both wanting. Both needing. Both lusting. Now, in the guest house, Caitlyn’s lips taste like beer and salted nuts. Vi couldn’t care less. She holds Caitlyn’s head with both hands as frantic kisses are exchanged, all while Caitlyn tries to undress them both.

Stepping back for a brief second, Vi has to hold Caitlyn back by force. “We don’t have to—“ she tries. Caitlyn forces her hands out of the way and pushes her back into the opposite wall. Vi barely has time to catch her breath before she feels Caitlyn’s hand on the top button of her flannel shirt.

“You talk too much,” the taller woman says as she pulls Vi from the wall and into another sloppy kiss, this time a bit briefer, before releasing Vi again. “You can either strip or leave, but pick one right now.”

Vi strips.

The memory is fleeting. Like a ghost of last night. Caitlyn’s eyes fly open. She sees dark hair instead of red, brown eyes instead of blue. Nadjia’s smile blooms across the face next to hers. Panic surges, stealing her breath. She scrambles away, heart hammering, every nerve on fire.

Vi stirs awake, groggy, confused. “God, I could use some OJ” she murmurs softly, her voice not quite present yet. Only now does she notice Caitlyn. “Hey… you okay there, beautiful?”

The voice is wrong—utterly wrong. Caitlyn retreats further, pulling a sheet around herself like armor. Her voice is harsh, colder than intended. “This… this was a bad idea.”

Vi sits up slowly, confusion giving way to hurt, her voice barely a whisper. “I’m sorry, what? Why?”

Caitlyn doesn’t turn around, gripping the sheet tighter, fighting against a flood of memories. “I don’t shit where I sleep.”

Silence hangs in the room, thick and suffocating. Vi’s stunned silence lasts only a moment, replaced swiftly by anger, hurt burning through her voice. “What the fuck, Cait? You barely even sleep here!”

Caitlyn flinches, but still she doesn't turn. She hears Vi rise, footsteps heavy against the floorboards.

Vi's voice trembles, anger and pain entwining. “Look at this place. It’s not even temporary; it’s like you don’t even want to exist here. You want this place as empty as you are? Fine! You want to wallow in your own shit alone? Be my fucking guest.”

Caitlyn clenches her fists, her whole body tensed against the rising tide of shame. She listens as Vi dresses hurriedly. There’s a pause at the door, just a heartbeat, a fragile hope that something else might be said. Caitlyn remains silent, unable to turn, paralyzed by memories. Frozen in pain.

The door closes softly, yet it sounds deafening, echoing in Caitlyn’s ears long after Vi’s footsteps fade into nothingness. The silence that follows is agonizing. Caitlyn’s breathing grows ragged. She clutches the edge of the kitchen island, dizzy, stomach churning with self-loathing.

The quiet around her feels like accusation.

One that is true.

Deep breaths. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. One after another. Standing by the kitchen island, Caitlyn breathes. Over and over and over again.

And it makes no difference whatsoever.

She walks over to her bed and retrieves her phone. She stares at the phone for a moment, thumb hovering above the screen, before finally pressing the speed dial. It only rings once.

“Caitlyn, dearest,” her mother's voice comes in warm and polished, tinged with curiosity, “how is Montana treating you?”

She hears familiar sounds of paperwork shuffling in the background, the soft click of a pen, the quiet hum of the city beyond her mother’s office.

“Hi, Mother…” Caitlyn’s voice trails off, the words catching painfully in her throat.

The background noise stops abruptly. Her mother's voice tightens with sudden focus. “Caitlyn, what's wrong?”

Caitlyn doesn't respond immediately. Her fingers tighten around the edge of the counter, knuckles turning pale. She tries to gather her thoughts, but the image of Vi’s hurt, confused face keeps intruding, layered with memories of Nadjia. When she finally manages to speak, her voice is faint. Fragile. Foreign.

“I did something stupid.”

A careful silence follows, the air heavy between them. Caitlyn imagines her mother's slight frown, the subtle lines around her eyes deepening. Cassandra's voice returns softer, more careful this time. “Caitlyn, dear. Tell me.”

“There’s…this officer I’ve been working with. And…” Caitlyn pauses, her heartbeat loud in her ears. “We ended up in bed.”

Another small pause, then a gentle sigh from the other end of the line. “I see.”

“It’s not just that, Mother. I…” Caitlyn swallows thickly. “When I woke up this morning, I saw Nadjia’s face instead of hers. I panicked. Said things I shouldn't have. Hurtful things.”

Cassandra is silent, processing. Caitlyn can feel the weight of her mother's assessment, steady yet loving, even over the line.

“This woman,” Cassandra finally says, voice softening perceptibly, “you’ve known her how long?”

“Barely a week,” Caitlyn admits, her voice tightening with embarrassment. “I didn’t plan it. Didn’t think it through.”

There’s another quiet pause before Cassandra’s voice returns, somehow even softer, yet somehow also firmer. “Well then, I’d certainly like to meet her.”

“Mother!” Caitlyn almost laughs, but her voice cracks with tension instead. “That’s hardly the point.”

Cassandra’s tone remains gently insistent. “Caitlyn, you’ve spent two years locked in a relationship with a dead woman. You haven’t even allowed yourself to look at anyone else. Of course, that was traumatic, and you know how much I understand what she meant to you, but it’s not a life, darling.”

Caitlyn’s eyes sting suddenly. She blinks rapidly, forcing back tears she hadn’t expected. “I saw Nadjia, Mother,” she whispers, voice almost pleading. “It was real.”

“You had a flashback, Caitlyn.” Cassandra’s voice smooth as silk, each word deliberate, careful. “What do we say about flashbacks?”

Caitlyn swallows again, shoulders slumping in reluctant acceptance. “They’re flashbacks, not flash forwards.”

“Exactly. You can't let memories dictate your future.” Her mother’s voice is patient, endlessly patient. “So, what are you going to do?”

Caitlyn’s grip on the counter loosens slightly. “I…I suppose I need to apologize.”

“You suppose?”

“I… I will apologize,” Caitlyn corrects herself gently.

“Yes, dear, you will.” Cassandra’s voice is warmer now, encouraging. “And if you even remotely like this woman, and judging by your reaction I'd say you do, you owe it to yourself to try.”

“But, Mother,” Caitlyn sighs, her voice still uncertain, “I work with her. There are rules.”

“There are always rules. And if I had followed the rules, you would never have been born. You do know why those rules exist?”

Caitlyn sighs again, a touch of resignation creeping in. “Because relationships can interfere with work.”

“Precisely. But you have already learned that lesson, haven’t you?”

“I… suppose I have.”

“Then tell me, clearly. What lesson have you learned, Caitlyn?”

Caitlyn hesitates, eyes drifting across the room, catching on the crumpled sheets, still warm. She takes a deep, steadying breath. “Not to let relationships stop me from doing my job.”

“Good.” Cassandra’s voice is quiet, satisfied. “Will you stay true to that?”

Caitlyn closes her eyes, exhaling slowly. When she opens them, she feels clearer. “Yes, Mother. I'll get the job done.”

A soft exhale of relief comes from the other end. “Good girl. Now, go apologize—and this time, mean it.”

As soon as Caitlyn enters the office, she is called into Grayson’s office where Vi is already being scolded. From behind her desk, Grayson moves her gaze between the two women in her office.

“You want to tell me what’s going on?” Neither woman says anything. “Vi, I can smell the pussy on you. Do we need to have that conversation again?”

“Sorry—“

“—Ma’am. I overstepped,” Caitlyn says. “I was the one who initiated and this morning is on me. I said some things I shouldn’t have said. It’s on me.”

“Huh,” Grayson says, looking at Vi, who looks completely perplexed. “Didn’t see that one coming. Vi? Want to add anything?” Vi is staring at Caitlyn, eyes wide open. “Vi,” Grayson repeats. Vi shakes her head. “Then sort this crap out. I need you on the job, not on each other.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Caitlyn says. For a split second, with the way her body stiffens, Vi wonders if Caitlyn is about to salute.

“Yes boss,” Vi manages.

They leave the office. Vi turns to Caitlyn.

“You didn’t have to do that, I’m used to getting that speech.” She tries to smile.

“Wasn’t your speech to get. Can we talk in the car?” Caitlyn says, without looking at Vi.

Caitlyn stares out over the windswept plains just beyond Browning. From the passenger seat, Vi looks over at her.

“We don’t have to, if you don’t want to. It’s all right.” Vi’s focus returns to the road, she points down towards an open field next to a corral. “You can park over there if you like.”

Caitlyn’s focus doesn’t shift an inch, but her breath hitches, and then she speaks.

“No, it’s not all right. I was an ass to you this morning. I’m terrified. I like you. You’re smarter than you give yourself credit for. You’re a great and caring big sister. You’re kinder than you want people to know.” Caitlyn turns in the road towards Vi’s suggested destination. In doing so, she looks over at Vi, briefly, before turning away again, a soft smile on her lips. “And you’re very attractive.”

“Uhm. Thank you?”

“My last… relationship, if that was what it was, it didn’t end well. Really not well. I… Afterwards… I couldn’t hack being close to people, so I simply stopped even trying. I didn’t mean to drag you into my crap.” She parks her Suburban in a lot next to a barn. In the deep winter, everything is draped in white, textures disappearing.

“I’m sorry,” Vi offers ever so gently. She reaches over towards Caitlyn’s hand as it rests on the center console, pausing just before contact. Caitlyn looks down at the hand and spreads the fingers of her hand, allowing one distant finger to make contact with Vi. Vi responds by taking the hand, enclosing it in a firm grip.

Caitlyn stares out of the window. Her focus nowhere near the plains outside. “Only my mother knows what happened with Nadjia. I couldn’t even tell my XO.” With red eyes she turns towards Vi. “It wasn’t supposed to start at all. She was beautiful, smart, strong-willed. She wanted to get revenge for what was done to her father, and then her brother. One thing led to another and I… caved. We kept it a secret, because of both my team and her family. We had moments. Moments where I felt… Happy.” After years of idleness, the corners of Caitlyn’s eyes are moist. She sniffles as she uses the outside of the thumb on her free hand to wipe away the budding tears.

“Hey, it’s okay.“ Vi squeezes the hand she has been holding. “You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not comfortable sharing.” The redhead lets out a soft and brief laugh. Caitlyn looks at her, unsure of what is so funny. Vi raises her free hand. “Sorry, it’s just that I’ve had a few ‘it’s not you, it’s me’-conversations over the years, just never… like this.”

Her driver sniffles as she tilts her head upwards, eyelids fluttering away the wetness forming. She almost chuckles. Almost. Again she shakes her head. She pinches her eyes as she returns to Vi, staring into those powder blue eyes.

“Nadjia worked as a translator. One night she was visiting family and she was taken. We were instructed to get her back. We tracked the kidnappers through the mountains, eventually ending up in a remote village. I was on overwatch.” Caitlyn hesitates. She looks down at the hand holding hers. She fights back tears. She looks away. Words falling out of her as much as being spoken. “I spotted her, in a mud house, with a man wearing a suicide vest. I called it in. I watched the two of them fight, waiting for a shot. I sat there staring at the two of them through my scope. I don’t know how it happened, maybe his radio was malfunctioning or something, but a team member rushed the building, making the man pull Nadjia close. For a moment, I had the shot. I hesitated, then the door was breached and the man detonated the vest.” Vi’s eyes are wide open, staring at Caitlyn. Caitlyn, who is fighting not only tears, but fighting breaking down completely. “The last thing I saw in my scope was Nadjia disappearing. That was twenty months ago. That’s why I’ve been out of the field ever since. People think it’s because of the team member, or the fact that I saw what happened the way I did. I’ve been cleared of any wrongdoing. But I failed to save her. I failed to save her because I was terrified of hitting her. I failed to save her because…” She takes a deep breath. “I failed to save her because I loved her.”

For a moment, nothing happens. Vi sits there, shocked, unable to move. And then Caitlyn simply falls apart. It starts with a swallowed sob, followed by a wail, and then the tears come and her breaths become shallow, her entire body gasping for air. She tries to pull her hands in over herself as she lurches forward in the driver’s seat, only to have her left hand lead another body over to her. Vi leans over the center console and envelopes Caitlyn in a deep hug, holding Caitlyn’s head on her shoulder, whispering soft nothingness into Caitlyn’s ear.

They sit like that.

And Caitlyn lets it all out.

Almost two years of pain.

And it finally comes out.

As cries.

As tears.

As wails.

As love.

Lost.

Using a paper towel to wipe away her tears, Caitlyn tries to regain some semblance of calm in her body. “Sorry,” she finally says, feeling small in the driver’s seat next to Vi. God knows how long has passed. “I’ve never… I told my mother. I told her the facts. I thought that would be enough. I haven’t…”

“You haven’t grieved.” Vi says. Caitlyn shakes her head. “You watched someone you love die and you didn’t even allow yourself to grieve.”

“I couldn’t tell anyone. I wasn’t supposed to fraternize. And for good reason.”

Vi takes inhales through her nose. She stares down at her hands, now in her own lap. “I was in the car when our parents died. Powder and I were fighting, as sisters do. Dad turned around to tell us to stop it, and that was when it happened. I was conscious when they found us. Dad was staring at me with blank eyes. Dead. Mom was taken out of the wreckage, along with Powder. Mom didn’t make it to the hospital. Powder woke up three days later. Claims she can’t remember anything. We don’t really talk about it. I suppose we both blame ourselves for what happened. I got overprotective towards her and just looked for connections to other people the only way I understood. She made a point out of not caring about her life. Not until yesterday. That was the first time she ever told me she loved me.”

Next to her, Caitlyn needs a moment before she speaks.

“Vi, I’m so sorry for making you think about this.”

The redhead shakes her head. “Don’t be. You might be the only person I know who could remotely relate. And maybe the only one I know who won’t treat me like a broken person after hearing about it.”

“Stones in glass houses and all of that.” Caitlyn tries a careful smile.

Vi chuckles. “I spent the first five or six years up here fucking anyone with a pair of tits that smiled at me, trying desperately to find some connection that made life livable. Grayson eventually told me in no uncertain terms to get my shit in order. Or at least more in order. I had to see a shrink for a while.” She stares out into the distance, at the mountains looming large. “I was so busy being the responsible one, always doing what had to be done, always feeling needed, and never feeling wanted or desired. So I filled that hole, no pun intended, by bedding people, in the hope that it’d make myself feel desired.”

“Did it work?”

“The fucking, sure. The morning after, not so much. I felt the same thing this morning. That emptiness. The loneliness. The feeling that I’m here for everyone to use, never for myself.”

“I’m sorry,” Caitlyn says with a sigh. “Please understand that this morning was me being an idiot because I’m having trouble dealing with my own problems. And I’m really sorry for causing you pain, you don’t deserve that.”

Vi sighs. “So, now what?”

Caitlyn shrugs. “I like you Vi, I really do, but I have no idea how to do any of this. I have no idea about relationships, let alone a relationship with someone I work with.”

From the passenger seat, Vi offers a careful smile. “I… like you too Caitlyn. It’s nice to feel being wanted without feeling like I need to worry about phone calls at 4am telling me your boyfriend is getting handsy.”

“Can you give me a bit of time? Focus on the job for a while? This isn’t me saying that I don’t want to be with you, it’s… me needing to quell the terror I’m feeling so I won’t be an ass to you next time I see you waking up next to me.” Vi laughs. Caitlyn pinches her brow. “I’m sorry, did I say something funny?”

“You said ‘next time’,” she looks over at Caitlyn. “That works for me.”

“Oh, yeah, another thing,” Caitlyn says, slightly embarrassed. “My mother wants to meet you.”

Caitlyn sits in Vi’s living room and waits. It would have been safer to sit in the Suburban, but her mother was right. She could do this. She needed to do this. And so Caitlyn Kiramman sits in Vi’s living room while Vi showers and changes. Seated on the sofa, Caitlyn sits with her phone in a semi-successful attempt to distract herself. There is motion in the corridor down by the bedrooms, but she does not look up. She forces herself not to. Instead she reads through the documents on her screen. She reads through the employee records provided for the oil fields. She reads through past arrest records. She reads through responses from federal resources about the method of operation.

She has read all of these documents before. At least a few times each.

Maybe she has missed something.

As unlikely as that is.

But at least it keeps her busy.

“Hey,” a voice says from the hallway. Caitlyn turns towards the source of the voice. A freshly showered and freshly dressed Vi. A Vi that waves her hand at her. “Find anything new?”

Caitlyn locks her phone. “Not sure. Dunleavy recommended a brother of his for a job down at the oil exploration sites in the south-west, near Two-Medicine. I found dismissal papers, from Crowe. They’re vague, but… I also think Dunleavy served with Crowe.” Vi walks over next to Caitlyn, leaning in down over her shoulder to look at the phone. She smells of fresh slightly musky deodorant and a certain scent Caitlyn bathed in last night. She swallows.

“Oh, sorry,” Vi takes a step back. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“No,” Caitlyn starts. “It’s fine.” She rises, standing face to face with Vi. “I asked you for time.” She reaches out and touches Vi’s side. Her gaze follows her hand. Vi’s breath changes, going shallower, yet stands completely still. Through her hand, Vi feels warm. Strong. Sturdy.

Present.

Alive.

She looks up at Vi, who pushes her lips together as she smiles. She is hiding that she is biting her lower lip. Caitlyn’s hand moves upwards, along every contour of Vi’s body, brushing along the redhead’s ribs before traveling to the armpit, over the top of Vi’s left breast, up her neck, before cupping her cheek. Along the way, Vi’s eyes have closed and she is holding her breath, frozen in every way.

“Hey,” Caitlyn says. Vi opens her eyes. “We still good?”

The woman across from her smiles with her entire face. She leans into the hand cupping her face. “Yeah Cait, we’re good.”

Chapter Text

There is this pretense among people: the best way to show that everything is alright is to be quiet. Unfortunately, this leads to the kind of quiet that only shows up when something is wrong.

Maggie and Eli both say nothing when Caitlyn and Vi return to the office. They glance over, exchange small, knowing smiles. No questions. No teasing. Just... silence.

Caitlyn steps into Grayson’s office. Grayson looks up from her desk, past Caitlyn, through the blinds, watching Vi walk to her desk. Then she returns her attention to the woman in her office.

“You two work it out?”

“Yes, Ma’am. My apologies for the disruption.”

Caitlyn stands tall. Back straight. Hands behind her back. But this time, she’s smiling.

Grayson exhales, folding her hands. “Vi has a history.”

“I’m aware, Ma’am. We both do. We’ve talked it over.”

That earns her a more thoughtful look. Grayson leans back in her chair, weighs something unseen. After a beat, she stands.

“For all intents and purposes, you’re a federal agent. You’re the federal agent we have here. If this goes south, and this thing with the two of you comes up, every one of us will have to look for something else to do with our lives.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” A curt nod.

“Caitlyn.” Grayson steps around the desk, hands on its edge. Her voice tightens. “I need more than protocol. I need to know this won’t blow up in my face.”

Caitlyn takes a breath, not moving her gaze. “My feelings for Vi won’t interfere with the job, Ma’am.”

“I could order you to stay away from each other. Pair you with Eli until we get the son of a bitch we’re hunting.”

“Ma’am,” Caitlyn’s face goes cold. For a moment, Grayson doesn’t see Caitlyn. She doesn’t even see the FBI agent. She sees something… different. Something much… worse. “If you’re all done, I’d like to get back to the hunt.”

Vi watches from her desk. She’s seen that treatment before. She has gotten it before. More than once. The tone, the tension, the way the air gets heavy around Grayson’s door.

Caitlyn handles it differently. Starts warm. Friendly. Then something shifts. Professional. Then something else entirely. Grayson stares after her long after Caitlyn turns and walks out.

Vi watches her cross the bullpen. Caitlyn’s face is all angles now. Focused. Precise.

Angry.

But then Caitlyn turns to her, and just like that, the sharpness softens. The mask drops. All the anger washes away. She smiles. She crouches beside Vi’s desk, keeping her voice low. “Sorry about this.” Vi tilts her head, half‑puzzled. Then Caitlyn straightens. “Eli. Maggie.” Both heads turn. “About that tension… It was on me. Vi didn’t do anything wrong. I was an idiot and made things awkward. Sorry you had to see it.” She pauses, looking at Eli and Maggie in turn. “We’ve talked it over, we’re good, and we—“. The dispatch radio by Maggie crackles to life.

“County, Fire‑Marshal Seven‑Three to Browning PD. Did you folks have a tag on a Thomas Krueger out of Cut Bank?”

Vi and Caitlyn look at each other, both reacting to the use of the past tense. Maggie looks back into the bullpen, finding Vi has risen. Both Vi and Caitlyn nod to Maggie, who turns back to the mic and presses the transmit button. “Person of interest in an ongoing investigation. Jason. What’s up?”

“We just responded to a fire, the entire trailer is gone. We found a body.”

The police truck has its red and blue lights on as it travels at speed east-northeast on Highway 2. Vi shakes her head. “Thomas just pointed us to Eric and now his trailer catches fire.”

“Your fire departments are volunteers?” The question from Caitlyn walks the fine line between being arrogant and accepting all at once.

“Yeah,” Vi answers. “Jason and his Cut Bank crew, just like our Browning crew, are part-timers. Jason’s good at what he does though.” Next to her, Caitlyn nods. Vi sighs, her shoulders sinking as she stares forward into the bright white nothingness in front of her. “We see a number of trailer fires every year. They’ve got experience.”

A rough half hour after they got the call, Vi parks behind the firetruck from the Cut Bank Volunteer Fire Department. On the drive into the lot they could see the charred out remains of a trailer waiting for them. As they drive up past a guard, a man in a white structural helmet with the word “Chief” on it walks up to them. The helmet has seen better days, and is full of stickers from local sports teams and charity events. Under the helmet a pair of wrap-around sunglasses shield his eyes from the morning sun. The thick tan nomex coat with reflective striping hangs heavy on him, the pants below in the same flame-resistant fabric. He takes off his thick black gloves as they exit the vehicle to greet him. He smiles at Vi.

“Vi, not much to see I’m afraid,” he takes his hand and shakes it, turning toward the trailer as he speaks. “We got the alert this morning. Been here for a few hours, but it was pretty much gone when we got here. With the tag on Krueger I figured you wanted a look before we did anything more. I’ll show you in.”

Jason leads them toward the blackened skeleton of the trailer. The cold wind cuts across the lot, carrying the acrid stink of melted plastic and charred insulation. The metal siding has peeled back in places, warped like dried bark. Ash flakes drift in the breeze, dancing briefly before dissolving against the gravel.

“We found the body on the couch,” Jason says. “Most of the roof’s gone, but we think the fire started around the kitchen counter. No gas explosion, but it moved fast.”

Caitlyn and Vi exchange a glance as they duck beneath the perimeter tape. The fire crew has laid out a stable path. Boards across soggy ground, a few cones around weakened areas. Inside the wreckage, sunlight pierces through the broken ceiling, casting jagged bars of light through smoke-darkened air.

The couch is still there, or what’s left of it. A scorched frame, some fabric clinging in tatters. And the body.

He’s crumpled forward, half-slumped, his legs splayed awkwardly. Char marks creep up his arms, torso, neck. His face is mostly gone—burned away or shattered when the ceiling gave in. But there’s enough left to know he didn’t move. No drag marks. No claw marks on the floor. No signs of a struggle for the door.

Caitlyn crouches. Slow. Steady. She slips on nitrile gloves, pulling them snug with a practiced flick.

Vi stays standing, hands on her hips, eyes hard. “Looks like him,” she says. “Clothes match, boots too. That was his spot when we came by.”

Jason takes a step back, giving the two of them space.

Caitlyn leans in close. The fire has done its work, but not all of it, not fast enough. Her fingers, delicate but sure, touch the edge of the victim’s jaw, tilting his head just slightly. The stench of cooked flesh rolls up, heavy and wrong. She doesn’t flinch.

She peers inside the airway. Not much is left, but enough.

Black soot traces the interior of the mouth and deep into the throat.

“He was breathing when it hit,” she says softly.

Vi shifts beside her. “Overdose first?”

“Maybe,” Caitlyn replies, pulling back. Her eyes sweep the ground. “The syringe is melted, but the barrel looks empty. Tourniquet’s there, but no blood spatter. If he was already dead, he'd be lying different. No sign of collapse or panic. He was still upright when it started.”

Vi’s jaw tightens. “So what—he doses, nods off, something sparks over by the kitchen and the place lights up?”

“Or someone stages it,” Caitlyn says, rising.

Jason steps closer. “We found a spoon and a baggie by the table. The other bag burned through. We haven’t turned over much else.”

“Hold off on that,” Vi says. “We’ll get evidence recovery out here.”

Caitlyn walks a slow circle around the remains of the living space. Her eyes clock the warped toaster on the kitchen counter, charred and ruined, a burned out curtain from the kitchen window over it. Vi follows her. Sighing.

“If someone staged this, it’s going to be hell to prove it. This place was a mess, with ancient wiring, crap appliances, a known drug addict... People coming and going at all hours.”

Turning, Vi walks out of the trailer. She looks at the area around the burned wreckage. Caitlyn follows her, following Vi’s focus towards a spot just outside of the trailer, beneath a side window. The ground is disturbed. Not from firefighting, more like someone crouched there, maybe even paused. A faint boot print overlaps another, both partially melted.

Caitlyn looks up at the window’s broken edge.

“Very recent,” she says.

Vi nods. “Watching? Maybe they were making sure it worked?” They both stare at the smoldering ruin, and then at the body inside it. “You thinking what I’m thinking?” Vi asks, her body deflated.

Caitlyn sighs, looking at the white rolling plains stretching endlessly towards the Rockies. “Yeah”, she finally says. “Someone is tying up loose ends.”

Caitlyn brushes a gloved hand lightly over the top edge of the nearest print, careful not to disturb it further. There’s still definition. A heel impression, toe spacing, even a partial tread pattern. Vi arches over her. Close. Tight. Her breath visible in the cold. “Right foot. Mid-weight boot,” she mutters. “Decent arch. Not too worn. They crouched here long enough to melt a layer into the soil.” Vi scans the flat yard, biting her cheek. “Where’d they go?”

They both stand and begin following the subtle trail. Scuffs more than prints. Left and right spaced evenly. Purposeful. Caitlyn walks with her eyes down, every step measured.

”Overwatch?” Caitlyn bends down to look at the blown-out tracks in the snow. They lead towards the pass. Beyond the border. She presses the transmit button for the radio. “North-east, through the pass.” It takes a moment for the response to come through. “Copy pass. Cleared forward. We’re moving.”

The tracks veer across the dirt lot behind the trailer. They cross an old patch of gravel, where the soil’s been flattened and packed, and then...

Caitlyn stops.

The ground is ruined. Dozens of prints overrun the area. EMT boots, turnout gear, water runoff from the hoses. Tire treads have overlapped in messy spirals where the first engine swung in.

Vi slows beside her, huffing once through her nose. “Shit.”

Caitlyn kneels again. Brushes at one spot, then another. One tire groove cuts sharp and fresh through the top of a partial print. The spacing is wide, maybe a work truck or something even heavier.

“Big rig,” she says. She looks over at Vi. Another shared thought.

Vi nods. She knows what it could be. She takes a breath. They lock eyes. Caitlyn says it first. “The reefer.”

Vi exhales. “Yeah.”

Victor shows up to take care of the body. Caitlyn and Vi sit in Vi’s truck, staring out at the scene in front of them. The wind rattles faintly against the windshield. Vi shrugs.

“We could get lucky,” she says. “Maybe they needed gas for the reefer. We’ve called around, but… I guess we can do a run. Hit gas stations, see if anyone’s got tapes or something. Long shot, but…”

Caitlyn smiles, turning just slightly toward her. “My dance card’s wide open. We start here, work our way west?”

Vi nods, already reaching for the ignition. “Yeah,” she says. The engine growls to life. “That sounds good.”

The first gas station they hit is on the edge of Cut Bank proper, a half-dead structure with yellowed siding and a leaning sign that just says “GAS | BEER | ICE” in sun-faded red. A teenage clerk in a hoodie that swallows his entire frame nods when Vi flashes her badge.

“Don’t really keep tapes,” he mumbles. “We got a camera, but it just plays live up front. Old boss said nobody ever stole nothin’ worth remembering.”

Vi offers a polite smile. “That’s fair. But you remember an old reefer unit. White semi, older model.”

The kid squints. Then shrugs. “Got a couple trucks last night. Mighta been early morning too, not sure. They all kinda blur together. Don’t really look out there as long as people pay.”

“Okay,” Vi says, “thank you.”

Outside, the wind cuts across the lot like a cold blade. Caitlyn zips up her jacket. “Small towns,” she murmurs.

Vi raises an eyebrow. “I thought you liked the smaller places. What was it? Less pretending that they’ll stay?”

“Everyone knows everyone. The old reefer could probably park right outside, refuel, and drive off and it might as well have not existed at all.”

“Long shot, yeah.” Vi steps into the cabin, she looks apologetically over at Caitlyn. “Not sure what else there is right now though.”

The tall woman chuckles. “It’s okay, Vi, I’m used to long shots.”

They follow Highway 2 west toward Browning. The world flattens out in every direction. Great sheets of white where land and sky meet in quiet agreement. Fence posts rise and vanish in rhythm. A lone hawk drifts overhead, scanning the earth below for something smaller, slower, softer.

They stop at a pump-and-propane combo just past Meriwether. It’s one of those places you wouldn’t even know was open if not for the battered "YES WE’RE OPEN" sign swinging limply in the window.

Inside, a woman in her sixties watches them enter with a half-curious smile. Her hair is gray and pulled back into braids with colorful stones woven into it. She is wearing a worn jacket that looks older than either of them.

Vi greets her with warmth. “Miss Clara. You been behaving?”

Clara grins. “Define behaving.”

“Not chasing any more Jehovah’s Witnesses off your porch with a broom.”

“I said I might, not that I did.”

Caitlyn watches the exchange with a smirk. Vi’s world is thick with threads. Community, memory… Even history. From the outside, Caitlyn can feel herself an outsider, but the threads are starting to wrap around her, too.

They ask about diesel sales and reefers. Clara recalls a reefer the other day, but it was Nathan’s. “Heading for the fields,” she muses. “Kids today are in such a hurry.”

Caitlyn looks at Vi, who smiles over at her. “First, Nathan is in his late thirties, and does long haul deliveries for the oil fields and some other outposts.”

“Like I said,” Clara shrugs. “Kid.”

Vi chuckles. “We’re looking for Tessa’s old rig.”

“Still looking, eh? I’m shocked that thing still runs.” Clara shakes her head. “Haven’t seen it in forever.”

They both thank her, with Caitlyn buying a bottle of water, taking a few sips as they step into the cold. Vi squints into the horizon. “At least there’s not a lot of places to hide a truck out here.”

Caitlyn almost chokes on her water.

A few more dead-end places with dead-end answers leaves them driving farther west in silence, the truck’s tires crunching over snow-packed roads. On the east side of Glacier National Park, near the small community of Saint Mary, the land stretches out in gentle waves beneath the wintry sky, like a frozen ocean locked in time. Mountains loom nearby, their silhouettes dark and tall, marking the boundary between the plains and the peaks.

The truck hums along until they reach Saint Mary Lake, a vast expanse of glittering ice reflecting a sun that struggles to climb above the jagged ridges. The mountains look bruised against the sky, their rugged faces tinted with the afternoon’s warm yellows and faint reds. Caitlyn leans over the center console to stare past Vi, who glances out her own window.

“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” Vi says, her voice quiet.

“Yeah,” Caitlyn manages, tearing her gaze away from the spectacle outside only to watch Vi’s profile for a moment. The other woman’s face is calm, that subtle gleam in her eyes, before Caitlyn withdraws into her own seat.

Vi casts another glance at the frozen lake, sighing contentedly. “I could use lunch,” she says in a brighter tone. Caitlyn doesn’t argue.

They pull in near one of a local hotel that likes to play up a log-cabin feel. Thick timbers, rough-hewn balconies, and a double-door entrance with a carved black bear on the sign. In the summer, there’d be a steady stream of tourists coming in and out, but this time of year, you might see only a few hearty souls or weekend winter adventurers. Still, faint chatter from the main hall drifts into the lobby when Vi and Caitlyn walk inside, stamping snow off their boots.

A woman stands at the front desk, absorbed in a clipboard, but she looks up immediately when the new arrivals enter. Her eyes flash with recognition.

“Hi, Vi,” the woman says, a small smile tugging at her lips. She pushes a lock of honey-brown hair behind her ear, her expression just a shade shy of bashful.

“Hi, June,” Vi answers, smiling back. There’s a moment of warmth there, the kind that hints at something beyond friendly familiarity. Caitlyn tries to ignore the way Vi bites her lip. “We could use a bit of lunch. Might we sit upstairs? This is Caitlyn Kiramman, FBI. She’s helping out.”

June nods, setting aside her clipboard. She extends her hand across the desk, her wrists swirling with inky tattoos, each one a carefully drawn symbol or swirl reminiscent of the local Blackfeet art. Several slender, brightly colored rings glint on her fingers, with a more traditional band on her left ring finger. Bracelets jangle at her wrist with a gentle musicality when Caitlyn shakes her hand.

“Welcome,” June says. “Pleasure to have you. You’ll have the place nearly to yourselves.” Her accent is faint, a gentle Western lilt that blends with the hush of the area, like she’s grown up surrounded by the mountains and the plains her whole life.

Caitlyn nods and offers a polite smile. “Pleasure,” she says, sounding every bit the polished Brit, her vowels rounding out the word.

Up the broad wooden staircase they go, footsteps echoing on thick pine boards. The third-floor dining area is cozy with only half a dozen tables, each topped with checkered tablecloths, offset so one can see the wooden tables underneath. The tables themselves are arranged near the windows facing the dramatic panorama of Saint Mary Lake. The midday light angles through, catching dust motes in the air. A small sideboard displays postcards of Glacier National Park’s iconic vistas and battered brochures for local trailheads, including Many Glacier, just up the road.

June retreats to fetch water while Vi sinks into a chair at the table closest to the biggest window. “It’s eleven miles of water, or ice this time of year,” she explains, tapping a finger on the glass as she glances at Caitlyn. “A thousand feet of steep mountains around it… When the tourists show, this place gets busy, believe it or not.”

Caitlyn takes a seat opposite her and peers out the window one more time, drawn to the sparkling surface of the lake. She can almost imagine summer with its kayaks and small fishing boats, the hum of vacationers snapping photos of the craggy summits overhead. But right now, it’s silent, a hush so deep it settles over everything like a blanket.

Arriving with water and menus, June hands everything out with a smile. Caitlyn takes a mouthful of cold glacial water and looks at the menu. Presented in what is stated to be bison leather the dishes are mostly aimed at making tourists feel like what they will be eating is as unique as the scenery.

Vi tilts her head, looking at the menu. “The elk chili is pretty good, it’s even spicy.” Then she leans in a bit, as if sharing a secret. “But if you prefer something lighter, try the trout fillet. They bring it in fresh, even now from ice fishing.”

To no-one’s surprise, apparently including June who comes to take their order, Vi orders the Elk chili. Caitlyn goes for the trout.

Waiting for the food, Caitlyn watches the skies darken and the first few flakes of snow descend beyond the window. Vi’s voice is as soft as it is friendly. “Penny for your thoughts.”

Caitlyn’s eyes do not leave the lake outside. “Do you think I was wrong about the fetishes?”

It takes Vi a moment to dig up the context, and a moment longer not to giggle. “You said you thought the figurines were local to the perpetrator since they weren’t part of the local culture?”

“Yeah,” Caitlyn answers. Her focus still on the world outside. Out there, in the mountains, there had been bodies. Who knows if there are more that haven’t been found—yet.

“How’d this come up?”

Caitlyn sighs and returns to look at the table, then at Vi. “Crowe seemed certain Eric Kendahl wasn’t our man, and Kendahl spent his entire life in North Dakota, before he came here. The paperwork we got shows no history of him even visiting in the south-west.”

Across from her, Vi shrugs. “Maybe he got it from the ‘net, saw it on a show, or something like that?”

Another deep sigh from Caitlyn. “The craftsmanship of the figurines is very consistent. Whomever made them has made them before. This isn’t a learning experience.”

Vi is about to answer as June serves them both, flashing a bright smile. A bowl of deep, earthy chili with cornbread on the side for Vi and a plate of rainbow trout with wild rice pilaf for Caitlyn. “Enjoy,” June winks as she walks off.

“I bet you’re dying to ask.” Vi speaks slowly around a spoonful of thick stewy chili. Opposite her, Caitlyn is in the middle of a forkful of fish and pilaf. She holds up a hand in front of her mouth as she swallows.

“The ring is new, last year or so. What happened before that was between you two, it’s none of my business. Besides, she doesn’t seem to hold any grudges.”

Across from her, Vi tilts her head and pinches her eyes, trying to read the woman seated with her.

“You’re not jealous, or even slightly taken aback at the…?”

“At the flirting? No, why would I be?” A flash of sadness passes over Vi’s face. Caitlyn puts her fork down. “You’ve had a life here, you’ve been open about that, and no matter what happens to us, I don’t need you to hide that or pretend you’re someone you’re not. Above everything else, I trust you Vi. You flirting with someone else doesn’t speak about us. You stopping flirting with me, that’s what’ll speak about us.”

That flash of sadness is replaced with a look of calm, almost confusion.

“I’ve just never…” Vi pauses, trying to find the right words. “No-one has ever been like that with me before, no matter the relationship.”

“Well,” Caitlyn says around another forkful of divine trout, “there you go then.”

They leave the tranquility of Saint Mary and find another gas station. The man barely speaks to Vi outside of short utterances that barely amount to sentences. Once they leave the single-pump station, Vi gets into the driver’s seat and guides the car out on the road. The soft snowfall blankets the world in quiet calm as Vi’s phone rings, the display showing the caller as “Vander”.

“Hi dad,” she starts, “what’s up?”

“Hi kiddo, they’re releasing Powder tonight. I was thinking we could drive down and pick her up, if that works for you?”

Vi glances over at Caitlyn who nods repeatedly over at her.

“Yeah, that works. When?”

“We should be there before eight, so leave here before five thirty? We can take my car?”

“Okay, I’ll be there in an hour or so, we’re north of Saint Mary. We’ll take the 464.”

“Sounds good. I spoke to Powder for a bit, she’s worn, but doesn’t want to be in the hospital any longer. And it’s a rough commute for everyone.”

“Right, I get that. I’ll see you soon, thanks dad.”

“Always kiddo, take care, see you soon.”

Vi looks over at Caitlyn who smiles back at her. “I’ll drop you off at the station?”

“That works,” her passenger says, still smiling. “It’s fine Vi, I’m happy for you all. You and Vander take care of her and let me know if there’s anything I can do, otherwise at least for a little bit, Powder probably wants to see as few people as possible.”

“Thank you.” The response is heartfelt. Vi’s head falls, rising to take in the road anew. “Part of me wants to put it off. Part of me would rather be out here. Part of me would rather be with you.” She stares out into the emptiness outside. “And I hate that I even think those thoughts. Who’d feel like that when their sister is coming home from the hospital?”

“Pretty much everyone.” Caitlyn’s voice might be soft, but it grips Vi hard as she casts a firm stare towards the source of the statement. “We all think thoughts like that, because when it comes down to it we often don’t want to do what’s hard. We want to find comfort, safety, warmth. Doing the hard thing when there’s a softer option? That’s part of what makes you a good person, Vi. Don’t blame yourself for your thoughts, take pride in your actions.”

The sun dips low behind the mountains as Vi locks up her truck and climbs into Vander’s battered Silverado. The old diesel rumbles beneath them, a familiar vibration that settles into the bones. Vander doesn’t say anything as she enters the passenger seat. He checks his mirrors, shifts into gear, and eases them out of the driveway.

The silence between them is easy at first. The kind that doesn’t need to be filled. Outside, the world grows colder and paler, light bleeding across the snow-covered land in thin streaks. Fence posts flash by like the ticks of a second hand.

“She called you?” Vi asks eventually, her voice quiet.

Vander nods, one hand resting casually on the wheel. “Yeah. She sounded tired. Said she was ready to come home.”

Vi exhales, pressing her forehead lightly against the cold glass of the passenger window. “That fast?”

“She’s been cleared. Docs think it’ll help her more to be with people than to sit in that place, watching the clock tick.” He glances at her. “Coming home might be good for her?”

Vi doesn’t answer right away. She watches the sky change color instead—pink near the horizon, darker blue creeping in overhead. “I think I’m scared,” she says finally. “She’s still so… fragile.”

Vander doesn’t argue. He just nods again and keeps driving.

The town gives way to wide fields. Behind them loom the jagged teeth of silhouetted peaks. They pass a pair of grain silos and what was once an old convenience store. Its sign hangs limply over the front entrance. The minutes creep by.

Vi tries not to think about the past.

Or the future.

The hospital sits past the center of town. Past where they talked to Kelsey Brewer. The young blonde who eventually led them to Eric Kendahl. Vi tries to look for the house in the throng of buildings south of the main avenue, but it is too deep into the city to be seen.

Sometime the other day, Caitlyn drove here. Vi would have been in the passenger seat. Like now. Vi tries to recall anything from that drive. Her memory fails to provide her with anything more than throwing up and shivering. But Caitlyn got her here. Just like that.

She tries to imagine what Caitlyn is doing right now.

The guest house is dead silent. Caitlyn’s boots make soft thuds against the worn floorboards. She locks the door behind her and doesn’t turn on the overhead lights. She removes her outer layer and takes off her boots. In her socks she walks over to the kitchen island and turns on the single small lamp. It washes the house in a golden hue, bringing long shadows from the twig figurine by the foot of her mattress.

She pours herself a glass of water. She was here. A few days ago. A lifetime ago. Face to face with Vi. Telling her she should leave. And then yesterday it all… changed. She finishes the glass of water, unbuckles her belt, removes her fleece layer, her pants, and her socks, before coming to stand between the bed and the kitchen island.

Caitlyn moves with deliberate control. Every motion a study in balance, poise, and strength. She begins with grounded, breath-driven poses. Plank holds that linger just a bit longer than comfort allows, slow low chaturangas that challenge the dense strength of her arms and shoulders, and low deep lunges that open her hips. Her breath is steady. Nothing shakes.

Then, from stillness, she rises into Vrksasana, the tree pose. Her right foot presses against the inside of her opposite thigh, knee turned outward, spine lengthened like a drawn bow. Arms lift overhead with raw discipline, fingertips reaching high. This isn’t ornamental. It’s a diagnostic. Every joint reports in.

And she listens.

More movement. She lowers into Mayurasana, the peacock pose. Palms flat, fingers angled back toward her feet, she plants her elbows into her core and lifts. Her entire body raises off the ground, parallel to it, like a suspension bridge of sinew and breath. Her legs don’t tremble. Her core doesn’t buckle. Savage control of abs, wrists, triceps, and back, all engaged, all silent.

It is just her and her breath.

She exhales. Rolls her head from shoulder to shoulder.

And then she picks up her phone.

She calls her mother.

It only rings once.

“Darling,” Cassandra says, voice low and warm. “You sound breathless.”

“I was moving,” Caitlyn answers, easing her weight back against the mattress. Her limbs still hum from effort. Her arms warm, her core steady, one leg stretched long against the worn wood floor, the other bent at the knee. “I needed… to check in.” There’s a pause. A familiar one. Cassandra waits. “I apologized to her,” Caitlyn says. “Vi. For everything that morning.”

“And?” Cassandra asks softly.

“We talked. Really talked. It’s... better. Good. We had lunch.”

Cassandra exhales. Caitlyn is certain her mother can feel her smiling through the ether. “Good. That’s brave, love. Ownership is harder than withdrawal. Especially with someone who matters.”

Caitlyn nods faintly, then picks at a fraying thread in the hem of one of the socks she was wearing. “There’s something else.”

“Of course.”

“Vi’s sister was released today. Powder. She’s—” Caitlyn breathes in deep, eyes on the ceiling, “—young. Just out of the hospital. OD.”

“I see.”

“She’s fragile,” Caitlyn continues. “I’m not going to intrude, but I thought maybe I could leave something. I was thinking a blanket, a notebook, and a pen. Quiet things. Anchors.”

Cassandra is silent for a breath. “Not to fix her.”

“No.”

“Not to show what you know.”

“No.”

“Those are good gifts,” Cassandra says gently. “Not a prescription. An offering.”

Caitlyn’s head tips back against the mattress. She lets out a slow breath, almost a laugh. She stares at the ceiling. “That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”

“She’ll feel the thought in it. Even if she doesn’t say anything.”

“She doesn’t need to,” Caitlyn murmurs.

“No,” Cassandra agrees. “But she might. Later. When it’s time. That’s the gift too, isn’t it? Room.”

They fall quiet together.

Then, Cassandra adds, “I’m proud of you.”

Caitlyn closes her eyes. Her hand rests flat on the floor beside her, fingers relaxed. “Thank you.”

“Let me know how it goes.”

“I will.”

“I’m here.”

“I know.”

The parking lot of Great Falls Clinic Hospital is still laden with ice. Vi half-remembers leaving. She looks at the entrance. The main entrance, not the emergency room. There is concrete, brick, flickering sodium lights. They park in the lot, kill the engine, and sit there for a moment without moving.

Vi drums her fingers against her thigh. “You want to go in together?”

Vander shrugs. “Thought I’d let you take point.”

Vi nods. “Okay.”

Inside, the fluorescent lights hum overhead. The halls are half-empty, the night shift just beginning to settle in. The nurse at the front desk seems to recognize her and smiles softly. “She’s ready,” the woman says, passing over a clipboard. “Discharge forms are done. She’s dressed. Just needs a signature.”

Vi hesitates over the line, then signs her name. Her throat tightens as she hands the clipboard back.

The door to Powder’s room opens a few seconds later. A nurse walks out, then Powder follows, shoulders hunched beneath a too-large hoodie. Something Vander brought. Of course. Powder’s eyes catch Vi’s, then drop again. She’s carrying a paper bag with her clothes in it, another with her medication. Her steps are slow.

“Hey,” Vi says gently.

Powder doesn’t answer. She just nods, brushing past to stand beside the door, waiting. Vi glances at the nurse, who only offers a sympathetic smile.

Vander joins them a moment later and opens the door to the Suburban. “Back seat okay?” he asks, already angling to climb in and drive.

Powder nods again and climbs in. She doesn’t sit all the way back. She perches, curled against the door like she might disappear into the corner.

Vi pauses, then opens the rear door and climbs in next to her, giving her space but not too much. She doesn’t want Powder to feel alone back here. She swallows.

The back seat.

With Powder.

She looks over at Vander, who looks at her via the rear mirror, and nods. No looking back, I understand. He starts the engine and pulls out of the lot.

The road home is darker now. Only the headlights cut through the cold. Inside, the heater works overtime, but Powder still wraps her arms tight around herself. Vi can feel the tension in her sister’s body, held in like a breath no one lets go.

A few miles out, Vander breaks the silence, speaking while looking forward. “You warm enough back there?”

Powder nods without speaking.

Vi doesn’t touch her, but she lowers her voice. “You hungry? We’ve got food at the house.”

Another nod. Still no words.

“Okay,” Vi says softly.

They pass through quiet country, the stars beginning to emerge in the clearest parts of the sky. Vi watches them, her eyes tracking constellations she’s known since she was a child. Polaris. Orion. The Big Dipper.

Time fades away.

It disappears into the void.

And within it, everyone lingers.

The truck crests a hill, and the lights of Browning come into view in the distance. Small, scattered, but home. No-one in the car speaks, but Vi can hear Powder breathing, shallow and slow, like someone barely remembering how.

They pull into the driveway. Snow crunches under the wheels of the large Silverado. Ahead, the house is dark, save for the warm glow from the front room. Vi climbs out first and walks over to Powder’s side, opening the door. Powder doesn’t move right away. Then, slowly, she slides out of the truck and stands there, shoulders still tight, eyes on the ground.

Vi wants to reach for her. She doesn’t.

Instead, Vander opens the front door and motions them in.

Inside, the heat greets them. So does the faint scent of the food. Powder walks in, arms still hugging herself, and Vi follows, then she helps her sister take off her jacket.

And then they hug.

And Powder cries.

The family is seated at the living room table. Eating, while watching TV. The knock on the door makes Powder jump. Vi reaches over and takes her hand. “I’ll take care of it,” she says.

“Okay,” Powder says. “Thank you.”

Vi smiles at her and moves to the door. Opening it, she sees Caitlyn standing tall, the hallway light spilling out across her dark coat, catching on the melting flakes in her hair. Vi’s face is a mix of surprise and something… softer.

Caitlyn lifts a bundle of cloth towards Vi. “Just dropping this off. I won’t stay.” Vi looks down at the bundle, then back up at Caitlyn, who continues. “For Powder.”

It takes Vi a moment to say anything, her mouth hanging open while she processes.“You want me to give it to her?”

“Please. If you think she’s up for it.” Her tone is easy. Measured.

Vi smiles faintly, taking the bundle. “Where’d you…” She shakes her head.

Caitlyn smiles at her, giving a brief shrug. “A small note, a blanket, a notebook, a pen.”

They stand in silence for a moment. Somewhere inside, Caitlyn can hear faint chatter. A television. Someone coughing.

Vi glances toward the sound, then back at Caitlyn. “She’s quiet. Withdrawn. But she’s eating. That’s something.”

Caitlyn nods again. “If you need anything, let me know.”

Vi stands there, saying nothing. She doesn’t want to say any of the words she wants to say. Instead, Caitlyn takes a step forward, putting a hand behind Vi’s head and guiding it to her shoulder, letting her other hand come around Vi for a careful hug.

Leaning on Caitlyn, there are a hundred things Vi could say. But there is only one thing she wants to say. But she swallows that desire. As they move apart, she looks up at Caitlyn. “Thank you. You’re amazing. I’ll let you know.”

“Have a good night Vi,” Caitlyn says, smiling as she takes a step back. She gives a shallow bow towards Vi before turning around and walking back to her Suburban, leaving Vi to close the door.

As Vi arrives at work the next morning, everything feels different. She stands at the coat rack and everyone in the office tries to be polite and not say anything. Everyone except Caitlyn, who stands up from her desk and moves across the floor, greeting a half-hesitant Vi with a hug. All the tension in Vi’s body disappears. She feels herself go heavy into Caitlyn and then she closes her arms around the taller woman.

She burrows her head into Caitlyn’s shoulder. “Thank you. Again,” she mutters.

“Anytime,” Caitlyn says, patting Vi’s back before releasing her. She looks into those powder blue eyes as her right thumb rubs Vi’s temple. With every motion of Caitlyn’s thumb any last trace of tension is wiped from Vi’s mind.

With both her body and her mind free, Vi stares at Caitlyn, unsure of what to say, until Grayson comes out from her office.

“Powell County Sheriff's Office have received a phone call suggesting that Eric Kendahl is at a residence in Helmville. They’re going to do a knock and a search. They called to inform us. Do we want to be there?” Standing close, Caitlyn and Vi exchange a brief look, eye to eye, and as Caitlyn turns towards Grayson they both nod. “Okay,” Grayson adds. “I’ll tell them to hold, you head out right away.”

The road to Helmville stretches long and quiet, winding through half-frozen ranchland under a washed-out sky. Powdery snow clings to the edges of the fence posts and gathers in windblown curls along the shoulders. The clouds hang low and still, as if waiting for something to happen.

Vi drives the Suburban. Her hands are steady on the wheel, but her eyes flick often to the rearview mirror, to the horizon, to the fields that blur past. She’s not tense, not exactly. But there’s a hum in her chest.

Caitlyn rides beside her in silence, eyes down on the tablet in her lap. She’s layered up, fleece beneath the tactical shell. The tablet’s display shows a topographical map of the area around the trailer. Caitlyn is zoomed in tight on the spot. She has written down marks and annotated good bits of the map. Every road, every treeline, every ridge.

“Ridge to the west,” she murmurs, mostly to herself. “Creek to the north. Woods slope downhill.” She drags another line on the map, from a ridge over to a spot on what looks like a cleared path. The application reports the line is 242 meters with an angle of nine point one degrees, descending.

Vi glances over. “What’s up?”

Caitlyn taps a corner of the map. “Just prep. Habit.”

“You think he’ll bolt?”

The passenger locks the tablet and stares out into the slow swirl of snow. “No plan ever survives contact with the enemy.”

They pass through open pastures and then into stands of thin pines. A few rusted signs mark the curve of the road. At an intersection at the far end of nowhere, two Powell County pickup trucks wait in a staggered line. They’re still at least five minutes from the property.

The sheriff himself stands outside his idling truck, arms crossed, leaning against the door. In the other vehicle, two more deputies sit inside with the heat running. One drinks coffee from a styrofoam cup, his hat pushed back. The other doesn’t look up from his phone.

As the Suburban pulls in beside them, Sheriff Tanner checks his watch, then glances up. Vi and Caitlyn step out into the snow-packed gravel.

“Hi Vi,” he says, voice edged with Montana gravel. “Shall we?”

Vi gestures between them. “Roland, Caitlyn Kiramman, our FBI liaison. Caitlyn, Powell County sheriff Roland Tanner.”

Caitlyn offers a small, professional smile. “Sheriff.”

Roland gives her a long look. The kind of look that tries to size you up while pretending it’s not. “So you’re the liaison,” he says finally. “Well. This shouldn’t be a big deal. Eric’s dumb, not suicidal. He’s probably just holed up with that girl of his. Too proud to come out until he’s finished whatever he’s high on.”

Caitlyn nods politely but doesn’t respond. Her eyes flick once to the treeline ahead, then down to the gravel under her boots. Without a word, she turns and walks toward the Suburban.

Vi watches her go, then turns back to Tanner. “You planning to go straight in?”

“We knock. We talk. If he’s twitchy, we step back and get a warrant. He ain’t going anywhere.”

Vi doesn’t argue. She just nods, although her eyes follow Caitlyn’s retreating form.

At the back of the Suburban, Caitlyn lowers the tailgate. The interior smells faintly of gun oil and cold plastic. She unzips her battle rifle case first. Checks the chamber. Taps the magazine. Gently rocks the suppressor to confirm it’s tight. She removes the optic caps, checks the glass, and verifies the zero. Finally, she tugs at the sling to ensure it’s secure. Satisfied, she sets the rifle down. Ready but still safe.

Then comes the armor. She slips off her outer jacket, revealing the base layer beneath, and pulls the plate carrier over her head. The movement is smooth, habitual. One plate. Then the other. The soft thunk of ceramic composite sliding into its pouch.

Vi approaches and catches the vest Caitlyn tosses her. She pauses briefly, just long enough to register the unfamiliar weight. Beige cordura, external loops for modular lightweight load-carrying equipment. The entire setup screams ‘military’. Caitlyn is already checking comms gear on two high-cut helmets. She looks up only briefly to pass Vi a plate.

Vi frowns. “That bad?”

Caitlyn’s answer is quiet, almost distracted. “Roland’s right. Eric’s cornered. People who are cornered do stupid shit.”

Vi loads the plates, fastens the sides, and shrugs her jacket back on. It’s tighter now, stiff at the shoulders. Without a word, Caitlyn holds out the helmet. The same one Vi wore when they tracked the wolf. Vi takes it, dons it, adjusts the chin strap until it clicks. She presses her push-to-talk button. “Comms check.”

Caitlyn taps her own. “Check. Confirmed.”

Vi steps closer and touches Caitlyn’s arm. The taller woman finally looks at her, eyes focused but present.

“You’re really going full kit.”

“Over-prepared is ready,” Caitlyn says, reaching up briefly to touch Vi’s hand. “Over-prepared means you don’t need to worry.”

Vi exhales through a smile, small but real. Then she chuckles. “You know they’re gonna love us for this.”

Caitlyn’s tone doesn’t shift. “Better bruised egos than a coroner’s van.”

And then she closes the tailgate.

They drive the last stretch slowly, tires crunching over old ice and gravel. The road narrows as the woods close in, snow-laden pine boughs brushing overhead like silent watchers. Vi guides the Suburban behind the two county pickups. No one speaks.

Caitlyn sits still in the passenger seat. Gear settled. Helmet on. Rifle slung across her chest. Her eyes track the woods, mapping known and unknown variables in silence.

The trailer comes into view through the trees. It’s a worn double-wide, its roof sagging beneath a heavy quilt of snow. Plywood covers one window. A blue tarp flaps loosely over another. The front porch leans forward, one support post warped and bowed. A battered propane tank squats near the side. Smoke trails lazily from a stovepipe, almost hesitant in the cold air.

Vi parks off to the side, far enough back for maneuvering room. Both women step out. The snow crunches underfoot, powder lifting off the eaves with each gust. Vi retrieves her shotgun out of the back seat. The deputies exit their trucks with comfortable casualness. One adjusts his gloves, another tightens the drawstring on his hood like he’s preparing for a stroll.

Caitlyn doesn’t speak. She scans the perimeter, quietly matching terrain to the map she marked earlier. The tree line. The narrow footpath curling behind the structure. A sagging shed half-swallowed by a collapsed fence. Her breath fogs, controlled and steady.

Sheriff Roland Tanner approaches, boots crunching on gravel. “You two hang back,” he says. “We don’t want to spook him.”

Vi nods. “All yours, Roland.”

She and Caitlyn move to partial cover beside the Suburban. Caitlyn kneels, unslings her rifle, and rests it across her thigh. Not raised. Not pointed. Just ready. Her helmet shifts slightly as she adjusts her shoulders. Vi stays standing, arms crossed, eyes on the porch. Her breath catches. Just a little.

One of the deputies approaches the steps. He ascends slowly. His boots creaking on the wood. The second lingers off to the side, hand near his belt.

The lead deputy knocks. Three firm raps.

A pause.

Then a second knock. Louder. Sharper.

Nothing.

The wind threads its way through the trees, cold and constant. A loose flap of tarp snaps against the siding.

Caitlyn’s eyes narrow. She leans slightly forward.

A flicker. Movement. Behind the window.

“Movement,” she calls—sharp, clear. “Rear left window. Inside.”

Something's wrong. There’s a shift in posture. A hesitation.

“MOVE!”

And then the front door explodes into splinters.

For everyone else, the world goes sideways.

A shotgun blast. Screams. Splinters. Gunpowder. Chaos.

But for Caitlyn, time narrows.

She watches the shockwave ripple through the air as if it’s moving through water. Wood fragments hang in suspension. The deputy who knocked is already down. The other one next to him stumbles, his arm bleeding. Sheriff Tanner, somewhere behind, shouts, but the sound is distant.

Caitlyn moves.

There’s no adrenaline. No panic. Just the switch flipping.

She pushes off her knee and advances, rifle rising with the motion. Vi flinches, one breath later, but moves.

Caitlyn crosses open ground in five strides, cutting left to avoid the kill zone behind the door. Her back presses flat against the exterior wall. She sweeps the porch in a fraction of a second. Next to her the deputy with the bleeding arm is struggling to pull his partner out of the doorway. Tanner is looking at them both, his hands busy clasping his sidearm. Another shotgun shot tears the rest of the door apart.

Caitlyn breathes once. In through her nose. Steady.

“Door’s mine. Vi, triage. Tanner, on me, rear.”

Caitlyn reaches the threshold, tight to the wall. She doesn’t wait. The situation’s gone loud. She slices the pie, shifting inch by inch across the open doorway, muzzle leading, rifle angled, red dot sight burning bright against shadows, eyes locked into the tight angles of the main room. She keeps her trailing foot from crossing her leading one and the elbow holding the rifle is flushed tight up against her body.

Behind her, Vi crosses over to the two men slumped against the wall. The man who was knocking is bleeding profusely from a wound somewhere below his collar. “Hold still”, Vi looks down at his name tag. “Hold still Bryson! You’re hit in the neck. You’re bleeding but we’ve got you.” With one hand pressuring the wound she rips open a gauze pack from her belt and presses it hard against the bleeding. The deputy flinches, groans. “I know, it sucks, but you’re gonna be fine. Stay with me.” Blood pulses rapidly between Vi’s fingers, staining the gauze bright red. Next to her, Tanner looks down at his deputies, hesitates for a second, before stepping out to Caitlyn’s rear.

Caitlyn hits the threshold low and fast. Her shoulder grazes the doorframe. She buttonhooks in, clearing the last part of space she hasn’t seen, keeping the muzzle of the rifle plane, ready to engage. The front room opens immediately to the left. A couch, overturned table, a flicker of motion. No shot. No weapon. She flows forward. A woman behind the couch, on the floor. Her face is bruised, face swollen, arms raised instinctively. She cowers, blinking at the sight of Caitlyn. Still no weapon.

“Police,” Caitlyn says, firm but low. “Stay down.” The woman nods mutely. Doesn’t move.

“Entry made. Living room clear,” she says into her comm, voice tight, clipped. Caitlyn presses the comm again. “One female, bruised, unarmed. Living. Tanner, escort. Continuing back.”

Behind her, Vi’s voice crackles back, low but steady. “Copy. One down, one injured. Both stable. EMS rolling.”

Caitlyn glides forward, rifle up, steps deliberate. Her muzzle never dips. She uses furniture as hard corners, slicing around a battered recliner, past the sagging coffee table. The hallway is straight ahead, tight and cluttered, one bedroom door slightly ajar.

She quick-peeks the frame, leaning just enough to catch a flash of the room inside. Shadows. No movement. She resets, breath steady. Then she commits. Another buttonhook in.

“Bedroom one clear. No contact.”

She moves again. Kitchen on the right, cramped and foul-smelling. Sink full of dishes. A roach darts across the linoleum.

She angles into the second room. This one deeper. Still no shots fired. No voices. Empty. Just her breath in her ears and the faint crunch of snow through the broken back door.

The cold hits her first. Back door ajar. Wind pushing it wider.

Outside… Tracks. Heavy boots. Fresh. Pressed deep into the slush on the rear steps.

Then she hears it.

The engine. The whine of a snowmobile spooling up, off to the right. A bit of distance, but rising.

She bolts. “Suspect fleeing rear. Snowmobile. Pursuing.” Out the door. Down the steps in two bounds. The tracks carve straight toward the trees.

She doesn’t hesitate. She rushes through the small back yard, feet disappearing into the snow. Each step an effort, but her breath stays steady. She pushes against the rise in front of her. Around thirty meters, almost a hundred feet. The snow is shallower due to the angle of the ground, but the woods are no less dense. As her feet and legs burn with the work of pushing her upwards, her hands change magazines mid-stride. Blue band out, red band in. The magazine slots into the weapon with practiced ease. She rips the charging handle, flinging the lone previously chambered sub-sonic round into the snow. The fresh supersonic round seats itself with a metallic snap.

Her heart is pumping hard. She controls her breathing. She knows where he’ll go. The creek blocks the north. The slope forces the loop. He has no other exit.

At the crest she kneels behind a downed tree, laying her rifle over its frame.

She brings the rifle up. Optic clear. Scope to eye. She dials the magnification to 7x. Enough to resolve detail, not so much that she loses situational awareness. Her finger finds the first hold mark in the reticle. Half a mil for drop at this range. Wind’s dead. She steadies her breath.

Through a clearing in the trees, movement.

The snowmobile bursts into view, fishtailing through the trees. Eric is hunched over the bars. No helmet. His coat flaps wildly. Caitlyn exhales. “Contact. Going hot,” she murmurs into her comms. Her thumb flicks the safety to single shot. She tracks his movement. Easy shot. Center mass. Squeeze. It would be so much easier to drop the man.

Crack.

But he is not the target.

Crack.

She targets the snow mobile instead. Both shots. Tight spread. One punches the cowling, the other kills the engine. The machine kicks sideways. It skids. And then it tips. Eric flies. A limp shape against white snow.

Stillness returns.

The man rises, looks at the smoking snow mobile with two rounds of supersonic .300 Blackout having stopped the machine dead. He turns to look up the hill. Above him, almost eight hundred feet away, stands a silhouette framed by bare trees and gray sky, a solitary woman with a rifle shouldered and at the ready.

He doesn’t raise his hands. He doesn’t run. He just stares up the hill, his eyes flat. And the woman keeps him in her crosshairs.

Chapter Text

Vi stands at the rise, looking down the slope again, across the clearing where the snowmobile still smokes. Tracks curve like dying signatures in the snow. Two shots. Both surgical. Both final. She shakes her head, trying to picture it. Well over two hundred yards, a fast moving target, barely a second to react.

Caitlyn appears beside her, quiet as snowfall. “Powell County’s claiming jurisdiction. Two of theirs got hit. They’re claiming Kendahl.” She exhales, not quite a sigh. “We’ll get our turn. Eventually. I can call the head office, stir things up if you want.”

Vi turns, eyeing her. “In the car. On your tablet. This was the map. The numbers. You were planning this.”

“Two-forty-two meters. Nine-point-one degree angle. Thirty-eight meters down. One of six firing lines. Three from up here.” She points, her gloved hand slicing the cold air. First toward a set of trees Eric never made it to, then to an open flat space beyond. “The backup. The dead end.”

“You did this for a living.”

Caitlyn doesn’t answer at first. Just breathes. She doesn’t flinch. But her eyes darken, just a shade. “Seems I still do.”

The silence hangs amongst the trees. “You took out the sled.” Vi’s voice is quiet. She looks down at her hands, the blood refuses to wash off. “After everything he’s done… I don’t know if I could’ve held back.”

Caitlyn turns. Her voice is steady. Her focus absolute.

“The sled needed two shots. If any of those pellets had hit you…” She takes a deep breath. “I promise you, I would only have needed one shot.”

The aftermath takes time. There are questions. Endless questions. Eventually, after the paramedics have taken the wounded deputies and Eric has been walked, cuffed and shivering, into the back of a cruiser, Caitlyn stands next to Vi beside the Suburban, quietly unslinging her rifle.

Sheriff Tanner approaches, hands buried in his coat. He glances at the scope, then at her. He clears his throat. “I’m not looking to start jurisdictional fights today. You’ve filed statements here and that’s fine by me. Let’s get you squared away and back north. I’ll tell my guys not to stall.”

Caitlyn nods. “Appreciated.”

He exhales. “We were lucky you were here.” He looks down at the rifle and then back at her. “You took the situation, ran the entry, and you didn’t shoot him. Could’ve…” He looks away, at the splintered door frame. Something flickers in his eyes, a weary resignation. “Hell, I probably would have.”

Her voice is quiet. “I had the shot. I took the machine. We want some other answers from him.”

Tanner studies her, then rubs the back of his neck. “I’ll make sure the paperwork doesn’t get in your way. We, hell, I owe you. I won’t forget that.” They share a nod and then he walks away, Caitlyn leaning against the Suburban’s side panel, her rifle across her lap. The snow has begun to fall again. Slow and quiet.

After Tanner builds some distance, Vi closes up beside her. Her voice soft. Almost… Begging. “Good to go?”

Caitlyn exhales, breath misting. “Yeah. Good to go.”

Caitlyn drives. In the passenger seat, Vi sits and leans her head against the side window. Once they got into the car and the quiet settled, Vi’s focus came to rest on the lightly falling snow outside. Except when she looks down at her hands. Caitlyn turns briefly towards Vi as she speaks.

“What was the name of the officer with the neck wound?”

“Bryson.” Vi looks down at her hands. Again.

“You did good. You saved his life today.”

It takes Vi a moment before she answers. She looks out the window again, briefly, before returning to her hands. “Gauze and pressure, not that hard. Just like in training.”

Caitlyn alternates her focus between the emptiness in front of them and the emptiness next to her. “It feels different when warm blood flows through your hands.” Vi raises her head and looks over her driver as Caitlyn speaks. “I’ve met very hard people who break in those situations.”

Those powder blue eyes keep staring at Caitlyn. “But not you. You’ve been there, haven’t you?”

She is met with a few short, knowing, nods. “I have.”

Vi exhales. “Besides, it was easier to do knowing you were clearing the trailer. I knew I was safe.” A long pause. In the passenger seat Vi stares out at the world beyond. “I can’t…” She pauses. She tries again. “I need to take a shower.”

“You saved a man’s life Vi.” Caitlyn looks over at her. “The blood will wash away. His life now won’t. You’ll be okay.” Vi wants to believe her. It’s just not happening. “I’ll drive you home to clean up, then we can take you to your family. I’ll clear it with Grayson.”

From the passenger side, Vi releases the spent air from within her. It goes on and on and on. Until she is truly empty. She has to gather breath to speak again. “When the case is closed, will you leave right away?”

Reaching over, Caitlyn touches her shoulder. “When this thing finally closes, we’ll see what we do. And I promise you that we’ll both talk and have time to think before anything changes.”

“Okay,” Vi says. She tries to smile. She wants to smile. And Caitlyn wants to believe her.

Arriving at Vi’s place, Caitlyn finally removes her hand from Vi’s body. It has travelled. Shoulder, thigh, side. Vi looks over at her. There is a smile on her face, but it is the smile of someone who has lost the memory of how to really smile.

That is what Vi is right now.

Lost.

“I’ll be right over.” Caitlyn reaches back over and squeezes Vi’s hand before opening her door and jogging around to the other side of the vehicle. Opening Vi’s door, she takes her hand again and leads her out of the Suburban. Step by step they walk across the snow-laden walkway in towards Vi’s house. Vi finds the keys. Caitlyn helps her open the door.

Stepping inside, Vi mumbles. “I saved Bryson.”

“Yes, you did.” Caitlyn speaks softly, guiding Vi towards the hallway to her bedroom and the bathroom. “You did good.”

“I couldn’t save my parents.”

Caitlyn’s breath catches. She doesn’t say "It wasn’t your fault." Vi has heard that too many times already. She moves her arm from Vi’s hand to her shoulder, hugging her as she moves her down the hallway.

“Come on Vi, let’s get you out of those clothes and into the shower.”

Vi doesn’t protest. She doesn’t speak. She barely moves. Caitlyn guides her into the bathroom and turns on the shower, heating the room with the warm water. She then helps her undress. Each item of clothing dumped on the floor. Vi reaches down to pick up her shirt, only for Caitlyn to take hold of her arm.

“Leave it. I’ll wash it, right now. It’s okay. I got it.”

When Caitlyn helps her with her pants, Vi lifts one foot, then the other, slow but deliberate. She holds her arms in front of herself as Caitlyn pulls her pants down. Caitlyn steps out in front of Vi, bending down to meet Vi’s lowered gaze.

“Do you want me to leave the room until you get into the shower?” Vi hesitates. Then, without looking up, she shakes her head. “Okay, I’m going to help you out of your underwear. After that, you shower, and I’ll wash your clothes, okay?” Vi nods. The motions are shallow. Caitlyn smiles up at her. “That’s good. You’re doing good Vi.”

She eases the last layer off, then steadies Vi as she steps into the shower. For a moment, Vi stands there, immobile. The water hits her like heat she didn’t know she needed. At first, it hurts. Then it doesn’t. Then she draws a deep breath, filling her lungs with warm moist air. Soap in hand, she starts to scrub, not fast, not hard, just… thoroughly.

Next to the shower, Caitlyn nods to herself before turning away to fill and start the washing machine.

After a shower and dressing herself, Vi is reborn. She smiles over at Caitlyn and, for the first time in what feels like days, they laugh. Lightly, easily, and about nothing in particular. Caitlyn drives her to the station, where Vi profusely thanks her before heading straight to her truck to go see Vander and Powder. Watching her go, Caitlyn exhales and turns toward the station.

Grayson wants a full debrief. What Caitlyn gives her is clipped, efficient. The conversation lasts longer than Caitlyn wants, and is far shorter than Grayson expects.

Eventually released, Caitlyn returns to her guest house.

She showers.

She eats.

She rests.

She breathes.

Caitlyn stretches. The afternoon was blissfully uneventful. She made herself some chicken and rice, cleaned up after herself, and took the time to change into her yoga training gear. Barefoot on her floor, in the muted darkness, she feels her muscles and tendons stretch. That quiet warm calming burn. And then her phone beeps. She checks the time on her watch. Almost ten at night. She looks at the display and opens the text message from Vi.

Hi Cait, you awake?

She jots down the honest response.

Stretching a bit before bed.

The response is instant.

Can I come over for a few?

Caitlyn shakes her head, but she also smiles.

Of course.

Realizing she is sweaty and in training gear, she starts to type another response.

Give me ten minutes to sho—

A knock on the door. Caitlyn stops mid-typing as she puts the phone down and reaches down for her sidearm, resting on the floor next to her training space. She draws it and walks over to the door. Another knock. She opens the door ever so slightly, hiding the gun behind the door itself. Outside, Vi, smiling, holding up a six-pack of beer.

Caitlyn rolls her eyes and opens the door, noticing Vi’s truck is parked a bit down from the house. Vi follows her gaze down towards the car. “Didn’t want to wake you, turned off the lights, tried to be quiet.” Caitlyn steps aside, letting Vi in and allowing her to close the door behind her. She shudders briefly as the cold finally gets to her. Vi looks down at the gun in Caitlyn’s hand.

“I’m thinking I probably should have made more noise?” Vi provides an apologetic shrug, offering Caitlyn the six-pack of beer. A six-pack Caitlyn takes as she walks in towards the living room with a shake of her head, before depositing the beer on the kitchen island. Then she bends down and places the gun by the pillow next to the mattress. She turns to watch Vi finish undressing.

“Thanks,” Vi says, as the boots finally come off. She leans into the doorway. “Sorry.” Caitlyn’s brow furrows. Vi continues. “Powder is sleeping at Vander’s, Vander was going to bed. I wanted to be somewhere easy.” The stare Caitlyn gives her makes Vi shrink. “Not easy like that, I mean, uncomplicated. Sorry.”

Caitlyn shakes her head yet again and chuckles. “It’s fine, come on in, sorry for being sweaty and in yoga pants.” She looks at Vi who is about to say something and then catches herself. “Yeah,” Caitlyn smirks. “Don’t even say anything.”

The guest house is quiet. The only light comes from the singular lamp on the kitchen island, casting a golden pool across the worn countertop. Outside, snow falls in soft spirals against the dark windows. Inside, the air is warm, still. Vi leans against the counter. Caitlyn stands across from her, still in her training gear, one hand resting lightly on the edge of the island. A half-empty beer bottle each.

Vi watches her for a long moment. “How do you feel about me being here?”

Caitlyn’s jaw tightens. Her eyes drift down, away. She takes a slow drink from the bottle but doesn’t answer. Vi crosses the space between them, moving next to the other woman at the island’s edge. She rests her fingers lightly on the back of Caitlyn’s hand, barely letting skin touch skin.

“Trust me,” she says. Her voice is low. Sure. “Whatever it is, just say it. I promise you, it’s us. It’s okay.”

Caitlyn swallows. The beer bottle lingers near her lips before she sets it down on the island. “I feel unfaithful.” The words brittle in her mouth. “To Nadjia. Even hearing myself say it feels like a betrayal.”

Vi doesn’t move away. Doesn’t flinch. Instead, she offers a small, knowing smile. “Benjamin told us Soyi’s story. He said remembering her, sharing her, keeps her here.” Her free hand taps her chest, over her heart. “Sharing her keeps her real. We carry people in stories, Cait.” She lets that linger, before looking into Caitlyn’s eyes. “Tell me about Nadjia.”

Caitlyn stares at her for a long time. Waiting for the sting, for the distance, for the polite nod that never comes. But Vi stays exactly where she is, her fingers still brushing against Caitlyn’s hand.

Ever so slowly, Caitlyn begins. Words slow, low, almost a mumble. “She was fire,” she says, her voice soft, like the start of a song. “Not wild. Not reckless. Just… burning. She was alive in a way that made everyone else look like they were pretending.” Vi watches her closely, silent. “She was a translator. Grew up speaking three languages before she was twelve. She could pick up dialects just by listening for a few minutes. But more than that… she listened. God, she listened better than anyone I’ve ever met. To words, to tone, to the spaces in between. She’d catch a lie with a tilt of her head. Or worse, catch a truth you didn’t even know you were hiding.”

A quiet laugh escapes Caitlyn. She shakes her head.

“She hated uniforms. Said we all looked like matchsticks pretending to be people. She’d glare at us and then go change into something with color just to balance the room out. And she loved old films. Not even the good ones. The grainy black-and-white reels where nothing made sense, and the acting was awful, and she’d watch them like they were gospel.”

Vi chuckles under her breath. “Sounds like the time Powder made me watch three hours of Buster Keaton. In silence. With commentary.”

Caitlyn laughs. Genuinely this time. The sound surprises them both. “She would’ve loved that,” she says. “She had this way of pulling people into orbit. Not through charm or sweetness, I mean, she could be brutal. But she was always honest. Fiercely. The kind of person who makes you feel like being seen is both terrifying and the greatest thing that’s ever happened to you.”

Her voice quiets. “She challenged everything. Me especially. My training. To lead, to direct, to keep everything boxed and labeled. She’d undo all that with one question. One look. She wasn’t afraid to make me feel. And I was so afraid of feeling too much.” Vi nods slowly, listening. Still touching. “She said I made her feel safe. But she made me feel alive.”

The silence lingers. The snow outside builds on the windowsill. Vi finally speaks. “Thank you for telling me.”

Caitlyn’s eyes flick toward her. Avoiding Vi’s eyes. “You’re not… upset?”

“No,” Vi says. “That was beautiful. She was beautiful. And you loved her. I can see why.”

Caitlyn swallows hard. “I think I still do.”

“I know,” Vi says, stepping a little closer. “I’m never going to ask you to stop loving her. No matter what becomes of us. Like with June. You said we have our pasts. I think we’ve both spent too long thinking moving forward means forgetting the people of our past.” Caitlyn breathes out slowly. With the exhaling, her body seems to shrink. Let shoulders descend. Taken by gravity. Vi lifts her beer and takes a sip, then glances sideways toward the lamp’s warm light. “So… did she ever win an argument?”

Caitlyn laughs again, this time quieter, steadier. “Every single one.”

Vi raises her bottle in salute. “I like her already.”

And they stand there for a while. Caitlyn tries to understand what happens. She feels different. Lighter. But fuller at the same time. She has lost something without making her less.

A weight.

Shared.

She looks down at the hand next to her, reaches over, and grabs it like the lifeline it is. And Vi squeezes it in response.

Panting, Vi stares up into the ceiling. She works on getting her breath back. “Well,” she starts. “That was… Whow. And then more whow. And then whow again... And… Honestly, I lost count.” Caitlyn says nothing. She bites her lip. Vi giggles. “You’re cute when you’re all embarrassed.” Caitlyn tries very hard to disappear into the mattress, especially as Vi turns over on her stomach and slides over on top of her, under the shared duvet. “You’ve got crime scene photos and notes all over on that side.” Vi rests there, flesh against flesh, smiling, staring into eyes that are trying very hard to manage the situation. Vi swallows hard, trying to remember what she was doing. “Anyway, if I want to get off, well off the bed that is, this is what’ll happen.” She leans down and kisses Caitlyn’s nose. Caitlyn keeps rubbing her teeth over her lower lip.

“Sorry,” Vi apologizes as she pushes herself up on straight arms above Caitlyn, who tries very hard not to stare at the muscular arms holding a plank position above her. She fails. “I’d love to Cait, but I need fluids in me, not more on me.” Caitlyn shrinks into the mattress, looking away. This time Vi doesn’t giggle, she laughs. “Oh come on, that was funny.” She slides off Caitlyn to her other side, towards the kitchen, ending up looking into Caitlyn’s face. She stops laughing. Her face changes. It goes serious. Deep. Honest.

“I love you Caitlyn.” Caitlyn’s eyes flash open. Vi smiles at her. “You don’t have—“

“—I love you Vi.” It’s instant. Immediate. Raw. And for a moment neither says anything. And then they both exhale.

“Well, okay, that happened,” Vi tries to be casual, but it doesn’t quite work.

Caitlyn smiles at her. “Yeah. But I mean it. I do love you Vi. I have no idea what that means for me, you, or us, but I’m not going to deny the way I feel about you.”

Vi moves in and kisses her. It is soft. Careful. And then she moves away again. “Fluids. Seriously. I have no idea how you’re not parched.” Caitlyn rolls back into the bed and shakes her head.

And now she finally laughs.

Completely naked, Vi walks over to the kitchen sink and opens the faucet.

“Fridge.” The word is spoken to her from the mattress. Vi turns her head to look back at Caitlyn, who now points to the fridge as if the instruction was somehow unclear.

Vi speaks over her shoulder as she opens it. “What do you—“ She stares into the nearly empty fridge. Nearly empty. Barren like so much of Caitlyn’s world. Except, in the fridge door, a large unopened bottle of orange juice. She turns to look at the woman still on the mattress.

“I think, last time, you said you wanted orange juice?” Caitlyn smiles at her.

Vi has barely felt happier in her life.

The covers are tangled around their legs. Warmth shared in silence. Outside of the window, the night stretches quiet and deep, the way it only does in winter. Vi props herself on an elbow, watching Caitlyn in the low amber light.

“Why’d you enlist?” Her voice is soft. Just above a whisper. “I mean… you’re really smart. You could’ve done anything. At the dinner… You looked like you belonged in a boardroom or a… I don’t know, some fancy castle. Not… not in a war zone.”

Caitlyn doesn’t answer right away. Her eyes stay on the ceiling. Then a breath escapes her, almost a laugh. “Mother used to say the fastest way to get me to do something was to tell me I couldn’t.” She pauses, smile fading. “She’s a diplomat. I grew up traveling. Damascus, Kabul, Beijing. I think I learned to read rooms before I read books.” Vi’s hand brushes against hers, fingers looping gently, grounding her. Caitlyn exhales, slow. “My grandfather fought in Normandy. He was awarded the Victoria Cross.” A beat passes. Caitlyn takes a slow breath. “A Kiramman serves. That’s how it was phrased. Not as a suggestion.”

Her voice quiets, like she’s reading something etched on a gravestone.

“I was fifteen, maybe sixteen, when I saw this ad. Royal Marines. 'Be more than you think possible.' It said the commando course was the longest, hardest basic training in NATO. I thought…” She swallows. “If I could do that… Maybe it would mean something. Maybe I’d matter. Maybe I could serve.”

Vi says nothing. Just listens.

“People around me told me I wouldn’t make it. Too posh. Too fragile. Mother told me I could do anything anyone else could ever do. So I showed up. And passed. And then passed again. Recon, sniper school. Two tours.” She pauses, lips pressing into a thin line. “There was this notice. Internal selection for the SAS. Minimum age was twenty-three. I was barely twenty-one. They told me not to bother. Said I’d be eaten alive. I was too soft. Too weak. To young.”

Her voice is flat now. Tired.

“So I did what I always do. I got harder. Stronger… Older.” She blinks, eyes dry. “And I passed.”

Silence stretches between them like breath held underwater. Vi doesn’t try to fill it. Instead, she shifts closer, resting her forehead against Caitlyn’s shoulder.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me,” Vi murmurs.

“At some point during the SAS trails I realized I had long since stopped doing it to prove anything to anyone else. I was proving to myself that I could handle anything anyone ever threw at me. And until Nadjia, that was true.”

Vi snuggles up into Caitlyn’s shoulder. “You’re not invincible. Just almost.” She kisses the shoulder she is resting on. And then she yawns. “Cait?” She pulls back a bit, letting their eyes meet. “If you want me to leave for the night, so I’m not here in the morning I mean, that’s okay.”

The woman next to her blinks. “Uhm...”

The redhead leans in and kisses her lover’s forehead, squeezing the hand she is holding. “No worries,” she says between kisses. “Like I said, it’s okay.” She pushes up to raise herself over Caitlyn again, who grabs her arm. Vi stops dead, looking down at the hand grabbing hers.

“Stay,” Caitlyn pleads. Her voice full of pain and fear as she speaks a word unlike any other Vi has ever heard from her. "Please."

Caitlyn opens her eyes. Slowly. Almost fearful of what the world holds in store for her. Parts of the world come into view. The kitchen island. A number of garments unevenly distributed between here and there. Underwear. Not hers. She takes a deep breath and turns over.

Towards Vi.

Vi.

She’s still asleep. Facing the wall. Caitlyn takes a deep breath and brushes her hand against the exposed shoulder.

The body stirs.

Vi’s body.

Caitlyn’s hand comes to rest on the shoulder.

“Is it morning,” Vi says, moving a hand to her face to rub the sleep from her eyes. “I just need—“ Vi stops. She takes a breath. “Can I turn over?”

The answer is a tug on the shoulder being held.

Vi turns over.

Vi’s face comes into view.

Caitlyn braces herself.

For a split second, the view shifts, like a flicker of a memory, and then it fades.

Into her.

Into Vi.

Caitlyn starts to breathe again. She has been holding her breath. She smiles.

“Hello there beautiful,” Vi says, her face nothing but joy.

“Hello,” Caitlyn responds. Oh. Right. “You’re very beautiful as well.”

Vi rolls her eyes.

“My morning hair looks like it belongs to one of those troll figurines. And I’m pretty sure I—“

Caitlyn kisses her. Gently. On the lips. It lingers. There are follow-up kisses. Hands come up to touch faces. Carefully. Patiently.

Lovingly.

And then Vi’s phone beeps. She looks into Caitlyn’s eyes and giggles as she rolls over the other woman, reaching blindly for her phone, first finding Caitlyn’s side arm. She retrieves her phone and rolls over on her back, holding the phone up in front of her as her upper body becomes exposed. Caitlyn stares at the exposed skin for the briefest of moments before pulling the duvet back up under Vi’s jaw.

“Thanks,” Vi says, smirking as she fiddles with her phone. “Although I’m somewhat disappointed you so quickly chose my comfort over staring. Am I losing my sex appe—oh!”

Her voice drifts off as a hand reaches under the duvet and comes to rest under her breasts. She swallows hard as she almost drops her phone.

“Right,” she says. “Grayson. I need to check in.” She calls the office.

Tessa’s reefer truck has been found. Abandoned on a summer-only road, hidden in some woods, not far from a remote area used by a summer festival. A dozen or so miles away from Eric Kendahl’s home. An anonymous tip. Tanner said he would wait for them.

Vi has barely put the phone away before Caitlyn is up and into the bathroom. Vi tiredly trots in after her, mumbling as she walks. “About those fluids and all, I also need a show—“ She is pushed, naked, into the shower by Caitlyn who follows her in and turns on the water.

The water which starts out ice cold.

Making Vi yelp.

A yelp that is devoured by another kiss.

They take Vi’s truck. They will need the snowmobiles. The snow on the road where the reefer was found is at least a foot deep, and from the main road it’s more than two miles across the snow-laden fields.

Vi drives. Windshield wipers brush away slow and heavy snowflakes drifting on the glass. She looks over at Caitlyn. Her face a single smirk as she looks over at the tall lanky woman next to her. The woman with all the deep scars. Scars beyond skin. Beyond bone. Beyond soul.

And she took her in. In to see those scars.

“Penny for your thoughts,” and still Vi smiles.

Caitlyn inhales. She stretches her neck, tilting and twisting it from shoulder to shoulder. Vi watches the tendons on the outside of Caitlyn’s neck play over the muscles. She saw a similar sight last night. Tendons stretched as muscles arched in pleasure. Caitlyn exhales through her nose, eyes closed.

“I have a bad feeling about this.”

For a moment Vi hesitates. She tries to think of what she can have done to upset Caitlyn since this morning. It all seemed so right. Even while Caitlyn went through her weapons before they left this morning. The ritualistic actions of checking sights, magazines, suppressors, bolts… It all seemed… Oh.

“You have a bad feeling about the reefer?”

“Yeah.” Another breath. Another moment. Caitlyn turns to the outside world again, looking for something solid, something firm, something to hold on to out there. It all washes away into nothingness. “It’s too perfect. We get Kendahl. Then we get the truck. Next thing we know we’ll find evidence tying Kendahl to the truck.”

“Maybe you just don’t wish it to be over?”

The question is offered with care. Vi’s voice soft. Probing. With warmth.

“I wish…” Caitlyn sounds tired. Then she stops. She realigns herself in the seat, turns towards Vi. “Vi, I’m way past using this case as an excuse for there being an us. If this case closes today I still intend to be in your arms tonight.”

Vi blinks a few rapid blinks. She takes a breath, gathering herself. “Uhm. Whow. I wasn’t…” She feels her face breaking out into an unstoppable smile. “I’d like that too. A lot. I…” She emits a shallow snort and then her shoulders sink. “Sorry, suggesting that you wanted the case to stay open so you didn’t have to think about us. That was rude of me.”

“Nah. It’s fine. Maybe you are right. Maybe I’m just pushing the case in front of me. Maybe my instincts are off because I’m too close to the consequences. I suppose we’ll see. It’s just too clean. Too tidy.”

“Maybe for once, it can be this easy?”

A chuckle from the passenger seat. “Yeah Vi, ‘easy’. The story of our lives.”

Vi laughs along with Caitlyn. “I dunno, maybe that means we’re due.”

Riding the snowmobiles out over the sheet of white tears apart the tranquility of the space the snow creates. The truck relays their radios as Vi reports in to Maggie. Business as usual.

If you squinted.

And forgot everything about the murders.

The spray of snow rises hard from the back of the snow mobiles. Like the twin wake trails of a two-headed beast charging across a frozen sea. Two specks of color against the featureless, colorless, expanse. Vi looks over at the woman next to her. She’s riding hard. The vehicle pushed to its limits. Even with her desire for time, she had still mounted her weapons on the snow mobile. It clearly didn’t matter that Tanner and every crime technician in the region are already on site.

Over-prepared is ready.

The large reefer truck stands caked in snow. Snowdrifts have covered it where it disappears under a small cluster of trees. It has been there for days. At the very least. The wheels are covered in heavy chains.

Just south of the vehicle, a large contingent of police and EMT personnel. Sheriff Tanner walks slowly in his snow shoes, drinking something warm from a thermos as he moves over to greet the latest arrivals. Their engines stop. Both women click on snow shoes as he starts talking.

“Anything you want from the scene before we start?”

Caitlyn finishes her shoes and extracts her rifle, slinging it over her shoulders into a patrol carry. “Photos?” she asks.

He points to the crew of close to a dozen crime technicians. “My people, state, the ones around the guy in the stupid hat are federal, the AG sent them.” There’s a cluster of them near the tail end of the truck. Hard-faced in parkas, with Pelican cases laid open like surgical trays. One case bore a cold-embossed FBI seal, half-covered by snow. Another held pre-labeled evidence bags and sterile gloves taped to the lid. A woman with a headset barks into a sat phone while another sweeps the snow with a FLIR wand. No uniforms, just layers of gray and black and the kind of posture that comes from boarding too many early flights and chasing blood trails across too many state lines.

The man in the hat stands out like a sore thumb. The hat is a huge leather thing with quilted flaps, the kind locals wear unironically, while he wears it like it still has the price tag attached.

Tanner shrugs. “Their crew flew in last night with stacks of paperwork.” The two women exchange a glance. “Been hard to hold them back. Told them we wouldn’t move until you were good. Their infrared gear didn’t penetrate the truck. It was too well insulated and too cold so they’ve popped the rear doors, just to be sure. Found nothing. Closed it back up.”

“Appreciated,” Caitlyn says. Tanner nods. Caitlyn nods to Vi, pointing behind the truck. “Let’s see if we can find some trace of how they left the thing behind.” As they start walking, a man from the federal set raises his head and starts walking towards them, brows twitching beneath wraparound lenses. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. Caitlyn turns only her head, meeting his gaze for a heartbeat, expression blank. The man stops. She turns away and keeps on walking. The man hesitates, then turns around, returning to his crew.

They move past the tail of the reefer truck, careful to avoid the tangled boot prints where state and federal had already pooled. Beyond the main disturbance, the snow lies flatter. Quieter. Just a crusted-over impression of tire tracks, slush turning granular around the treads.

Vi kneels beside one track, gloved hand brushing back a thin dusting. “Hardpack’s intact. No melt layer to speak of. Could’ve been here a few days. Could’ve been longer.”

Caitlyn nods, circling wide, her snow shoes crunching softly on the snow. No depressions suggesting tracks anywhere. No disturbances at all. She glances out into the distance. Flat terrain for miles.

“This is stupid,” she says.

Vi looks up at her, then she copies Caitlyn’s glance across the terrain. “Huh.” She nods. “We’re back to ‘why here’.”

Their eyes meet, and they make one more slow pass around the cab. The door handles are clean. No obvious prints, no smear marks. But the driver’s side seal is pressed slightly uneven. Opened recently, then resealed with care. She tilts her head, steps back.

They meet eyes. “We're clear,” Caitlyn says aloud, raising her voice just enough for the federal crew to hear.

Movement stirs behind them. Three techs start forward, carrying evidence kits in insulated crates. One peels off with a forensic tablet, the other two move to the side doors and work in tandem. Gloves. Cameras. Flashlights. Everything documented before a finger is laid down.

Vi and Caitlyn step back to watch as the truck open like a tomb.

They step back and wait.

Inside the reefer truck, the federal techs work slowly. No urgency now, just process. Every crevice, every seam. Flashlights sweep along floorboards. Bags open with soft crackles. Notes are read aloud for the recorders clipped to their collars.

The cold keeps everything quiet.

The refrigeration space in the rear is visually empty.

Vi shifts her weight from one boot to the other, trying to let time pass. Caitlyn walks around the space, looking in where people are working.

Minutes pass.

Then one of the techs leans out of the driver’s side. “Got a syringe jammed in the seat mechanism. Need shots.” Another technician with a camera takes his place and takes a ton of pictures. Soon after they retrieve the syringe, cover the tip, and place it carefully into a clear evidence bag. The technician walks over to a collection bin, deposits the bag, before turning around and continuing his job by the driver’s seat.

Vi watches the bag disappear, jaw set. She doesn’t speak.

Another shout, this time from the passenger footwell.

“I have some loose material underneath the seat here. Wood bits, something that looks like shavings, rope fiber, some bark strips. Need a camera and the long fucking tweezers.”

People flock around her, first moving her away to take another thousand images. The seat’s angle makes it hell to reach. They curse, adjust, start again. Once. Twice. Thrice.

A second pouch is finally held up and filled, slowly, piece by piece with very long tweezers. Everything is fragments. Snapped twigs, frayed cord, a spiral of curled bark. Caitlyn glances at it, leaning forward. Vi is already moving.

“Show me the bag.” It is a statement, not a question.

The tech hesitates. She looks over at the man in the hat for approval. The man, and the hat, nods. Vi takes the pouch gently, holding it up to the light. Caitlyn stands next to her, looking at the contents carefully.

The rope isn’t rope, it’s fabric. The bark is peeled in a clean strip, to make a rope-like substance. The wood bits are thin lengths, sharpened at one end.

They have both seen this before.

They saw it last night.

At the far end of Caitlyn’s mattress.

The figurine.

By early afternoon, the local forensics team has wrapped their sweep and begun preparing the vehicle for recovery. A heavy tow unit and support plow are en route from Helena, expected within a few hours. The truck will be transported to the Montana State Crime Lab, where it will undergo full forensic analysis. Unfortunately, recovery will take time. As they will be working into the night, floodlights are already being mounted, and a support crew will remain on site to assist the recovery personnel once they arrive.

With the immediate scene processed, Caitlyn and Vi remount their snowmobiles and ride back to Vi’s truck. They load up in silence, stow the snow mobiles, and head back north. They’ve barely made it a mile before a weather-worn sign catches their attention. A self-proclaimed saloon, offering food, drinks, and live music.

The building squats against the snow like it’s bracing for another storm. Weathered timber siding. A single-story false front. The kind of place that’s looked exactly the same since the ‘70s and sees no reason to change.

Vi glances over. Caitlyn’s already looking back at her.

A beat. They both smirk.

Vi pulls into the gravel lot, tires crunching frozen ruts, and kills the engine.

The door sticks a little before it gives way with a groan of old hinges. Warm air hits them like a wood stove on bare skin. Inside, the “saloon” smells of fried food, old wood, and coffee that’s been on the burner since sunrise. The lighting is dim, mostly incandescent bulbs under stained glass shades shaped like pinecones. A rack of antlers hangs above a narrow bar. The floor creaks.

Locals sit in ones and twos. A man in a heavy hunting jacket nurses a beer under a deer mount. A woman in flannel plays video poker near the wall. A few of them turn, half-interested, at the new arrivals, before they return to their drinks or their games. There’s music playing low. Waylon Jennings transitions into someone local. The speakers are well-worn, but seem acutely attuned to the country music on offer. A chalkboard menu near the register presents the offerings for food. Burgers. Sandwiches. Fries. And a daily pie. The older woman at the register is nothing but welcoming, and takes their burger orders with a smile.

They take a table near the back, where a single window looks out over the field of white they just came from.

“So, what do you think?” Vi asks, taking a sip out of her root beer. Caitlyn looks at her as she swallows.

“I think root beer is vile.”

Vi chuckles. “Of course you do. Enjoy your water. Anyway…” She nods back towards the plains.

“If they find anything related to Kendahl in that truck, they’re going to crucify him. It won’t matter how small or loose it’ll be. This’ll be over the moment those lab results come in.”

Vi puts her elbows on the table and leans in. “Cases, even big ones, are often weak on hard evidence. What would it take for you to feel comfortable with closing this?”

Caitlyn moves her gaze out to those plains, towards where the reefer sits in waiting. She sits like that for a moment, then returns to Vi.

“The truth.”

The world becomes fleeting. Now all they can do is wait. So wait they do. Vi drops Caitlyn off at the station, while she returns to her family. As soon as Caitlyn enters, Grayson gestures for her to come to her office. Caitlyn has barely closed the door before Grayson, barely looking up from the pile of papers on her desk, starts talking.

“Vi went home?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“How is she doing?”

“Vi is doing well, Ma’am.”

“You’re not just saying that because you’re protecting her?”

“No, Ma’am.”

Grayson looks up from the paperwork she has been filling out. Caitlyn is standing stiffly in front of the desk. Her hands clasped behind her back.

“I’ve known Vi for a decade. She’s worked here for most of that time. You might not think it, but I care about her. I want her to be okay. Not just today, but next year, or ten years from now. You get that?”

Caitlyn takes a breath. Her head tilts to one side. Her eyes close. She takes another breath. Deeper this time. Slower. Her eyes open, fixating on Grayson.

“I resent the implication that I don’t care about Vi in the long term.” Grayson stares at her. “Ma’am.”

“Well, you just keep that in mind going forward, okay?”

A pause. Caitlyn returns to having her hands clasped behind her back.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Grayson seats herself. She leans back into her chair.

“How’d the reefer go?”

“Ma’am, forensics found a syringe and what likely are pieces for making figurines. Fabric, bark, twigs.”

“Any fingerprints? Anything like that at all?”

“No Ma’am, nothing like that at all.”

“Alright, type up a report and I’ll see what we can get access to.” Caitlyn nods. Grayson sighs. “Look, Vi is one of the good ones, history or not. I just want her whole, and right now she’s head over heels into you. That’s all.”

“Yes, Ma’am. Might I suggest something?” Grayson says nothing, and then finally nods. “Tell her that, not me.”

The next few days settle into a rhythm.

At work, little happens. Eric Kendahl remains silent except to ask for a lawyer. His phone yields evidence of drug sales, as well as videos of himself with underage girls. The reefer truck is towed to Helena. Forensics are ongoing. Until the lab results come back, there’s nothing to do but wait.

Outside of work is a different matter.

Vi spends every night at the guest house. By the third day, she’s brought over toiletries and spare clothes. She brushes her teeth with Caitlyn’s toothpaste. She leaves socks on the floor and doesn’t apologize. It isn’t discussed. It doesn’t have to be.

Especially as Caitlyn throws them at her when Vi disappears into the bathroom.

On the fourth day after the reefer was found, they sit side by side in the bullpen after lunch, talking quietly. “Did I tell you she was writing in the notebook again last night?” Vi leans her head against Caitlyn’s shoulder, completely oblivious to where she is.

Caitlyn rests her own head on top of Vi’s. “You might’ve mentioned it. Once or twice.”

“I didn’t tell you we talked about our parents.”

Caitlyn straightens a little. “No, you didn’t. How—”

“—Attention please!” Grayson stands at the reception desk beside Maggie, holding a stapled sheaf of papers.

“The syringe from the reefer has been tested,” she says. “DNA matches confirmed for the following individuals.” She reads off the first sheet she is holding. “First, Atka Whitefeather.” Glances are exchanged in the bullpen. “Secondly, Charlotte Porter.” Eli nods and leans forward. Vi glances at Caitlyn, who seems almost disappointed. Grayson continues. “And thirdly, the prize himself, Eric Kendahl.” A pause. Her voice stays flat. “So. Along with the drug charges and statutory rape, the DA is charging him with the murders. The investigation is officially closed.”

Eli and Maggie look quietly satisfied. Grayson turns and walks back to her office, shutting the door behind her. Vi turns to Caitlyn, searching her face.

“You were right,” she says. There’s no joy in her voice. Only certainty.

Caitlyn watches Grayson vanish behind the blinds, then meets Vi’s eyes.

“Yeah,” she says. “The question is what else I was right about.” She stands, and starts to walk straight towards Grayson’s office, opening the door without knocking. Vi doesn’t move for a second, before she follows.

“Yes?” Grayson looks up at Caitlyn standing in the doorway.

“I’m not comfortable calling this case closed. I don’t think we have the full picture yet.” Her delivery is quick, her sentences coming in bursts. Grayson stares at her. “Ma’am.”

Grayson exhales. Her tone is tired but measured.

“Close the door, would you?”

Caitlyn is halfway through the motion when Vi steps into the room beside her. Grayson rolls her eyes but gestures them both inside. Caitlyn finishes closing the door. Grayson looks between them.

“You know what people are going to say. That you’re just keeping this open because you’re sleeping with Vi and don’t want to leave.” The two women by the door turn towards each other. “But,” Grayson continues, “just because the rest of the world has stopped asking questions doesn’t mean we have to. We still need you for the trial, so I can file for an extension of your assignment on that basis. We’ll say it’s to make sure every ‘i’ is dotted and every ‘t’ is crossed. If that works for you.”

Caitlyn glances at Vi, then back to Grayson. “Yes,” she says. “That works for me. Thank you.” She tries hard not to smile. She fails. “Ma’am.”

Beside her, Vi stares down at the floor, grinning faintly as she blushes.

“Alright,” Grayson says, already reaching for a pen. “Let me see how much time I can buy you two.”

A week later, Vi’s life returns to how it was back before everything happened. The community seems to accept the closure and return to normality. At the station, the peg board comes down and the place becomes sleepy.

Caitlyn visits Vander, Vi, and Powder for dinner a few times, and spends the rest of her time in her own head, trying to put together the pieces that still don’t fit quite right.

Vi and Grayson head out early one morning, checking out a noise complaint. Caitlyn sits in the bullpen and goes through a set of papers she has been through a half-dozen times before. The papers have been bugging her. There is something in there that refuses to let go.

Hours pass.

Darkness descends.

Maggie leaves. Eli stays, waiting for his wife to finish her shift.

Dunleavy. Dunleavy’s service record. He certainly served with Crowe. Dunleavy’s brother. Daniel. Dismissed out of hand. Limited paperwork. The brothers are from New Mexico. The south-west.

She picks up her cell phone and dials a number for a small company doing support work for the oil industry, listed as a reference to Daniel Dunleavy in the application Crowe sent them. The number is not in service. She finds the company online, and finds a few digits have been transposed. She calls the number found online. It’s after 6pm, the automated service suggests she call back tomorrow. Instead, she finds an emergency contact number. She dials that. A middle-aged man picks up instantly.

“Jones, what’s your emer—.”

“Mister Jones, my name is Caitlyn Kiramman, I work for the FBI. We’re doing some background on a Daniel Dunleavy, he supposedly worked for you a few years ago?”

“That fucker? What’d he do now?”

She lets it go, trying to remain professional. “You worked with him?”

“I wouldn’t call it ‘worked’. Daniel was complaining we were killing the planet, ruining the world. No idea why he started working here to begin with.” Caitlyn feels her heart stop. “Barely did any work either, kept sitting in the truck making these stupid twig figurines.” Caitlyn swallows. She checks the app on her cell phone. It is happily recording the conversation.

“Mister Jones, the FBI will need to have a more detailed conversation with you in the near future. Please don’t tell anyone we’ve spoken to you. I need to go.”

She hangs up. She looks over at Eli who is staring at her.

“Eli, where did Grayson and Vi go?”

“Vi went with Grayson to Two-Medicine. We had a report of a drug dealer selling stuff to tourists.” Caitlyn stares back at him. “I think the name was Dunleavy.”

Chapter Text

Vi doesn’t pick up her phone. Neither does Grayson. Eli tries to reach them via the radio, to no avail.

They are out there.

In the darkness.

Gone.

Caitlyn looks over at Eli.

“Eli, keep trying to reach them, send out an APB. Get Maggie in here. You two call the people in Helena, and then Tanner at Powell, and then the FBI, tell them… Tell them we have reason to think that Dunleavy and his brother are involved and that they have Grayson and Vi.”

Eli nods. It is frantic and his eyes are full of terror. “Okay, sure. What are you going to do?”

Caitlyn is already moving to fetch her jacket. On her computer screen, overlayed on a local map, the current location of Grayson’s Tahoe tells the world of its existence as an ominous blinking red dot. Caitlyn’s Suburban is already fully loaded. Her morning ritual never faltered.

Over-prepared is ready.

Caitlyn doesn’t look back.

She doesn’t hesitate.

“I’m going to hunt.”

Whenever the Suburban encounters humanity on the road, the lights come on. At the speeds Caitlyn is driving, it makes things easier. And safer. The world has turned dark. Black.

Void.

Snow is still falling, but it will clear a bit before another front hits in the middle of the night.

She checks the GPS again.

It suggests arrival in thirty-two minutes.

It also assumes she is driving at the speed limit.

At least it gets the map right.

Twenty-one minutes later she parks around a hundred yards away from where Grayson’s Tahoe is parked. For the last mile or so Caitlyn has been driving quietly in the dark, using the night vision on her helmet.

The destination is a trailer park, but the units are more caravan-like than proper trailer homes. It is a temporary site, used actively only for the exploration crews, Dunleavy has a trailer here. As does Crowe. As well as a half-dozen other people. Now? Maybe they are up at another site, maybe they are here.

All the trailers are dark.

Cold.

Caitlyn adjusts her helmet. Her hands go to her combat rifle, muzzle-down, angled between seat and console. She checks the magazine by feel. Single band. Subsonic. She draws the charge handle halfway. A flash of brass confirms a round is chambered. Handle forward, safety on. Optic dimmed. Sling snug. Suppressor tight. She presses the push to talk on her belt. The Suburban already set up to relay the signal.

“Station. Caitlyn. On site. Starting sweep.”

Maggie has arrived at the station, and answers. “Copy Caitlyn on site.”

She exits her vehicle.

She moves from trailer to trailer, under cover, in the dark, both hands on the rifle, finger indexed. The only sound is the crunch of her boots in old snow and the wind curling between frozen trailers like a whisper.

The Tahoe is abandoned. Cold. Doors closed. A quick sweep returns nothing.

Caitlyn stays low as she ghosts between patches of snow and dead brush, her boots landing with precision that betrays habit more than effort. Her breath clouds faintly through the vent of her helmet. No lights. No movement. Just the hard outline of the trailer ahead, half-sunken into a drift, framed by skeletal trees and tire-flattened snow.

She slows as she nears the structure. It’s a towable kind of thing. Cramped, tinny, the kind you'd find parked behind a gas station off-season or forgotten in a gravel lot somewhere in the Dakotas. The kind made to last weeks, not lives.

Her rifle stays tight to her shoulder, the suppressor barely dipping as she shifts her angle. The trailer has one door, centered along the narrow length, flanked by fogged-over windows and scuffed aluminum siding. One propane tank squats under a side vent. No footsteps around it. The snow is crusted clean. Still.

Caitlyn circles wide, eyes scanning every corner. Nothing behind. Nothing above. She crouches near the door, angling slightly to the hinge side, the rifle’s muzzle hovering a hand-width above the latch. She listens.

Silence.

Not dead silence. Trailers like this have a specific kind of quiet. The cold tick of the metal flexing, the faint whine of the wind through loose seals. But no voices. No shifting weight. No low groan of someone moving on a mattress.

Her glove brushes the doorknob. It's cold. Not frozen shut. She checks the edge. No scratch marks, no signs of a lock tampered with or wires laid across it. No makeshift trip alarms. Just the soft give of a door that’s locked more by expectation than conviction.

She tries the handle. Locked.

Of course it is.

Her fingers tighten around the grip of her rifle. One breath in. Steady. She steps back onto the top stair, shifts her weight, then slams her shoulder into the seam at the latch.

CRACK.

The frame gives with a buckling pop, fiberglass splintering around the cheap deadbolt. The door swings open in a stuttering jerk, bouncing once against the stopper.

Caitlyn is already moving.

She crashes through the threshold. Low, fast, rifle up. The suppressor clears the doorframe by a hair’s breadth. Her wrist rolls left, keeping the barrel out of her peripheral as her thumb flicks the safety to fire. She slices the space in tight arcs. Finger still indexed. Ready, but clean.

Cold air rushes in behind her. The galley kitchen is empty. The bathroom door is ajar. Beyond it, a tangle of shadow and form in the sleeping alcove. Everything smells like mildew, cheap cleaner, and sweat baked into cushions.

She turns hard, finding the sitting section equally empty, and then pushes inward. One step. Two. The rifle lowers just enough to avoid snagging anything, then rises again with practiced ease. She hugs the left wall, keeping the barrel level with her line of sight. The space is narrow. It is barely wide enough for her to maneuver.

She sweeps the kitchenette first. Two-burner stove. Microwave. A chipped coffee mug rattles in the sink, disturbed by the wind. The counter is cluttered with half-eaten protein bars, crumpled paper, and an empty pill bottle lying on its side. Caitlyn doesn’t linger.

She slides past the galley and pivots toward the bathroom. Door half-closed. Too tight for a clean slice. She lifts her boot and kicks it open with a short, controlled strike.

The door rebounds hard off the frame. Empty.

Shower curtain tied back. Grime-streaked mirror. One used towel on the hook, damp and bunched like it was grabbed in a hurry.

She’s moving again, faster now. Her breath is tight, controlled. The rifle tracks forward as she rounds into the rear sleeping alcove.

The double bed is stripped to the mattress. The overhead bunk above it is empty, just a stack of stained thermal blankets shoved into a corner. She clears left, angles right, checking under the bed with a practiced lean and mirror glance from her angled optic.

Nothing.

Spinning, she backs toward the center again, eyes up, weapon steady.

The other end of the trailer narrows into the fold-out dinette. The table is down, cushions flattened. A makeshift bed. Rumpled. Warmer than ambient.

She steps in carefully, muzzle sweeping low to high. One side. Then the other. She ducks slightly, scanning beneath the fold of hanging fabric near the window.

Movement.

A hanging coat, swaying faintly from the draft.

Caitlyn exhales, pushing out the adrenaline.

The trailer is empty.

“Station. Caitlyn. Trailer breached. Empty. Proceeding.”

“Copy trailer empty. Units en route from Helena. ETA forty-five minutes.”

Too little.

And much too late.

She moves to the dinette’s table, crouching low. There, boot prints across the linoleum, melted snow in fresh ovals. A faint trail of dirt and soot.

And something else. A small twig.

She picks it up between gloved fingers. Snapped. Dark bark. Too smooth to be windblown. Handmade.

“Station. Twig parts.”

“Station copy. Twig parts.”

Then she sees it.

On the table edge.

Blood.

Someone has wiped down the edge. She looks around. It hits her. She takes a few quick steps to the bed at the other end. She unfolds the stripped linen. Inside there is a lot of blood. Dark, tacky, beginning to dry. Not fresh. Hours old, maybe more. Not arterial. There’s no spray, no pooling beyond compression zones. A patch of dark hair, streaked with white.

Long.

Familiar.

Grayson.

“Station. Caitlyn. Blood found. Tacky, not fresh. Hours old. Black and white hair, long. Suspect head trauma. Not arterial. Likely Grayson.” She throws them a bone. “Probably non-lethal.”

She exits the caravan. The safety goes back on. The rattle of the wind moving a branch against the roof of a trailer a bit further up is the only sound except for her boots. There is a flattening leading north, up past the caravans. Towards the edge of the forest. Towards the wilderness.

“Station. Caitlyn. Depression marks in the snow leading north. Following.”

“Station copy.”

The tracks lead towards a spot where snow mobiles are stationed. Three of them. Except two are missing. Tracks leading north-northwest. Into the darkness. She looks at the last vehicle as she first hears a distant engine, then as she turns, she sees the lights of a taller car approaching.

“Station. Caitlyn. Incoming vehicle. Interrogative: Friendlies?”

Maggie answers almost immediately.

“Negative. No friendlies for at least thirty.”

“Copy. Going dark.”

“Station copy dark.”

She angles behind a utility trailer directly to her left, staying clear of the headlights sweep. The vehicle slows. Then stops behind the Tahoe. It idles for a moment, then goes quiet. The door opens. A larger man steps out. He stops. Scans the area. He looks almost straight at Caitlyn before taking another few steps towards Crowe’s trailer. He stops again. Again looking around. His right hand goes in under his jacket. She is across the caravan site from him. Maybe twenty yards. It doesn’t matter. She flicks the safety back to fire.

“Crowe! Hands where I can see them. Now.” He freezes. “Right hand—show it. Slowly. No sudden moves.” The hand reemerges, open, fingers spread. “On your knees.”

Crowe hesitates.

Caitlyn doesn’t.

“Crowe! On your knees, or swear to fucking God I will drop you where you stand!”

Her rifle is angled so she watches him through her red dot sight. He kneels. Caitlyn steps into view, her silhouette emerging from the shadows like a specter, the night vision attached to her helmet catching stray moonlight. The suppressor of her rifle hangs steady in the space between them. She walks slowly towards the kneeling figure.

“Left hand behind your head. Right hand on the ground. Palms flat.”

Crowe complies. Breath misting in the air. He doesn’t turn towards her, not in the slightest.

“I didn’t know who was here, I was ready to protect myself.” Still facing his trailer, he shouts. “I came for some goddamn paperwork… Captain.” She stops moving. “Talked to some old friends at Malmstrom after our last chat. They told me a long-legged SAS captain took out a loaded FBI vehicle. Now can I move my hand out of the snow before I fucking freeze my fingers off?”

Caitlyn steps in, her muzzle never leaving his upper back. “Your carry.”

“Appendix. Glock 19. Chambered.”

She nods once. “Keep your right hand flat. Left hand reaches back. Two fingers only. Lift the jacket and shirt. Slowly.”

He does. Black polymer grip exposed at his waistband.

“Draw it. Thumb and two fingers only. No index. Lift it out, then drop it to your left.”

He obeys. The pistol lands in the snow with a muffled thud.

“Slide it back with your foot.”

He nudges it toward her with a boot.

She moves a step forward, muzzle still steady on the center of his back. Close enough now that her voice drops. “Stay still.”

Her rifle dips just slightly, offset, not down, just enough to keep control as her hand slips down to her thigh to draw her sidearm. Then she slings the rifle forward into her chest rig, tensioned high. One weapon up, one weapon down. Eyes locked.

“Crowe, keep that hand down,” she says, circling toward his left, never crossing in front of his reach. “I’m retrieving the weapon. Don’t move.”

He grunts. “Wasn’t planning on it. Still fucking cold.”

She shifts. Left foot forward. Right back. The rifle lowers to mid-chest. In one smooth motion she releases her firing grip, right hand dropping to her thigh, and pulling her sidearm. The rifle dips but stays slung tight across her chest. Her left hand slides to support the sling tension as her sidearm is steady on Crowe.

Now she moves.

Quarter-circle to his left side. She keeps her steps light, deliberate. Angled behind him now. Her muzzle never leaves him.

She stops just behind his hip. Leans.

Left hand scoops the Glock from the snow, fingers around the slide. It's cold, but she’s colder.

Without a word, she shifts her weight back, Glock still in her off-hand. She backs off two steps, field of view clear, dominant hand still on her own weapon. With her sidearm trained on Crowe, she uses the left hand with the Glock in it to flip open a friction retention pocket on her jacket and immediately ejects the magazine into the pocket. Then she ejects the chambered round. The round spits from the chamber with a metallic snap, spinning once before vanishing into the snow like a stone into water.

Slide locked, chamber clear. She stows it, grip down, muzzle up, into her jacket's chest rig pouch, flap sealed tight. She considers her options. Briefly.

“I’m going to tell you a story, and you’re going to tell me what side you’re on. If I don’t like what I hear I’m going to strap you down and leave you in the snow until everyone else arrives.” Crowe doesn’t move. “I have a suspicion that Dunleavy’s brother, Daniel, murdered those girls, and that the brothers have Vi and chief Grayson. The Tahoe down here belongs to Grayson. They’re missing.”

“The fuck? The fucking misfit brother?”

“You dropped his application. Why?”

“You have the fucking files. It must have been two years ago. I don’t remember half the people I ignored last week. I dump a few dozen applicants every week. Now can I move my fucking right hand to my head?”

“Sure.”

Crowe’s “thank you” is expressed about as sarcastically as humanly possible. He moves his hand to his head. Slowly. Kneading his skull. He continues talking.

“Look, I did three tours with Dunleavy. He’s like a fucking brother to me. I remember he asked me to look at his brother, but I don’t think I could even recommend him upstream. Probably lacked references, without them, I can’t get HR to look at someone. Company security and all that.” He pauses. “And when you talk to people, you should call her officer Lane. Calling her Vi is sloppy. Anyway, I’m not blind. Just FUCKING cold!”

That was sloppy. Caitlyn pushes away the annoyance. “There are sled tracks going north. Two of them. Today, maybe six hours ago. Where’d the brothers go?”

Crowe hesitates for a second before he answers. “There’s a hunter’s cabin we’ve used for hunting and fishing. Dunleavy used it for other shit too. Took girls there.”

Her weapon has not moved an inch. “And just like that, you’re giving up your brother?”

“He can be my brother, and he can have his brother. We’re fucking family. But if what you’re saying is right, I’d put him down myself.”

Crowe sits on the bed rubbing his hands together. Standing at the kitchenette in the trailer, Caitlyn stands in heavy arctic gear, including a balaclava, as she stares at the map on her tablet. Next to the tablet lies Crowe’s gun and its magazine, and the key to his snow mobile. Going directly after the brothers is a bad idea. A very bad idea. A snow mobile up the narrow valley where the cabin sits will be audible for miles and miles away. She can turn off the lights, but she can only do so much about the sound. No, she needs a different approach. Her fingers trace the valley going north-northwest.

Next to it, another valley.

Wilder.

Rougher.

She finds a spot along the ridge line facing the cabin. She zooms in, pans the view around. Nodding to herself, she draws a line between a ridge and a cabin on the opposite side of the valley.

She shows it to Crowe.

He shakes his head.

“That valley is dense as fuck. That’s maybe two hours in on the sled, then you’ll have close to a thousand feet of elevation to cover in snow shoes, and then you have to clear the valley to get to the cabin? In this weather? At night? Can’t be done.”

“Yeah”, Caitlyn trails off, her focus on her device. “People keep telling me that.”

“The front is coming. Best case you’re finishing the climb past two in the morning? It’s already below zero. It’s going to drop another ten in the next few hours.”

Caitlyn verifies that her GPS has the waypoints ready. First a few for the ride up, then a few for the climb, then for her destination. And at last, traversal down and up the valley to the cabin. She finishes packing up. She checks her watch. Fifteen minutes until a few more bodies arrive.

It’s not like they can help.

All they can do is try to stop her.

And so she takes the key from the counter in front of her.

“She better be worth it,” Crowe says, still trying to get his right hand to feel better. Caitlyn looks at him briefly, and then turns to walk out the front door, down to the snow mobile which has her backpack on the seat, and her main rifle attached to its side. Her battle rifle at the ready tight in the sling. Just in case. Her skis and her snowshoes are fastened to the vehicle. For now. She straps the backpack on as Crowe shows himself in the doorway.

She taps her push to talk button.

“Station. Have people talk to Crowe when they arrive. Do not follow. Going dark. Caitlyn out.” She switches the channel on her communication gear to talk to her satellite phone.

From the stairwell of his trailer, Crowe looks down at her.

“Captain!” he shouts as she starts the engine. She looks over at him. He shouts again. “Good hunting!”

All lights are off. She is using night vision only. Crowe narrows his eyes, tracking the captain’s silhouette as his snow mobile disappears in the thinning visibility. The snow doesn’t fall heavy, but it’s thick enough that contrast drops off almost instantly once she hits the trees. She threads the vehicle between two bent pines, a single shadow sliding through the others.

And then movement disappears.

Captain Caitlyn Kiramman vanishes.

Devoured by darkness.

Or becoming one with it.

No light. No trail. No shape. The snow’s already healing her path.

All that’s left is the sound. That engine, deeper now, softened by distance and pine. It reverberates through the valley like a heartbeat too far from the chest. Crowe can tell she’s not pushing the machine. No redlining. No panic. Just steady application of pressure.

Into the valley.

Into the unknown.

Into the void.

He lingers in the doorway for close to a minute. The wind slips past him, curling into the trailer’s warmth. On the kitchenette, the map he showed her rustles on the table. His fingers twitch once, then still.

The sound of the snowmobile fades. Not all at once. It fades in layers. First the rattle of the track teeth against packed snow goes. Then the whine of the engine’s midrange softens, swallowed by the trees. Last is the low-frequency thrum.

Crowe doesn’t hear it so much as feel it. In his ribs. In the floorboards.

And then it’s gone too.

And Crowe steps back inside.

And closes the door.

Captain Caitlyn Kiramman is on her own.

The snow mobile hums at half-throttle, more vibration than sound. Rubber treads slap against snow packed like polished stone. Trees crowd the narrowing valley in skeletal silence. Their limbs are heavy with hoarfrost, brittle, unmoving, as if they’ve been posed here to watch.

No moon. No stars. The clouds have swallowed everything. The snow still falls, fine and dry and endless.

She advances.

The air grows sharper.

The forests are dense.

Quiet.

Old.

Using night vision only, the world is a ghostly monochrome mirror of itself. It washes past her. Moment by moment. Minute by minute. Mile by mile.

Time fades into darkness.

Her breath slow. Methodical. Purposeful.

She checks the GPS habitually. She knows where she is. She knows where she is going. All that matters is finding the route.

And she does.

Around her, space and time fold into a single fabric.

One she navigates.

Alone.

The GPS beeps. End of the road for the snow mobile. She checks her rear one last time. No movement. No lights. Still dark. The forest is still thick, but to her left, up the ridge climbing steeply into the sky, the forest gives way to individual trees that are managing to hold on. She steps off the snow mobile. As the engine stops, the world goes absolutely silent. Her boots strike with a soft crunch as she circles to the rear of the machine. The snow shoes are removed from the vehicle and clipped onto her feet. She unclips the bindings for the pack, shouldering the weight, adjusting the straps in a series of mechanical tugs. Her long rifle attaches to the back of the pack and her skis attach to the right side of the pack.

Checking every strap, she starts the climb. The mountain rises in slow gradients, long and unforgiving. Snowshoes press wide into the surface, each step shallow at first, then deeper as the slope steepens. There’s no trail. No tracks. Just a suggestion as waypoints in her GPS.

Ahead of her, first through some trees and then up the harsh ridge, almost a thousand feet worth of ascent awaits.

She pushes into it. No rush. No panic. Nothing more than a steady hard pace.

Parts are steep enough that she moves sideways up the hill, lifting foot over foot. At times she scrambles, using her hands in the snow to grip her way upwards. Then it flattens out again. Trees reappear. Short stubby things.

On and on, up and up, she climbs.

And the snow keeps falling.

Breath fogs. Every exhale condenses, clinging to the fabric of her balaclava, freezing at the edges. She breathes slow. Deliberate. Even.

White cliffs vanish into a ceiling of ash-colored sky. Wind whips down from the ridge line. Low, steady, without warning. It moves through the gaps in the trees like breath through hollow bone.

The wind growls through the trees.

Wind sweeps her flanks. Snow bursts sideways across the ridge in jagged gusts, stinging her visor.

The world dark. The only light the internal glow of her optics.

The world is green, gray, and then gone.

She climbs.

The trees thin.

The slope gets worse.

Snowpack gives way to ice sheets and stone. She adjusts her gait. Heels dig into the surface. Knees stay low. Her breath is the only rhythm now. Short, controlled pulls.

No horizon. Just the ceiling of cloud pressing lower with every step.

The storm hasn’t started. Not yet.

But it waits.

Every so often, she stops for a few seconds.

Not resting. Listening.

There is never any sound. No movement. Just the wind. It drones between the boulders like something breathing slow and long and ancient.

She pauses at a ledge and does another scan. Her legs are burning. She forces her breathing to slow. Still she hears nothing. She looks upwards. This is the peak. Her chosen nest should be close on the other side. A small ledge with a few trees clambering on as best they can.

She adjusts her sling. Keeps moving.

The ridge narrows.

She crosses the peak, low, avoiding any trace of a silhouette.

And then she starts a descent. The GPS beeps again, another waypoint reached. She checks again, moves north-east along the ridge. Geography provides no surprises. She reaches the ledge maybe ten minutes later. Trees for cover. Sunken into the mountainside. She dons her overwhites and becomes part of the snow. Low. Invisible. A ghost on the mountain.

She verifies the connection between her satellite phone and her headset, and then she builds her nest.

The ledge offers just enough room. Tucked back against a shelf of stone, it’s shielded from the prevailing wind and partially veiled by a crooked line of skeletal trees clawing at the sky.

Caitlyn sinks to her knees, unslings her battle rifle, and then shrugs off her pack. It all happens in silence. She unfurls a narrow insulated mat and lays it silver-side down with practiced ease, a buffer between her and the snowpack. Cold gains strength from the stillness. She smooths it once with a gloved hand, then lies prone, body angling slightly off-axis to the ridge.

From the back of her pack comes the long rifle. She flips down the bipod legs with a soft metallic click, spreading them wide for stability, spiking the feet into the crust. She checks the scope and the suppressor and settles the rifle into the bipod, shifting her pack she tucks it under the stock, locking in her rear support. Solid. Zero drift.

She can sit like this for hours.

And she often has.

A veil, white-patterned and matte, draws over her shoulders and the optic. Nothing catches light. Nothing breathes warmth into open air.

She scans downhill first, confirming geography. Across the valley, the cabin is where it should be, tucked low against the slope almost due west. Its roof is buried in snow drift, but from the chimney smoke twirls into the night sky. The range finder reports 1420 meters. She designates it as the range finder’s primary target and has it push the data to the ballistics computer, which quickly spits out a bullet trajectory for her .300 Norma Magnum rounds, again designated as the primary target.

She lets her eyes drift down.

About 30 meters below the cabin’s elevation, screened by patchy trees, two snowmobiles rest half-buried by drift, positioned at a casual angle near a tree line. No fresh movement. She notes their position, distances, and terrain cover. Mental footnotes. She repeats the targeting process. Secondary target. Distance: 1467 meters.

Beyond the cabin, to the north, a path. She picks two spots on it, one midway, one just before a ledge that would require a person to turn slightly. 1411 and 1417 meters. Target designation three and four.

The minutes begin to slip past like meltwater under ice. Quiet, slow, and inevitable. Caitlyn stays motionless, her eye tucked behind the optic, breath low and even. Every few minutes, she shifts the rifle slightly on its bipod, scanning one quadrant at a time, building layers of visual confirmation.

The cabin itself is a low, lopsided shape pressed into the slope. It should be empty. It isn’t.

Her thermal overlay finds a shape moving behind the only window facing her. The shape is upright, warm, and pacing back and forth. Shoulders squared. Agitated. He pauses now and then to speak, and gesture, towards the door, not the room. A second heat signature is behind him, on the floor. Still.

Cooler than the rest.

The contrast in temperature suggests hypothermia, or close to it. The body shape suggests Grayson. Less muscle up top than Vi.

She notes every pass, every pause. Times them. Starts mapping behavioral rhythm.

The other two are impossible to see. One option would be to descend the ridge on skis, climb back up with snow shoes, and breach. High risk, lots of possible problems. She currently has time.

She shifts slightly, easing her elbow to prevent a nerve pinch. Nothing creaks. Nothing rustles. Snowflakes accumulate silently on her outer layers. Her cheek presses cold to the insulated tape on the rifle stock. Her eye never leaves the world through the lens.

Eventually, she exhales through her nose.

“Long walks,” she mutters, barely audible under her breath, “and cold nights.”

She waits. Let them settle. Let the rhythm show itself. The wind is still manageable. The cold is real, but not dangerous. Not to her. Not yet.

She stays in the scope, watching.

Waiting.

Patience isn’t a virtue. It’s the job.

And she is here to do her job.

The cabin door swings open hard enough to shake snow from the lintel. Light floods the drift outside in a wide yellow arc. A figure stumbles through it, bareheaded and breathless, arms clenched tight against her sides. She slips once, catches herself, then trudges forward, boots breaking through crusted snow.

A second figure follows. Male, larger, steadier, carrying a rifle low. Not slung. Not careless. His posture is wary, even tired, but trained. His movements are smooth. Not arrogant. Not jittery.

Caitlyn shifts her grip on the rifle, steadying her cheek to the stock.

She follows them through the scope as they move along the path leading north, through moon-shadow and drift. Snowflakes blur the edges of their silhouettes. The lead figure stumbles again, exhausted. The second one watches her but doesn’t help.

And still she waits.

But, it is okay.

She is used to waiting.

Caitlyn Kiramman presses her prone body into the frozen ground. The ridge is a fortress of ice and rock, chiseled by eons of bitter winds shrieking across the landscape. She fits her rifle snugly against her shoulder, careful not to disturb the bipod’s balance. The moon is nothing but a thin arc of silver behind slow-crawling clouds. Snowflakes drift across her scope. She breathes in, slow and measured.

Through her night-optic display the distant world appears in tinted greens and grays, flickering with ghostly clarity. She follows the figure in the snow, close to a kilometer and a half away.

The air is too cold for comfort, but at least the wind has quieted down. Earlier today it erased footprints in seconds. Now it is barely a whisper, telling tales of cold emptiness.

She checks the data from the range finder again. The numbers barely move. Good. She shifts her elbows in the snow. On her right hand her glove is thin at the fingertips. The heavier glove attached to her wrist, kept between the arm and the rifle. It’s cold, very cold, but she needs to feel the metal of the trigger. The pressure that is to be applied is exact, and very familiar.

She goes through the last round of calculations. The temperature is negative twenty three degrees Celsius, or roughly minus ten degrees Fahrenheit, lowering the density altitude to effectively six hundred and seventy meters, as well as affecting the powder burn and the very flight of the bullet. Wind speeds are low across the valley at altitude, but down along the valley floor the wind is channeled, moving at four to six knots, shifting south-southwest. Bullet drop at this range is substantial, so the scope’s elevation is dialed up. Then there’s the Coriolis effect, slight but real at these distances. She nudges the scope two more clicks. High ground, plus half a click for drift.

Her breath clouds the air. She steadies herself and the rifle, counting in her head. In—hold—out—pause. She sets her jaw. The shape below is a faint silhouette, occasionally fading in and out as moonlight disappears behind thin clouds and another snowflake drifts in front of her scope.

A hiss of static echoes in her memory, a phantom radio squawk from another life. She hears her name whispered in a voice she once knew. She sees a flash of different white mountains, jagged harsh peaks, lit up by moonlight. She remembers a partner’s frantic shout that cut off too soon. She exhales, pushing the memory aside.

Now is not the time.

The distance is immense, but the numbers fail to intimidate her. She’s shot farther, in conditions just as hostile. High-altitude wind-blasts, near-total darkness, deep sub-zero temperatures. She might have thought at some point that these experiences would fade. That she could reacclimatize into something resembling normality.

But there is no way to “reacclimatize” oneself out of the world that made her this way.

It has burrowed deep into her.

Beyond muscle.

Beyond bone.

It is not a part of her.

It is her.

She takes a last breath, resting her cheek against the rifle stock, and lines up her reticle center-mass. Her gloved finger strokes the trigger’s curve. The night is as deep as it is total. In the empty vastness of the northern Rockies it offers nothing but silence and it gives no quarter.

The body in her reticule moves forward, struggling in the deep snow. Making out facial details in this light, at this range, is impossible. But even as jagged as the motions are, she would recognize the gait, and the body that drives it, anywhere.

Vi.

Her mind is ice.

She feels no fear, no pity.

One last adjustment and she eases the trigger back until she feels the break. The shot cracks, muffled by the suppressor. Recoil jars her shoulder, but the muzzle flash barely winks in the darkness. A heartbeat passes. She keeps her eyes on the scope.

The bullet traverses that impossible stretch of frozen air.

One point six-three seconds of travel time.

A faint spark flickers near the silhouette in her scope. Then the figure collapses. Like a marionette doll with its strings cut. She cycles the bolt, ready for a second round, but there’s no sign of movement.

The trees, the snow, and the mountains swallow any echo of the shot.

She lowers her head for a very brief moment, letting the wind buffet her hood. The tension in her shoulders recedes, replaced by a calm emptiness. She returns to her scope, scanning the lower slope through the faint green glow of her optics.

Nothing stirs.

It is time to move on.

She took the shot.

Vi stumbles through the deep snow.

Dunleavy.

That fucking coward. Protecting his kid brother like it meant something. Like any of it did.

How the hell didn’t she see it?

She’d known something was off. She should’ve known. Now here she is—out in the middle of nowhere, no coat, no backup, no chance.

Her boot catches on something half-buried in the drift. She nearly goes down.

“Just keep walking,” he growls behind her. “Or I shoot you right here.”

She doesn’t answer. Just shakes her head. How did it come to this?

She’s not going to see Vander again. Not Powder. Not C—

The sound stops her train of thought. A sound like a wet towel slapped slow against stone. Thick. Heavy. A beat of air and meat and finality.

Then something behind her collapses into the snow.

She half-turns.

Nothing.

Stops. Waits.

Still nothing.

Then she turns all the way around.

Dunleavy is gone. His chest… The snow underneath him drinks everything that used to be inside him. His eyes are still open. Glassy. Blank.

She stares at him for a full breath. Maybe two.

Then she lifts her head. Nothing moves. The mountain is silent.

Caitlyn.

Out there, buried in the black, Caitlyn is watching.

She doesn’t know where it came from. Only what it meant.

Caitlyn took the shot.

For her.

Vi exhales.

She raises her arms. Slowly. Palms out. She gestures toward the body. Then draws a slow line across her throat with her right hand.

After a pause, she crouches. Picks up the rifle.

And starts a brisk walk back toward the cabin.

The signal from Vi is all Caitlyn needs. She moves her focus back to the cabin. The ballistics computer is instructed to go back to the primary target solution. Inside, the man is still pacing, unaware. Still following his loop. Compensate for the glass and the optical distortion. She waits for the moment and eases the trigger to break again.

The flight time is one hundredth of a second longer.

The result is the same.

The man simply becomes a body. All life gone in an instant. The flesh collapses onto the floor. She keeps her sight on him for almost another minute, until she sees Vi open the door to the cabin. Still nothing moves.

Good.

Time to move.

Vi moves as fast as she can towards the cabin. Using the tracks made by her and Dunleavy as they walked out, the snow is still deep and tiring, but she pushes hard. There is still the other brother to d—

She hears glass shatter. She pauses for a moment. The world immediately goes silent again. No noises. No screaming. Nothing.

Dead.

As she steps out of her overwhites, Caitlyn keys the backcountry SAR frequency into her sat phone.

It’s standard protocol. A courtesy, really.

As soon as the headset rings in her ear, she tucks the phone into a pocket in her jacket, folding the overwhites away. She starts the ritual. No haste. Just deliberate, practiced motion. She brushes away the veil and starts breaking the weapon down with something between discipline and reverence.

“Helena Search and Rescue. What’s your emergency?”

The bolt slides cleanly into its wrap.

“This is Captain Caitlyn Kiramman. I have two patients requiring immediate medevac. One hypothermic. One ambulatory. Stand by for grid.”

She reads off the 10-digit grid, elevation, and terrain. As she works, she uncouples the night clip-on optic and tucks it into its crushproof case. The rangefinder and targeting module follow.

There’s a pause, then the voice on the other end sharpens, losing its sleep.

“Copy, Captain. Be advised, Two-Bear is airborne on a call near Flathead Lake. You’re looking at a five-hour minimum. Weather’s deteriorating. We can try rolling a ground evac from Browning, might beat air.”

She rolls the veil with efficient precision and straps it to the pack.

“Not viable. Escalate to Malmstrom Air Force Base, they have a military quick reaction force at the ready. Priority medical emergency.”

A slight hesitation from the other side. “Ma’am, I’m not authorized to—”

The coldness in Caitlyn’s voice rivals that of the terrain she is in. “Then get your supervisor. I have two casualties, one critical. If you stall, people die. Direct this call to Malmstrom now.”

There’s a pause. She tucks the overwhites into the backpack. On the other end of the phone call, it rings. Once.

“Malmstrom AFB. Operations. Go ahead.”

“Captain Caitlyn Kiramman, requesting immediate QRF medevac. Two hostile down, two friendly casualties. Civilian SAR reports extended delay. Terrain alpine. Night conditions. Weather marginal. LZ will be marked. Hoist required.”

A pause. Paperwork opens somewhere. A file, mostly redacted, reveals just enough. ”Captain, hold one.” Seconds pass. The voice returns. Tighter now. Controlled. “Captain Kiramman, verify. Authenticate Oscar-Two.”

Caitlyn answers while she checks the bindings on her skis. “HMS Resolute.” It is all standard procedure. Her file contains a challenge and responses to ensure operational safety and security, to know if she, or the mission has been compromised. She has spoken these codewords a hundred times or more, and doing it now is more habit than anything else.

The other end finishes its pause, accepting that she, and the mission, is safe and secure.

“Copy. Stand by for Guardian Actual.”

The hangar snaps into motion. A QRF bird crew is already running out into the night. An MH-60 spools on the pad. Ground crews wave through frostbitten light. Inside the operations room, an analyst overlays thermal satellite and live weather data onto the grid.

“Captain, Guardian Actual. Bird spinning up. Ready for nine-line.”

Caitlyn works on the last of her gear as she speaks.

“Line 1: Grid coordinates…” She checks her GPS before she repeats the 10-digit grid coordinate she offered the civilian operator.
“Line 2: Callsign ‘Ghost’.“
“Line 3: Number of patients by precedence—one urgent, one priority, one routine.”
“Line 4: Special equipment—hoist required.”
“Line 5: Patient type—one litter, two ambulatory.”
“Line 6: Security—AO secure.”
“Line 7: Marking—IR strobe and red handheld flare.”
“Line 8: Patient nationality and status—three U.S. citizens, one allied active-duty SAS, NATO mil, armed / secure.”
“Line 9: NBC—none.”

The other end responds with a professional tone, just another night on the job.

“Nine-line received. Confirm strobe and flare will be active at LZ. You will be IC on ground. ETA 32 mikes. Maintain open channel. We’ll ping your sat feed on final approach.”

“Affirmative. I’ll have eyes on. LZ will be clear. You’ll see us.”

As soon as the call ends, Caitlyn adjusts the friction straps across her thighs. Tight, but not so tight they’ll cut off circulation. She shoulders her heavier pack, gear settling like the weight of a second spine.

Snow hisses as she pushes off into the darkness.

The wind is picking up.

So is the snowfall.

The slope falls away like a curtain being drawn.

She drops into it low and hard. Knees bent, poles angled behind her, gliding fast over crusted snowpack. Her visor is down, night optics overlaying ghostly green terrain over black void. Trees whip past. Shadows stretch and pulse. Their shapes twist into skeletal fingers under the slight distortion of the night vision.

Each turn is a risk. A patch of ice, a buried branch, a misjudged lean. But she carves with precision. Like a scalpel. Every shift in weight is calculated. Every muscle engaged. The pack sways with her, anchoring, threatening to throw her if she gives it even one loose thought.

But she doesn’t.

There’s no room for thought.

Just motion.

Just now.

The wind screams past her, and with it, seconds.

Her altimeter ticks down.

Every meter fallen is just over half a meter yet to climb.

At the valley floor, she crosses quickly over to the other side and comes to a skidding stop. Snow fountains up around her boots. She unclips from the skis without breaking stride. Drops to one knee. Switches. Snowshoes replace bindings. Gloves rechecked. Buckles secured. Skis attached to her pack.

The poles stay in her grip. Trekking staffs now.

And then the climb begins.

It’s brutal.

Fifty pounds of gear. A rifle slung tight to her chest. Her breath already misting in ragged pulses.

The slope is steep. Wind-scoured. Crusted over powder. Every other step collapses beneath her, burying her shins. Her quads burn. Her calves threaten to seize. She doesn’t slow.

Her breath becomes the only rhythm she allows.

In two. Out two.

Lift. Plant. Drive.

Again. Again. Again.

She finds the path the others took on the way in. It's faint, but it’s there. A broken line through the powder.

That helps.

Closer now.

Her watch chirps once. Fifteen minutes.

Over halfway.

Ahead of schedule.

She presses harder. Her fingers go numb. Frost gathers in the folds of her gaiters. Her pulse hammers in her ears. She climbs until time itself becomes weight.

Cresting yet another false summit she finally sees the final incline.

And just beyond it, the body in the snow, and the cabin beyond it.

She pushes past the corpse without breaking stride.

Twenty-six minutes.

Her lungs burn. The taste of blood rises in her throat. Her hand goes to her push-to-talk, clipped to the harness.

“Ghost to Guardian Actual. Radio check. ETA confirm.”

A beat. Then the voice crackles in, tight and calm:

“Guardian Actual. Read you five-by-five. Bird is six mikes out, holding course. LZ status?”

“Stand by. Will pop flare on final. IR strobe on perimeter. AO is green, two ambulatory, one priority.”

“Copy all, Ghost.”

She releases the button, draws her rifle, and steps toward the door.

Everything else disappears.

The wind bites through the cabin like a blade. It finds every seam, every crack, every failure in the decades-old construction. The broken window is the worst of it, a gaping hole torn by whatever was fired, its glass long since exploded inwards and scattered into the room.

The fire crackles low behind her. The room is warm enough near it, barely, but the draft is relentless. Cold slips in through that broken frame, stealing heat, hope, and time. Grayson lies wrapped in every blanket Vi could find. Rolled quilts, a musty sleeping bag, and a heavy wool coat. Her breathing is shallow. Her face pale.

Vi sets her jaw.

She grabs the old toolbox she has been eyeing from under the sink. With its rusted hinges and cracked handle it is all that she has. She drops it beside the window and rifles through the mess within. Old screws, a stubby hammer with one side chipped, and, thank God, box of nails that look almost new.

Then she goes to work.

First, she grabs a seat cushion from the kitchen bench. It’s flat and sunken but dense. She wedges it into the lower half of the broken window frame, twisting it hard until it catches against the uneven sill. It fits like a puzzle piece in reverse. Far from perfect, but tight.

Next, she grabs a couple firewood logs and braces them vertically inside the frame. One across the left, one across the right, then a third horizontal one jammed tight at an angle between them. It’s primitive, but it creates a crude lattice, a wooden skeleton to hold the next layer in place.

She digs through the cabin’s drawers and finds what’s left of an old flannel shirt, stiff with dust and age. She rips it into long strips and shoves them into the remaining gaps, packing around the wood frame. A towel from the bathroom goes next, folded double and wedged into the top corner, then what was once t-shirt stuffed along the sill. She presses them deep, until the window is choked with insulation.

Still, the wind finds ways in. She feels it.

So she grabs the thickest blanket they have left, a faded red wool thing that smells like pine and smoke, and nails it across the entire window frame. Hammering fast and sloppy, she drives the nails into the solid cabin wall.

The blanket goes up like a heavy curtain. It slumps over the plug of wood and cloth, trapping the wind on one side and the heat on the other. She steps back. Cold air still leaks around the edges, but the howling has stopped. The cabin exhales.

She turns back to Grayson.

The chief hasn’t moved.

Vi kneels beside her, pulling the blankets tighter, tucking the coat’s collar up against her neck. Her face is drawn, her lips still too pale, but her pulse is stronger now, steady beneath the skin.

Caitlyn reaches the cabin's weather-worn entryway and eases herself into the shadow of the structure, rifle low but ready. Her breath comes fast but measured, clouds curling beyond her balaclava.

She crouches just outside the threshold and begins the ritual.

First, the snowshoes. She unclips the bindings, sliding her boots free and setting the shoes to the side, angled for fast reattachment. Then the pack. She shrugs it off in one fluid motion, setting it gently against the cabin’s wall, where the snow overhang offers a sliver of shelter. Her movement is automatic, rehearsed, silent.

She checks her sling tension. Her battle rifle’s suppressor is snug, the optic still clear despite the climb, she checks the red dot. All good. She draws a long breath. Cold air bites deep.

Then she rises. Smooth. Focused.

And with her free hand, she tries the door.

It’s unlocked.

She gives it no time to creak.

The door opens and Caitlyn flows in behind it. Rifle angled.

Barrel sweeps.

The red dot sight sweeps the room.

All clear.

Except for—

“Cait!” Vi. Her voice cracks. She’s crouched on the floor, half-wrapped in a blanket, one arm around Grayson, whose still form is barely visible beneath the layers. “Caitlyn!” Vi repeats, her voice fighting exhaustion. “Grayson is hypothermic.”

Caitlyn doesn’t answer immediately. She lowers the rifle, hits her push-to-talk.

“Ghost to Guardian Actual. Cabin secure. Confirm two friendlies. One female, hypothermic, unconscious but breathing. One female, stable, mobile.” She looks at the body in the middle of the room. “No hostiles.”

There’s a pause. Then a clipped reply through the comms.

“Copy. LZ ready in three. Mark when able.”

Caitlyn turns, already moving. Vi watches her turn and leave, staring at the shape that just left her. A shape that pulls two chemical infrared strobes from her belt and a red flare from her thigh pouch. She shoulders the door open and steps out into the clearing, snow still falling in thick lazy spirals. No light pollution. Nothing but a dark sky veiled in weather.

She cracks the strobes, with the green infrared strobe blinking softly, invisible to the eye, and plants them fifteen feet apart. One strobe in the ground, the other zip‑tied at eye‑level on a nearby pine trunk to stay visible during rotor wash.

The flare comes last. She jams it into the snowbank and strikes it.

A burst of molten red leaps into the night.

She keys her radio, which still relies on her satellite phone. “LZ marked, visual and IR.”

“Guardian Actual copies. Bird eyes on. Two minutes.”

She turns back toward the door, shoulders already brushing with ice. She takes her pack with her as she moves inside, closing the door, before crouching beside Vi and Grayson. Without saying anything more she pulls out a mylar wrap and a second medical blanket from her backpack. She works fast, sliding them over the outermost layer, sealing in what heat remains. She presses her fingers to Grayson’s neck to feel for a pulse.

Still there. Weak. But steady.

She moves her hand in under the blankets towards Grayson’s abdomen, feeling her temperature. “Good work,” she says as she looks up at Vi, her voice soft. “She’s holding.”

Vi doesn’t say anything. Her eyes are locked on Caitlyn’s balaclava-covered face, and she’s shaking. It’s not from cold, not anymore.

Caitlyn touches her cheek, gentle but professional. “Are you injured?” Vi shakes her head. “Anything broken? Any head impact? Breathing okay?”

“No… I’m okay, I—” Vi’s voice breaks.

Caitlyn presses her forehead to Vi’s for one second. Just long enough to anchor her. Then she turns back to her comms.

“Guardian Actual, confirm one litter inbound. Cabin interior warm. Door open. Snow depth surrounding, two to three feet. One casualty not walkable. One mobile. One routine.”

“Copy. Rope team deploying. Package ready in thirty.”

Outside, the sound begins.

A low thrum, at first like wind.

Then stronger.

The chop of rotors cutting through snow and silence. The howl of the MH-60 dropping low into the valley, blades carving at the storm above.

“They can’t land, they’re going to hoist us out. You’re going on the second line,” Caitlyn says.

“I’m not leaving her.”

“You’re not,” Caitlyn replies, already shifting Grayson gently. “She goes first, then you’re going after her. Then my gear. Then me.”

Everything shakes from the downwash. Snow lifts in spirals outside and blows into the cabin.

“Eyes up,” Caitlyn says down toward Grayson. “Our ride’s here.”

Chapter Text

There was snow.

Too much of it.

And light. Bright. Red and green. Blinking. Somewhere above.

Cutting, slicing, the dark apart.

Caitlyn said something.

About a bird.

About minutes.

But it didn’t feel like minutes.

Just seconds. Or forever.

Grayson went first.

Cocooned.

Her breath still fogging.

Barely.

Vi stood by the door.

Caitlyn pointed. Said something soft and sharp all at once.

“Now. Go.”

The world shifts.

The harness.

The cold bite of webbing.

The sudden jerk upward.

The ground drops away.

Cabin. Blood. Trees. Darkness.

Caitlyn, shrinking below her.

Someone shouts above her.

She doesn’t answer.

They pull her in.

She’s inside the bird now. Cold metal. Dim light. Heat from someone’s gloves gripping her arm. The world hums. Loud. Distant. Too fast.

She blinks once. Then again. The blur fades. Her hands are shaking. She hears her name.

Spoken by Caitlyn.

The cabin shudders as the winch retracts. Vi disappears inside. Then Caitlyn’s backpack, sniper rifle, skis, and snow shoes. Then it’s Caitlyn’s turn, with her battle rifle slung tight.

She steps into the hoist harness without a word. The rope jolts tight. A second later, she’s airborne. The ground slips away fast. Darkness, trees, blood in snow. The cabin vanishes under rotor wash.

They pull her in.

Inside is roar and metal. Heat and static. A flight medic waves her forward. She ducks, moves past the stretcher where Grayson lies wrapped like something halfway between human and relic. Vi is strapped into the jump seat beside her, pale and quiet, eyes open but far away.

Someone tosses Caitlyn a helmet. She catches it, slots it on. Comms hiss once before they resolve.

"You the IC?"

She clicks on. “Captain Caitlyn Kiramman. Confirm two patients, one hypothermic, one stable. One priority evac. All clear. Good to go!”

“Copy that. We’re taking you to Logan. Closest Level 1 trauma.” She nods once, mostly to herself. “ETA thirty-two minutes. Weather inclement. It’ll be bumpy.”

Caitlyn doesn’t answer. She turns to the port side and straps in. The drone of the rotors eats the silence. She toggles her mic. Switches to local.

“Blackfeet Dispatch. Caitlyn Kiramman. All onboard black bird, tail 65‑892, destined for Logan. Grayson’s stable. Vi’s okay. ETA thirty-two.”

There’s a pause. Then Maggies’s voice comes through with an attempt to suppress the frantic desire to ask a thousand questions.

“Blackfeet dispatch copies all good. All safe?”

“Hostages were held at a hunter’s cabin at grid reference…” she checks her GPS once more and reads off the reference. “Two hostiles down. The Dunleavy brothers. Oh, and get my Suburban to Logan.”

“Blackfeet dispatch copies two bodies. We’ll… We’ll see how we deal with all of that.” Another pause. Then the obvious question. “How are you doing Caitlyn?”

Caitlyn breathing slows. “Ask me tomorrow,” she mutters. “Caitlyn out.”

She leans back against the bulkhead, knees slightly apart, hands resting on her thighs, rifle between her boots. Her eyes drift to Vi. A blanket tucked up to her chin. Her hands twitching now and then. Still fighting something, even here. She reaches out across the aisle and gently rests her hand over Vi’s blanket-covered one. Just for a second.

Vi’s fingers twitch. Then settle.

The pilot’s voice again, softer this time.

“Hell of a pickup.”

Caitlyn closes her eyes for just a second.

“Hell of a night.”

Caitlyn stretches in her seat. Next to her, in the bed, Vi is asleep after drifting in and out of consciousness over the last few hours. Doctors keep saying she will be fine, That her body is simply reacting to the events.

They don’t see the way her eyes move under their lids.

They don’t hear the way she mutters.

Caitlyn takes hold of Vi’s hand.

A part of Vi is still in that cabin.

Suffering.

Fighting.

Dying.

The hospital room is quiet.

Too quiet.

Caitlyn sits in the chair beside Vi’s bed, one ankle crossed over the other, her posture relaxed only by force of will. Her heavy jacket hangs over the back of the chair, her pants as well. She sits in her fleece layer and heavy long underwear. Her eyes are red.

Vi stirs.

First just a twitch of fingers beneath the blanket. Then her head shifts, eyes fluttering open. She blinks up at the ceiling. Flat, white, unfamiliar. Then she slowly turns her head.

Caitlyn’s already watching her.

For a moment, neither says anything. Just air moving between them. Then Vi swallows. Her voice is rough.

“Hey.”

Caitlyn smiles softly. “Hey.”

Vi looks down at her hands. They’re clean now. Pale. Still trembling faintly. “They gave me something?”

“Sedative,” Caitlyn nods. “You were being uncooperative.” She smiles.

Vi huffs something like a laugh. Then she covers her face with one hand. Her voice, when it comes, is wet.

“I didn’t think I was gonna make it.” Caitlyn doesn’t respond. Not yet. Vi drags her hands down her face. “I mean—I really—” Her voice cracks. “God, Cait. I thought—”

She stops. Her throat closes. And then she covers her face again, this time hard. Her whole body goes tight, like she’s bracing for impact. A few breaths squeeze out, sharp and uneven, and then the dam breaks.

She starts to cry.

Not the angry kind. Not the silent kind, either. It’s soft and ugly and shuddering. The way one’s whole body cries. Caitlyn leans forward and slides off the chair, kneeling beside the bed, one hand coming to rest gently against Vi’s shoulder.

Vi tries to speak again, but it comes out as a gasp. She twists away, wiping her face. “I’m sorry—I’m sorry, I’m just—”

“Vi,” Caitlyn says, quiet but firm. “You don’t have to apologize.”

Vi’s breath hitches. Her eyes are squeezed shut. “I never… I didn’t…”

Caitlyn’s hand stays steady. “You did good Vi.”

“I didn’t know if you were coming,” Vi whispers, and it’s the smallest she’s ever sounded. Cries come in bursts. Swallowing words. She grips Caitlyn’s sleeve.

Caitlyn closes her eyes. When she opens them, her voice is barely above a whisper. “I still have some OJ left over. Didn’t want to drink it by myself.”

Vi laughs between cries, her breath shaking, but slowly becoming calm. “You took the shot.”

“Yeah,” Caitlyn says. “I took the shot.”

A few shallow nods is all Vi can manage. Soft sobs almost devour the words, but Vi still tries. “You found me.” Caitlyn copies the shallow nods. Vi tries a bit more. “Can you…?” She looks down at the bed next to her. Caitlyn doesn’t say anything. She removes her boots, and moves up into the bed with Vi, spooning her from behind, under the covers. Vi pushes back into Caitlyn, while taking Caitlyn’s upper arm and draping it over herself. “Thank you,” Vi murmurs.

And Caitlyn holds her tight.

A few hours later, they all arrive.

Vander is the first to check in. He opens the door quietly, peeking inside, before he smiles.

Caitlyn and Vi are asleep, curled together on the narrow hospital bed. Caitlyn’s arm rests gently over Vi’s ribs. They’re breathing in sync. Peaceful. Undisturbed.

Behind him, Powder leans in and lets out a soft chuckle. Eli and Maggie follow, glancing between each other as Vander steps back and gently pulls the door shut behind him.

Eli raises an eyebrow. “What’s up?”

Vander turns to them, still smiling.

“They’re okay,” he says. “They’re sleeping.”

Caitlyn wakes up from being prodded by one of two men in the room with her and Vi. They are both wearing jackets with ‘FBI’ stamped on them in large letters. The shorter one is carrying an attache case. Behind them, the door is partially open, and beyond it she can see Eli and Vander talking together. In front of her, Vi stirs.

“Caitlyn Kiramman?” The question comes from the taller of the two men. Bald. Mid thirties. Her jacket and pants are missing from the chair. “My name is Aaron Barksdale, this is Miles Stanfield, we’re internal affairs, FBI. We need a word.”

Vi wakes up, slowly opening her eyes. “What…”

From above her, Caitlyn whispers into her ear. “Morning dear. These lovely gentlemen want a word with me.” Vi blinks up at the men, and then turns her head towards Caitlyn, who keeps talking. “You also have visitors, so why don’t you talk to them while I talk to these two, we’ll meet up later. Okay?”

Vi nods. “Okay.” She yawns. She feels heavy.

Behind her, Caitlyn rises out of the bed. She looks at the two men, gesturing for them to lead on.

They allow her to put on her boots, and lead her out of the room, past the contingent waiting in the hallway, and into a small room that has two other FBI agents standing outside of it. The room has a table, three chairs, and no windows. On top of the table is a selection of Caitlyn’s gear and weaponry. Her backpack is in the corner, along with her battle rifle. Her skis and snow shoes are nowhere to be seen. Stanfield puts his attache case down as he gestures to the chair with the door behind it. Caitlyn sits. Both men hang their jackets on their chairs.

The bald man, Barksdale, rests his right hand on the rifle on the table. Next to the rifle lies a suppressor. Next to it again lies her heavy jacket and her heavy pants, both in white winter camouflage colors. On top of them both of them lie her overwhites.

“This is some gear,” Barksdale starts. “AXSR rifle, S&B PMII optics, PVS-27 white phosphorus and night vision clip on, RAPTAR-Xe range finder, and a Kestrel ballistics computer.” Caitlyn’s eyes fall to the rifle. Her rifle. The man keeps on talking. “Now, the suppressor,” his finger rises to point at the suppressor now placed next to the rifle. In doing so, his shirt sleeve pulls back to reveal the bottom end of a tattoo on his underarm. “Ase Utra SL9+. Not very common in the US. I’m told it’s preferred by some European Special Operation Forces.” Her eyes are back on him. Next to him, his partner watches her, ignoring the gear on the table. She waits. He hasn’t asked her a question yet. It’s coming, Barksdale just wants to show off his homework. “We did some napkin math. This is what, sixty thousand dollars of highly specialized sniping gear? You want us to believe you simply bring this with you wherever you go?”

“It packs well.”

His colleague, Stanfield, taps the clothes in front of him. “Carinthia ECIG. I think the design is called Multicam Arctic? Even for the most dedicated hunters around, that’s some outfit. And on top of that, overwhites to break any chance of a silhouette against the snow. I suppose this is just your normal winter gear?”

“For work, yes, it is.”

The two men look at each other. The woman seated across from them isn’t untroubled. That would imply that she even remotely processed the idea of being troubled. Stanfield refocuses on her face. She meets his gaze. Her motion almost lazy. With sixteen years in the FBI he has seen it all. Or at least he thought he had. He has seen people do the worst possible things to each other. He has seen the perpetrators sit in a chair opposite him. He has seen them stare at him with disgust, with rage, with bloodlust. He has seen them with every emotion possible. He cannot recall anyone showing him the only emotion that Caitlyn Kiramman offers him.

Boredom.

He reaches into the attache case next to his feet. He retrieves a manila folder and places it on top of the clothing. He opens the file, and starts reading.

“Caitlyn Kiramman. Twenty-eight. Born in the US to British parents. Dual nationality. Mother, Cassandra. Diplomat.” He looks up at Caitlyn. “Stationed in Damascus, Kabul, Beijing…” He returns to the notes, not saying what he wants to say. “Father, Tobias, surgeon. You moved with your parents from station to station attending local international schools until they sent you to boarding school at age eleven. Cheltenham Ladies’ College. I had to look that up. Not an easy place to get into.” He looks at her, expecting a response. After giving her a beat, and then another, he realizes he’s not getting one, so he returns his focus to the file as he continues. “Your extracurriculars were fencing… And rifle marksmanship.” He looks up at her briefly, as if telling her a joke, before returning to the file. “Almost as soon as you finished your International Baccalaureate, with some damn good grades I might add, you joined the Royal Marine Corps at nineteen. Rumor has it you declined an offer at King’s College London.”

“Eighteen,” Caitlyn says, deadpan.

“I’m sorry?” Stanfield looks up at her.

“I enlisted at eighteen.”

“Right,” he murmurs. “Eighteen. My bad. Or someone’s bad. Either way. 32-week commando training course. Supposedly one of the toughest basic military training programs in the world?” He looks over at Barksdale who gives him a half nod half shrug. Stanfield looks over at Caitlyn “Is it as bad as they say?”

She smirks, looking over at Barksdale. “The only good day is yesterday.”

He nods back at her. “Ain’t that the truth.”

“Immediately selected for advanced reconnaissance and sniper training. Joined the 3rd Commando Brigade. Did two tours overseas. Joined the SAS at 21, one of the youngest people ever to make the cut.” He looks up at her again. “Out of curiosity, how many women passed the year you were accepted?”

“One.” Deadpan. Still bored. Next to Stanfield though, Barksdale is not bored. Not in the slightest. Stanfield continues.

“D squad, force recon, anti-terrorism. The course list is two pages long here… SERE-C, HUMINT, HALO/HAHO jumps… Deployed to Northern Afghanistan. And with that we hit five years of a black hole. But what do you know, you received the Queen’s Commendation for Bravery for a ‘hostage rescue operation in a hostile environment’.” He closes the folder and looks at the woman in front of him. “Left on leave at twenty six with the rank of captain, not selected for rotation. Want to talk about that?” No response. Not even a twitch. “So Ms. Kiramman, with this file and everything that has happened, you can understand our curiosity as to why you are here.”

“I am here as a liaison for the FBI as the second victim was a British national.”

“Right, but why are you working with the FBI to begin with?”

She stares at the man, says nothing, and breaks the stare to look at the wall between the men.

There is a bit of commotion outside the door before it swings open and an older man walks in. He is in his mid fifties, tall, and with a lean fit build. He is wearing a dark field jacket, an olive button down shirt, a pair of tactical chinos over well-worn but polished combat boots. As soon as she glances at the man, Caitlyn rises and her posture snaps into place, her eyes face forward, her voice crisp.

“Major. Sir!”

The man gives her a brief once-over before moving on to the two officers behind the desk, and then the rifle and the gear on the table. His eyes linger on the gear. Behind him, from the outside, someone closes the door.

“Imagine my surprise,” the Major says, walking up to the table and running a finger over the stock of the rifle. “Seeing the name Caitlyn Kiramman pop up in a request for background in relation to a shooting incident.” He turns towards Caitlyn. “You could have called.” Her posture hasn’t changed.

“Sir. I wouldn’t presume. Sir.”

“Sit. At ease. Please,” he says. “It’s been almost two years. I think we’re good.”

Caitlyn seats herself. The Major extends his hand towards Barksdale, who is staring at the man next to him.

“Major Jim Calloway, USMC. Barksdale?” Barksdale rises, takes his hand and nods.

“Yes Sir.”

“You served.”

Yes, Sir,” Barksdale says, reflexively straightening his spine. “2nd battalion, 6th marines, Sir.”

Calloway nods, still shaking his hand.

“Semper Fi, son.”

“Semper Fi,” Barksdale echoes. The Major’s smile moves along with his hand to the other man.

“And Stanfield.”

“Yes Sir.”

Calloway pushes the arctic jacket and pants in on the table, making Stanfield reach over and hold his folder. Calloway seats himself at the edge of the table, looking back down towards the two FBI men next to him.

“There was a background request for Ms. Kiramman. I am here, somewhat unofficially, to help as much as possible.”

The two officers look at each other, then Barksdale speaks.

“Ms. Kiramman is being questioned due to a shooting with this rifle,” he needlessly points at gear on the table, “and we were trying to understand some context.”

Calloway stares at the man.

“From what I read there is no doubt that it was a good shooting? There are no charges being pressed against Ms. Kiramman?”

“Sir,” Stanfield tries, “we are simply trying to—“

“—Context. Yes,” Calloway interrupts. He turns towards Caitlyn.

“Report.”

Caitlyn inhales slowly through her nose, eyes sharp, facing forward into the wall between the two officers. She folds her hands in her lap. Her voice shifts. “Sir. 0227 hours. Range 1411 meters. Quarter moon, overcast, no artificial illumination. Ambient temperature negative twenty-three Celsius. Humidity at eighteen percent. Density altitude effectively six hundred and seventy meters. Winds were low at altitude. At the valley floor, four to six knots, shifting south-southwest. No major turbulence along the flight path. No mirage, no thermal blooming.” She tilts her head slightly. Her eyes fractionally narrow. “Suppressor mounted. Accounting for temperature contraction, no zero shift from previous calibration. Engaged from a high-angle offset, prone, supported. Spin drift and Coriolis accounted for. Cold bore shot. Trigger break was clean. No wind push observed at vapor trail.” Her hands remain still, folded in front of her. “First round impact. Target down.”

Caitlyn shifts slightly in her seat, eyes still fixed on the wall between the internal affairs officers, but what she sees is not here. Not now.

“Second target acquired, inside structure. Standing. Stationary. Positioned over a body on the floor. Interior lighting, two oil lamps, one near the front entrance, one at the west wall. Lit fireplace by the east wall. Glass pane, no backlight. Firelight distortion present but minimal.” She blinks once, her hands still folded neatly in front of her. “The body on the ground had lower core temperature, assumed hypothermia onset.” A measured breath. “Wind call stable. Secondary range 1420 meters. Glass penetration and optical distortion accounted for. Negligible velocity loss on impact.” She tilts her head slightly, her tone never shifting from that operational crispness. “Engaged. Round penetrated glass. Impact center mass. Target down.”

The two officers look at each other, then at Major Calloway, then at Caitlyn. Calloway tilts his head slightly as he purses his mouth and nods, before turning towards the FBI officers.

“Give us a minute, will you?”

More glances shared between the officers, before they rise. Calloway hands them the recorder from the table. They take it and leave.

“So,” he says, facing Caitlyn, his brow furrowing. “With what’s going on, you understand I have to ask.” She understands and she shrugs. He looks at her, dead serious. Any trace of warmth gone. “Ghost, you working again?”

She shakes her head and exhales deeply. “No.” She leans back into the chair, feeling heavy all of a sudden. “I genuinely came here to help out with an investigation. A serial killer had killed a young British girl, and her father contacted the consulate. He wanted the locals assisted. He had pull, so I got pushed.”

The Major raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

She nods. “Really.”

It takes a moment. Then it just happens. He chuckles. It’s a rich hearty sound. He half-tries to contain it, but as he shakes his head it starts all over again, before blossoming into a full on laugh. And at that point, Caitlyn can’t help joining in.

“Well shit,” he says. “Lucky them.”

Vi refuses to sit down. Vander puts a hand on her shoulder. “Kiddo, she’ll be okay.”

Of course she’ll be okay. That’s not the issue at all. The issue is that those two idiots are holding Caitlyn… When Caitlyn should be… Here. With her.

Powder walks up behind Vi and takes her hand. Now Vi turns. To look at the hands intertwined. Then at Powder’s face. The younger sister takes a step into Vi and snuggles up into her. Vi puts her free hand around her sister.

“I love you, Sis,” Powder says.

“Love you too,” Vi murmurs into the long blue hair in her face. She kisses the top of Powder’s head.

And then comes a military man with a small cadre of people. There is a bit of commotion, but the FBI agents at the door let him in. Unlike Vi, who they refused. And then a few moments later, the two FBI agents who were inside come out to join everyone else who waits.

They lean in and talk to each other. Shaking their heads.

And then, from inside the room…

Laughter.

The door opens. Out comes Caitlyn and the military man. Their tone jovial. Caitlyn smiles. The men at the door seem to have an option on the matter, but the green-clad cadre from the military takes half a step forward, causing everyone to get all jittery. The man with Caitlyn looks over at the two FBI agents who were inside.

“Captain Kiramman will provide you all the paperwork you need, at her earliest convenience. And her gear goes back into the car, which she will need for a bit longer. I’m sure none of that will be a problem?” The two men look at each other. “Good, I’d hate to talk to the bureau about sending someone with barely two years of official experience to solve three murders on reservation land. By herself I might add. Luckily for you, you got Captain Kiramman, and she solved all your problems.” Calloway flashes a big smile. “Always nice to see inter-agency cooperation.” He turns to Caitlyn. “Door’s always open. Keep in touch, okay?”

She nods to him. “Sir. Yes, Sir.”

He gestures for the flock of green to follow him and they disappear down the hall. Barksdale steps forward towards Caitlyn.

“Need us to refit your Suburban?“

She smiles at him. “I’ll manage.”

“Okay.” He pauses. He looks at the family of people present. “Write up the report. I’ll get it through.” She nods. He hesitates for a moment. Then continues. “Good job. Thank you.” He pauses. A shallow nod. “Captain.” She returns his shallow nod and then he gathers his flock and disappears down the same corridor as everyone else.

Vi stares at her, still with her head on her sister’s shoulder. Powder whispers up at her. “Come on Sis, don’t keep her waiting.”

Another kiss from Vi onto Powder’s head and then she rushes into Caitlyn. They crash into a tight hug, bodies going heavy, and then light, as the hug turns into a kiss.

Chapter Text

The sun came out bright and early this morning. A warm breeze blows across the reservation roads, creating waves in the grass. Vi sits in the driver’s seat of her police four-by-four, alternating her view between the moving grass and the glittering snowcapped peaks of the western horizon.

“Vi, you available?”

Grayson’s voice. Vi reaches down to the center console and pulls out the microphone for the radio.

“Depends on the context,” she says, chuckling at her own joke. She can easily picture Grayson rolling her eyes into the radio at the other end.

“The park rangers want us to look at some potential poaching. Where are you?”

“Just passed mile marker 14 on 89 North, close enough.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“I’ll bring the trainee, always good to show them around.”

The other end of the radio performs more eye rolling.

“Sure, whatever, let me know how it goes, okay?”

Vi pulls over to the side of the road and is in the middle of turning around. “Yep, Vi out.” She hangs up. Once she has turned around and the car is heading back southwards, she looks over towards the passenger seat.

“When did I last tell you that you’re beautiful?”

Now it is Caitlyn’s turn to roll her eyes at Vi, but she does so while mulling the question over.

“Let’s see. There was in bed this morning. Then during breakfast. Then from the bathroom, in the middle of brushing your teeth… Let’s not talk about that. Then when it took a while to get the jackets on. Then in the truck. Then leaving the truck and entering the station…” She pauses for a moment. “Then between kisses in the bathroom in the station.”

“So,” Vi says, faking concern. “In other words, not recently enough’. You’re very beautiful Caitlyn.”

Caitlyn feels her lower chest go both light and warm all at once.

“I love you Vi,” she says, ever so softly, her hand landing on Vi’s thigh.

“Love you too trainee,” is the immediate response. Caitlyn shakes her head and laughs. Vi’s voice changes, eyes still on the road. “I love you, Caitlyn Kiramman. You’re the most beautiful woman in the world, and I want to wake up every day for the rest of my life with you next to me.”

Outside, the breeze lifts another ripple through the grass. As the truck turns back south, Caitlyn lifts her head, gaze drawn to a tree line near the base of the mountains. A pack of wolves. Shapes flowing like smoke against grass and pine.

One wolf lingers behind. Alone. Still.

It stares at the truck, and Caitlyn stares back through the glass. Her focus remains on the wolf as the truck finishes its turn and starts to pick up speed. The wolf holds its place for a few moments longer, before it turns and trots west, finding its pack.

“You okay there partner?”

Vi looks over at the woman in the passenger seat. It takes her a moment to focus on Vi, but then she smiles.

“Yeah,” Caitlyn chuckles. “Never better.”

Five months ago, in a hospital hallway, Vi had asked her to take a shot at the two of them. To her own dismay, she had hesitated. But she came to her senses and trusted her aim.

She took the shot.