Cole spent the morning pretending life was normal.
He woke with that hollow, echoing ache in his chest, the one Amber had left when she asked for space. It hurt that she needed distance. It hurt more knowing why. She was terrified of becoming her father. Terrified, she had already crossed lines that felt too much like him.
They had broken up, and somehow none of it was about him sleeping with two other women. That fact still knotted his brain. People got dumped over less than a bad text. He had shattered boundaries, touched dangerous places in himself, and their ending had nothing to do with that.
He moved through his routine.
A large Sumatran coffee for himself. For Chase and Nicky, a biscuit with bacon and egg. A gravy biscuit for Bryce. A parfait for Krista. It felt like karma taxes. His choices had blasted through the life of the person closest to him, so his brain decided the least he could do was feed everyone else.
The girls in the drive-thru eyed the order like he was about to inhale it all alone. Some part of him wanted to explain he was stocking an office, not bulking for a strongman competition. Another part wanted to double the order just to watch their faces.
He set his coffee on his desk and passed out breakfast. Chase and Nicholas got their biscuits. Bryce's went on his desk for when he arrived. Krista practically vibrated in her chair, eyes shining when he held out the parfait.
"Thanks, Constantine," Nicholas said.
"No problem, Abercrombie," Cole replied.
Nicholas held out a fist. Cole bumped it. Krista beamed and wiggled the parfait at him.
"Thank you, handsome," she said. Now, her hair was white, like Marie's. It worked for her.
"Yeah, thank you, handsome," Bryce echoed as he wandered in and claimed his biscuit.
Cole rolled his eyes and sat. Work waited. Deadlines did not care that his chest felt like someone had scraped it out with a dull spoon.
The morning stayed quiet unless Krista and Chase relived the bicentennial drama for Bryce's benefit. Apparently, Nicholas had been there too. Cole had somehow missed that.
"Constantine," Seamus's sharp Irish accent cut down the hallway, "Come to me office, lad."
Everyone's heads lifted. Cole pushed up from his chair and walked toward the editor's office. Seamus watched every step and gestured him inside.
"Have a seat." Seamus motioned to the chair across the desk before dropping into his own. He studied Cole for a long beat. "There are a great many things we must discuss, you and I."
Cole sat, spine straight. "Is everything okay, sir? Were you unhappy with the story of the bicentennial?"
"Oh no, lad, everything was grand with your story," Seamus reassured him. "The questions I must ask ye may be more personal than is me business, but please do your best to answer. It's important."
Cole's stomach tightened. "Sure," he said, trying not to let the edge in his voice sharpen.
"These last few days, who have you spent ye time with while ye were off the clock?"
"I…" He stalled. Why was his boss asking about his off-hours? Was this about Amber?
"Please lad, I wouldn't ask if it wasn't of dire importance," Seamus pressed.
"My sister is here on vacation. She stayed with me for a few days, and then last night, I spent the night with…"
"With me niece," Seamus finished. Cole nodded. "She would also confirm that, would she not?"
"As far as I know," Cole said. Confusion crawled along his skin.
"Lad, there is somewhere we need to go. Someone passed me some very confidential information. They have found a body along the banks of South Holston, and I want ye to come with me to the scene. Would ye do that?"
"Dead body? Who?"
South Holston Lake was an hour away in Tennessee. Purgatory rarely splashed crime scenes across the paper, not like a city rag would. A body that far out would usually be someone else's jurisdiction.
"As I say, 'tis a sensitive matter," Seamus said evasively. "You go on ahead, take your gear, and I'll follow you with Chase. Do not breathe a word to the others."
Cole swallowed questions and stood. He grabbed his leather backpack from beside his desk, tucking his press pass into his jacket. Krista called, "Where are you going, Cole?" as he reached the door.
"I'll be back in a while," he said, and slipped out before she could press.
Outside, the sky hung low and gray. The forecast had promised rain and delivered headaches. He tossed his backpack onto the passenger seat and climbed into the SUV. His fingers fumbled with the key twice before it slid into the ignition. He clenched his jaw until the urge to punch the steering wheel passed.
Seamus asking personal questions. A confidential body. The order to go alone. The whole thing felt off, like he was being herded somewhere.
He pulled out onto the highway, merging with the late-morning traffic on 19. He killed the music. Silence gave his thoughts room to pace.
He wondered if this was about Amber—that Seamus thought things would get messy at work and wanted him occupied elsewhere. Maybe she'd said something about his night with Rowan.
His chest tightened.
Seamus's black Mercedes flashed by in the left lane, eating pavement like it owed him money. Cole watched it shoot ahead, heat curling in his gut. If Seamus wanted to talk so badly, why not ride together?
Because he does not want to talk to you, his mind offered. He forced himself to breathe. Someone was dead. His feelings could stand in line.
He turned off onto the back road that snaked toward South Holston. The usual smooth flow of lake-bound traffic crawled to a halt. Blue and red lights stuttered across the line of cars, bouncing over wet asphalt and damp leaves. Officers had thrown up a choke point, blocking vehicles from entering.
Cole pulled onto the shoulder with the rest of the overflow and killed the engine. He slid his press badge into his pocket, slung his backpack over his shoulder, and walked toward the blockade.
One deputy glanced at his ID and lifted the tape, waving him through with little interest. Seamus and Chase waited a little ahead, already on foot, Chase's camera hanging from its strap.
The lake view was usually peaceful. Today, it looked carved open. Patrol cars. EMS vans. Crime scene tape pulled tight like ligatures. The hum of engines and radios drowned out the usual birdsong.
"Seamus—"
"Not now, lad. Chase, ye go on ahead. Be respectful, but do ye job. I need to talk to Cole for a moment."
Chase nodded and slipped into the cluster of onlookers and officers.
"Seamus, there is something you aren't telling me," Cole whispered.
"Aye, there is, and ye will understand in a few moments. We will talk more as the day progresses, but right now, I need ye to be patient. I do not mean to be harsh with ye, but this is a complicated matter."
Cole stared at him. "Who's dead?"
"Rowan Connolly," Seamus whispered.
The world tilted sideways.
Rowan. Dead.
Cold rushed through him, sweeping his color with it. He had just been with her. Laughing. Tangling. Alive in a way that lit up every nerve he had. His brain refused the word. It stood there anyway.
"I think I'm going to be sick," he managed.
"Lad," Seamus said, putting his arm around Cole's shoulder, "I know that ye and she spent some time together the other night. 'Tis why I needed to make sure I was 'ere with ye. I care about ye like I would me own son. I would not have ye walk into this blindly."
"Why didn't you choose one of the others?" Cole forced air into his lungs. "Send Chase alone. Or Bryce. Or anyone but me."
"And choose whom? Nicholas? Krista? Bryce, perhaps? Ni lad, we both know you wouldn't want Krista involved in this, and Bryce, while he be a good lad, he doesn't have the needed temperament for this task."
Cole followed his gaze. Chase moved among the responders, already working. He was the right man for the job. Calm. Steady. Not drowning on the inside.
They walked toward the heart of the scene. Gravel crunched under their shoes. The lake lay under a lid of fog, its surface dull silver. Leaves clung wetly to the earth. Emergency lights painted everything in stuttering color.
A crowd had gathered. People craned their necks for a better view of someone else's worst day. Cole's lip curled. He knew it was human nature. Curiosity. Fear. Morbid empathy. It still made him want to shout at them to go home.
They pushed through, edging toward the tape. Deputies formed a loose wall in front of it. At their center stood a lean man directing traffic with the quiet authority that meant he belonged there.
Alan.
"Cole," Alan said as Cole stepped closer, lifting a hand to stop him. Lines of pain carved deep grooves around his mouth and under his eyes.
"Alan," Cole answered numbly.
"You can't come through." Alan's chest heaved once, like he had to drag the words out.
"We need to pass," Seamus said impatiently. He was not a man who accepted no, especially not from anyone in uniform.
"You can pass, Seamus, but Cole stays here. I don't give a damn about his press status."
"Lad, ye best remember who it is ye be speaking with. The lads and I will be passing, ye know damn well I am not in the mood for any sass. Step softly, or I'll have ye bollocks nailed to the wall. I care not what the chief has told ye. I'll address it with him meself."
"You were with Rowan the other night," Alan said, eyes never leaving Cole. Half accusation, half statement of fact.
The nearby officers turned. Their stares were sharp and cold. Someone muttered under their breath. Cole caught the tone even if he missed the words.
Another figure pushed through the knot of bodies with brisk, irritated steps. Sarah. Alan's partner. Cole tried to focus, but grief, anger, and shock slammed against his senses from every direction, turning thought into mush.
"Knock it off," Sarah barked.
"Sarah," Alan said, "we were just telling Cole that he has to stay away from any scene linked to her death."
"Ye know damn well that he didn't have no part in this," Seamus argued. "I trust not you or any of these little cocksuckers you call police officers. No harm shall come to him. Know that the lad is under me protection, and I say he is coming with me." He clasped his hand on Cole's shoulder and stood his ground.
"Under your protection?" Alan scoffed. Grief made him look ten years older than his thirty. "Is he? I heard no threats against him."
Cole watched from a distance, inside his own skull. Everything felt muffled, like he was underwater.
"Alright, ye cocksucker," Seamus fumed. "Any harm comes to me lad, and ye will answer to me!"
"Are you threatening a police officer, Mr. Ryan?"
"Ye bet your mother's sweet arse," Seamus said, taking a step forward.
"Whoa," Sarah cut in, sliding between them. "This isn't what anyone needs. Cole, are you okay?"
"I…" Cole's voice scraped out. Words refused to line up.
"Come on, Constantine," Sarah said, lifting the tape so he could duck under. She shot Alan a look that dared him to interfere.
Seamus nodded to her. "Thank ye lass. I know ye be his partner, but Alan is just being a straight-up arse."
"Don't worry," Sarah murmured back. "Nothing will happen."
"Do ye not think I haven't seen backwoods justice at its best? We Irish handle our own affairs. Do ye not think I don't know what they may have in mind? They will not be getting da lad alone. I trust not the lot of em. 'Tis not going to happen, I will tell Jonas meself."
Cole hated them talking about him like he was not there, yet he could not quite drag himself into the conversation. Nausea rolled through him. He tasted copper and acid and forced it down.
The sound of crying pulled his attention toward the shoreline.
Jonas Connolly stood there with his wife, shoulders bowed around a collapsed center. Rowan's mother clung to him, her sobs ripped raw. She had Rowan's hair, the same brilliant red now shot with gray at the temples.
Rowan's family stood inside a gravity well of grief. For Cole, it was more than something he saw; it slammed into him. Their emotions battered his mental walls like a siege ram.
He held on.
"Sarah, I need to speak with the lad privately if ye would." Seamus's voice came from his right. She moved off, giving them space.
"How did she die?" Cole asked. The words came out flat.
"Suicide from the preliminary observations, I'm told." Seamus patted his back.
"She wouldn't kill herself," Cole said. Tears burned his eyes.
"Aye," Seamus continued, "she did not seem the type, but there are things I must tell ye. You remember the other night when I was introducing ye?"
"I do." He remembered Rowan cutting Seamus off, steering the conversation away from her background.
"She interrupted me when I was introducing ye. For whatever reason, she didn't want ye to know her background, I imagine."
"I remember."
"What ye don't know, lad," Seamus continued, "is Rowan is the daughter of Purgatory's chief of police, Jonas Connolly. Maybe she be like me Amber and thought ye wouldn't be so fun lovin' if ye knew who her daddy was. It's what has Alan's knickers in such a snit. He once held a torch for that girl, he did. Maybe it's like they say, some flames never truly die."
The words hit like another blow. Rowan. The chief's daughter. Alan carrying a torch. Of course.
Cole swallowed hard. The lake air tasted like metal. He touched Seamus's shoulder just to steady himself.
"She didn't kill herself," Cole whispered.
The chief stood over the body bag that held his daughter, his wife crushed against him. Their grief came in waves that crashed against Cole's senses, relentless and heavy. He dug in his heels mentally, forcing himself not to fold.
Alan moved through the crowd as the medical examiner team lifted the bag. Rowan's body. Rowan's. The same body that had curled warm against him three nights ago.
Nothing could create or destroy energy. Only transferred. That was how he had always understood his gift. The current between him and Rowan had been bright, fierce, clean. No shame. No pretense. Just two people whose frequencies locked in for a while.
That same energy felt ripped loose and screaming.
The chief leaned close to Alan, eyes flicking toward Cole and Seamus. Alan nodded and gave his shoulder a quick, rough pat. He muttered something to Sarah, who came back over.
"Lass," Seamus said as she joined them.
"No names for now. Jane Doe found. When it's ready to be made public, I'll give you anything you need to know for your story, and you'll have our full cooperation. The chief asked that we speak with you personally to request this favor."
"You mean he instructed Alan to request this of me," Seamus retorted.
"Regardless, would you do it for me?" Sarah asked.
"I can arrange that."
It felt like making a deal with the devil. Cole trusted Sarah more than most of the uniforms, and he trusted Seamus more than that, but still. Favors at scenes like this were never free.
"The chief asks for a conversation with Constantine later—privately."
"Tis not going to happen. The delicate nature of the situation will come up eventually, but the lad needs time to process this, and you—" Seamus paused, "will honor and respect the sensitivity of that."
"Cole," Sarah said, squeezing his shoulder.
He barely heard her. Something cold brushed along his spine.
The soft sound of tears threaded into his mind, distinct from the surrounding noise. He knew that sound. It was not coming from anyone with a pulse.
He looked toward the water.
Jonas and his wife had pulled apart, still clinging to each other's hands. Between them, something shimmered.
Rowan.
She stood there, hair tangled with weed and lake debris, eyes glazed with the dull sheen of death. She watched her parents, then slowly turned her head and looked directly at him. The soft crying in his mind shifted into shocked recognition, then into a rush of frantic, overlapping emotion that was more feeling than words.
I'm so sorry, Rowan. Do you understand what has happened?
Her energy flared, as wild in death as it had been in life. It was not unusual for the dead to be confused. Many of them replayed their last moments in loops, but Rowan's focus was sharp. Aware.
She stepped toward him in a jerky, marionette motion, the tether between worlds pulling at her. Her jeans and black tank top dripped lake water. Her pale hands turned outward, showing four-inch slashes down each wrist.
You didn't do this, he thought, fierce. I refuse to believe you hurt yourself.
Dead, he heard in his head, her voice and not a voice, and she shook her head. Pain. The word throbbed. She looked at him, then back at her parents.
Yes, we are in pain. I did not know you long, but I refuse to believe you did this to yourself.
Help me, Cole. Help them.
Her plea ripped through him. Ghostly tears streamed down her face as she screamed without sound, the echo of it vibrating along his bones. No one else reacted. No one else could see her.
Help. The word hung there. Heavy. Impossible. She had never said his name in life with that much desperation. The dead almost never spoke to him like this.
A hand closed around his arm. The vision thinned. Rowan's form blurred and faded, swallowed by the fog.
"Ye be cold, lad. I know today must be a shock to ye. I think it would be best if Chase drives ye home. Would that be okay with ye?"
Cole nodded. His mouth felt full of cotton.
"That's a good lad. Go home and get some rest. Call ye sister, ask her to stay with ye. If the police come to speak with ye, do not go anywhere with them alone. Do ye understand me? They are going to question ye eventually, but let's ensure tis be properly. Ye will call me when it happens. I'll call Brady as well. A few big-city cops in town will ensure Alan and his flunkies don't resort to anything sinister when ye involvement with her becomes more general knowledge. I have their reassurances to give you time to grieve before it needs to happen. It would be wise to call ye retainer if ye have one."
Cole listened, the words landing one by one. Sister. Brady. Lawyer. Do not go anywhere with them alone.
Rowan's last plea echoed louder.
Help me. Help them.
He looked once more toward the lake. Jonas held his wife as if she was the last thing anchoring him to earth.
Cole swallowed hard. He knew one thing with a clarity that cut.
Rowan Connolly had not killed herself.