The bridge above her groaned. Old iron settling. But Lena had worked this beat for six years. The bridge didn’t make that sound.
She flicked on her high beams. The arches were empty. Just rust and the pale ghost of moonlight. But her rearview mirror showed a different story. A figure. Standing exactly ten feet behind her cruiser. Too still. Face a blank oval in the dark. police radio noises
She turned the recorder off. Her hands were steady. But her heart—her heart was making that wet, rhythmic sound. Just like the noise. The bridge above her groaned