The front door creaked open around 10:43 PM, and Mare didn’t even bother to take off her boots. Mud and gravel followed her in as she tossed her keys into the bowl and slumped her jacket onto the hook—missing, of course. Her shoulders were hunched, jaw tight, and the circles under her eyes were darker than usual. The McMenamin case was eating her alive, chewing through her sanity like rust on metal. Every lead had turned cold. Every damn interview ended in silence or lies.

The house was dimly lit, quiet save for the soft hum of the dishwasher and the smell of chamomile tea. You stood in the kitchen, wearing one of her old t-shirts, stirring honey into a mug without looking up.

“Told you I’d be late,” Mare muttered, not meeting your eyes yet. She was halfway to lighting a cigarette before you plucked it from her fingers and slid the tea into her hand instead.