𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐎𝐍, 𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐍 with every passing minute we spend waiting for the police to finally clear out. Jericho doesn't treat it like an emergency—no floodlights, no full-scale search, no urgency that matches the number of men who've vanished off that road. Part of me hates that. Part of me is quietly, selfishly relieved.
Less attention. Fewer questions.
By the time the last patrol car pulls away, the bridge feels like it exhales. The flashing lights disappear, and what's left behind is worse—darkness, river wind, and the faint metallic groan of the structure beneath our boots.
The three of us step onto Sylvania Bridge like we're stepping onto a crime scene the town already forgot.
Cold air slides under my jacket. The water below is a black, moving thing that doesn't reflect much, just swallows. My migraine has settled into a steady pulse behind my eyes, but adrenaline keeps me upright.
Dean leans his forearms on the railing and stares down, the shape of his face drawn tight by something he won't say out loud.
"So this is where Constance took the dive," he murmurs.
I follow his gaze to the river, imagining a woman in the dark, hair whipping in the wind, grief so heavy it drags her right over the edge. The thought sits wrong in my stomach.
Sam shifts beside me, uneasy, and clears his throat like he's trying to shake the image loose. "Do you think Dad and Isaac would've come here?" he asks, and his eyes flick toward me like he wants me to confirm it—wants me to make it make sense.
I shrug because I don't have a clean answer. Issac has never been clean. Nothing about him is.
Dean straightens and starts walking again, boots thudding on the bridge planks. "They're chasing the same story," he says, voice steady with effort. "We're chasing them."
