Chapter 1
The rain hammered the pavement in relentless sheets, turning the glow of the streetlights into hazy halos. Zane Walsh stood across the street from Lou’s Diner, a cigarette perched between his fingers, the smoke curling upwards. He hated the rain. Hated the way it clung to his clothes, the way it brought the scent of damp asphalt to the forefront of his senses. But more than that, he hated this feeling—the one that crawled into his gut the moment Diana Torres had called him.
The diner’s neon sign flickered defiantly, casting bursts of red across his face. His coat was soaked through, the collar turned up against the elements, though it didn’t do much to help. He stubbed the cigarette out against a rusting streetlight pole, his jaw tightening.
Inside, the bell jingled as Zane pushed open the door, the air warm and stale compared to the bitter chill outside. The sound of the rain was muffled by the glass, and the familiar scent of greasy fryers and old coffee hung in the air. Lou’s was frozen in time, as it always had been—a place of worn booths and chipped counter stools where no one cared what had happened outside.
Diana was already seated in the farthest booth, her back to the wall, her dark eyes scanning the room like a predator assessing her surroundings. Her sleek briefcase sat beside her, conspicuously larger than needed. She was dressed in black, a trench coat draped across the seat beside her. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun, and her crimson lipstick didn’t smudge as she took a sip from her coffee cup. Even in the harsh diner lights, she seemed to fade into the background, as if she belonged to the shadows rather than the booth—an illusion perfected by years of practice.
“Zane.”
Her voice slid into his ears, smooth and cool as ice. “I thought punctuality was part of your job description.”
“Traffic,” Zane replied, his tone clipped. Zane didn’t meet her eyes. Instead, he fiddled with his soaked jacket sleeve, the action a defense mechanism—something to distract himself from the cold assessment in her gaze. He didn’t owe her an explanation. Not now. Not ever.
Zane glanced around the diner. The waitress behind the counter was too busy refilling a trucker’s coffee to pay attention to them. Still, his voice dropped. “Cut to the chase.”
Diana didn’t say anything at first. She reached down and retrieved a manila envelope from her bag, sliding it across the table. The action was deliberate, almost ceremonial. Zane stared at it, reluctant to touch it, as though it might burn him.
“You’ll want to see this,” she said, her fingers lingering on the envelope’s edge. Something in her smile made his skin crawl – that look she got when all her pieces were in place.
“Since when do you hand-deliver files?” Zane asked, his eyes narrowing. Diana wasn’t the type to do anything without multiple angles in play.
He sighed and flipped the clasp open. The contents spilled out onto the table—photographs, all black and white, stark against the worn surface of the booth. The first one hit him like a punch to the gut. She took another sip of coffee, watching him over the rim.
He stared at the first photograph, the shock of recognition hitting him like a sucker punch. Her face was obscured, but Zane recognized the necklace around her neck. He had seen it countless times, back when Carla used to bring coffee to the precinct.
“Carla,” he muttered, his throat tightening.
“Carla Devereaux,” Diana confirmed, her tone detached. “Secretary for the 12th Precinct. Murdered last week.”
The world seemed to slow around him, the sound of rain muting in his ears. He hadn’t seen that dock in years. Hadn’t wanted to. His eyes flicked back to the photograph, his chest tightening as memories flooded in—memories of a time when he was still a kid, before everything had gone wrong.
Another photo showed her alive, standing on the same dock. Zane’s stomach churned. That dock wasn’t just any dock—it was near his childhood home in Ridgeline.
The dock had been his escape, his sanctuary against the sound of his father’s shouts, the heavy thud of his fists against walls, the constant threat of violence. It had been the one place where he could find quiet, where the world seemed to stop spinning, if only for a little while. He’d often sneak out there, late at night or early in the morning, when the lake was still and the fog hung heavy over the water like a soft, forgiving blanket. There, at the edge of the world, he could escape his father’s rage.
But—the dock was different.
She was turned away from the camera, her shoulders squared, gazing out over the calm surface of the lake. A mist clung to the treetops, blurring the horizon where the hills melted into the sky. In her hand, she held something small—a book, maybe, or a journal. It dangled loosely at her side, as if she’d forgotten she was holding it at all.
Zane couldn’t shake the feeling the photo wasn’t meant to be seen. It felt private, contemplative, like Carla had been caught in a moment of solitude that wasn’t meant for anyone else. In the photo—the one near Ridgeline—pulled at him like a magnet, a memory he couldn’t shake. He didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to go back. But the pull was undeniable.
Zane leaned back in his chair, staring at the photo of Carla again, her dead eyes staring back at him.
“What the hell is this?” he asked, his voice rough.
“I was hoping you could tell me.” Diana leaned back, her eyes boring into him.
“You think I—”
“No,” she interrupted. “I think this is bigger than you. Carla had access to sensitive police information. Someone didn’t want her talking.”
“Detective Marshall White,” Diana confirmed. “Your father’s old partner. White’s report was… lacking,” Diana said carefully. “No witnesses. No leads. The report’s too neat, Zane. He’s covering something up.”
Zane’s gaze faltered for a split second, everything around him went blurry. The sensation crawled up the back of his neck, followed by a wave of nausea that had his stomach churning.He had to blink a few times, trying to shake the fog out of his vision. His pulse hammered in his ears.
White.
His gut clenched, and a cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck.
His father. White. The past, shoved aside for so long, was suddenly on the table, ugly and unavoidable. He could feel his heart rate quicken. He had to swallow down the surge of old anger and fear, force it back down where it belonged.
Zane swallowed hard, forcing the bile down his throat, and turned his gaze to the floor, struggling to regain composure. He could feel Diana’s eyes on him, the silence in the room thick with unspoken questions.
He tried to speak, but his voice came out lower, hoarse. “You didn’t tell me this was going to be a nostalgia trip,” he muttered, the words bitter in his mouth, but they didn’t mask the tightness in his chest or the sharpness in his skull.
Her lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Nostalgia isn’t why I called you.”, Diana said without hesitation. “Use your tech consultant cover. Find out what Carla knew. Find out who silenced her.”
He had to pull it together.
Zane clenched his jaw, steadying himself as the nausea ebbed away, leaving a hollow feeling behind. Zane leaned back, with a cold smirk,“You mean I can keep an eye on dear old Dad without him suspecting a thing.”
Diana’s lips tightened at Zane’s smirk, her eyes narrowing slightly. She didn’t need him to joke about his father. Not now. “I need you to focus, Zane,” she said, her voice low but firm, as if this was the first time she’d ever given him an order. “We don’t have time for your usual detachment. Get the information. Stay close. Don’t mess this up.”
Zane’s eyes flickered to the coffee cup in front of her, his fingers tapping the edge of the table with an almost imperceptible rhythm. He wasn’t in the mood for another lecture. Not tonight. His gaze snapped back to her, cold as always.
“You know how I operate,” he said, his voice flat. “You really think I need reminding?”
Diana was silent for a moment, studying him. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen that coldness in him, but there was something new behind it tonight—something deeper. But she knew better than to push him further. She’d get what she needed, one way or another. She always did.
Diana’s smile didn’t waver, but something shifted in her eyes – a predatory gleam that made him pause. “I’ve already made all the necessary arrangements,” she said, her tone too carefully neutral. “Everything’s been handled.”
The way she emphasized ‘everything’ set off warning bells, but before he could press further, she continued, “Just focus on the investigation, Zane. That’s all you need to worry about.”
Zane didn’t respond. The droplets continued to beat against the diner windows, as though mocking him. He looked back at the photo of Carla, her lifeless form a reminder of the cost of silence. Then he glanced out the window, watching the tears streak down the glass, his mind already a thousand miles away. There was nothing left to say. Not now.
Zane left the diner with the manila envelope tucked under his arm, the rain still pounding down with a vengeance. The storm had picked up while he was inside, as if Ridgeline itself were warning him to stay away. Standing beneath the awning, he lit another cigarette with shaking fingers. The glow from the diner’s neon sign painted the puddles at his feet a blood-red hue. He inhaled, the smoke mingling with the dampness before vanishing into the storm.
Diana’s words played over and over in his mind, each one driving a nail deeper into the coffin of the life he had tried to build away from Ridgeline. Carla Devereaux. The dock. His father’s old partner, Marshall White. Every thread felt connected to something darker, something that had been waiting for him to return.
He exhaled a plume of smoke, watching it swirl into the rainfall before it disappeared.
Ridgeline wasn’t home anymore. It was a ghost town, haunted by everything Zane had left behind.
Zane’s motorcycle roared through the empty streets of the city, the shower having tapered off to a light drizzle that still clung to the pavement like a faint memory of the storm. He’d parked the bike in the alley behind his apartment complex, the hum of the engine fading as he killed the ignition. The last thing he wanted was to wake Sophie up.
He opened the door to his apartment, slipped inside soundlessly. Zane’s apartment was just as he left its—toys strewn about, empty bottles in corners, an ashtray full of butts.
It was his space, but just barely. The low hum of the refrigerator was the only sound in the otherwise silent space. He dropped his keys on the counter, the dull clink of metal against granite harsh in the stillness. His fingers brushed against the faded photo of his family on the wall—his arm thrown around a girl who obscured her face slightly with a crown of dark curls, both smiling, a moment frozen in time before everything went to hell. He hadn’t touched that picture in years.
He didn’t bother with the lights—there was only the dull glow from a tired lamp in the corner, casting long shadows across the room. He tugged off his jacket, tossing it carelessly onto the couch and set the envelope down on the table.
Zane’s apartment was just as he left its—toys strewn about, empty bottles in corners, an ashtray full of butts. It was his space, but just barely. He moved to the kitchen, filling a glass with bourbon, the amber liquid a momentary escape.
Zane hesitated by Sophie’s door, his hand on the handle, fingers lingering there longer than necessary. The low hum of her nightlight was the only sound in the room. He could see her tiny form curled up under the blankets, her face soft with sleep. His chest tightened.
She looked so much like her mother—hair dark as a oak tree. Zane’s heart tightened.
What did she need from him? He had no manual for this—no guide on how to be the kind of father she deserved. He had never been good at doing this, not with her, not with anyone. He only knew the one thing that burned through his thoughts without question: he’d protect her.
But what did that even mean?
He didn’t know. And that feeling—the helplessness—was becoming a constant companion these days.
Zane turned, pushing back from the doorway and returned to the living room. His gaze drawn back to the envelope on the table. The photos, the documents. All of it pulling him back to a town he’d sworn to leave behind.
The amber liquid burned his throat, but it was a welcome distraction from the unease gnawing at him. He sat down, the envelope staring back at him like a challenge.
“All right,” he muttered, setting the glass aside. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
The photos were the same ones Diana had shown him in the diner, but now, under the harsh glare of the motel’s single lamp, they felt even more vivid. Carla’s lifeless eyes stared back at him, her body splayed out on the dock like a discarded doll. Zane traced the edge of one photo with his finger, his mind racing.
Why that dock? Of all the places, why there?
The documents in the envelope painted an incomplete picture. Marshall White’s incident report was clean—too clean. The phrasing was textbook, the details sparse. Carla Devereaux was found deceased at Dock 27, cause of death: blunt force trauma. No signs of robbery, no witnesses. Case classified as a probable robbery gone wrong.
Zane snorted, shaking his head. “Yeah, sure. And I’m the mayor of this goddamn town.”
He flipped to the next page, a copy of Carla’s personnel file. She had been a secretary at the 12th Precinct for three years. No disciplinary actions, no red flags. Her record was spotless, almost suspiciously so.
But something caught his eye in the middle of it all. Two plane tickets. One for him. One for Sophie.
Zane’s fingers curled around the tickets as a low growl rumbled in his chest. Diana had known. She knew he couldn’t just leave Sophie behind, couldn’t ignore her needs. And now, he was trapped, and she had arranged for the both of them to fly to Ridgeline.
He cursed under his breath. Clever fox. The woman knew exactly how to manipulate him.
But the more he stared at them, the more they burned. He had promised her—promised himself—that she’d never have to face this mess.
But it was already too late. He’d made the deal. He was going back to Ridgeline. He picked up the envelope, staring at the plane tickets inside. “Sophie…” he muttered under his breath. “What the hell am I doing?”
