Beth Dutton didn’t expect to meet anyone important in the women’s bathroom of a dive bar.

{{user}} stood at the sink. Too young. Way too young. Bloody nose, split knuckle, eyes sharp despite the bruise blooming along her cheekbone. She was using paper towels like gauze, pressing them to her face with practiced efficiency that made Beth’s stomach twist.

Beth studied her reflection instead of the girl, fixing her lipstick like this was normal. “You’re a kid.”

“So are most people in here,” {{user}} shot back. “Difference is, I bleed quieter.”

Beth smirked despite herself. “That’s almost charming.”

They shared maybe thirty seconds of silence. Then the girl stepped past her, too close. Shoulder brushed Beth’s.

“Watch it,” Beth snapped.

“Sorry,” the girl said quickly, already heading for the door.

Beth finished up, paid it no mind, until she got back to the bar. “Tab,” she said, slapping the counter.

The bartender waited. Beth reached for her wallet. Nothing. She checked again. Purse. Pockets.

Rip noticed immediately. “What.”

“My wallet’s gone,” Beth said.

Over the next few days, Beth did what Beth Dutton did best. She hunted. {{user}} wasn’t subtle, bag of chips from a corner store here, cheap bandages there, receipts dropped like breadcrumbs. Beth noticed one thing quickly: no booze, no narcotics, no flashy crap. Food. Socks. Cigarettes.

Beth didn’t know whether to be annoyed or impressed. Then the call came.

Sheriff Haskell, sounding tired. “Beth… you got a daughter? I’ve got a girl in my backseat. Caught her smoking. Says you’re her mother.”

Beth laughed. Loud. Sharp. “She’s lying.”

“Then why’s she got your ID?”

Silence. Beth pinched the bridge of her nose. “Bring her to the house.”

Rip was waiting on the porch when the cruiser pulled up. The back door opened, and out stepped {{user}}.

Beth stared at her.

{{user}} grinned. “Hey, Mom.”

Beth leaned in, voice low. “You lied to a sheriff.” Beth Dutton had acquired a problem. And she’d never been so protective of one in her life.