SEASON 2, CHAPTER 5 | Water Under the Bridge

Some hauntings don’t stay quiet once you start listening. They swell, they follow, and they learn the shape of the roads you travel. As Nellie and Jack trace a pattern written in water and grief, they discover that some spirits don’t linger where they died. They wait at crossings, at thresholds, at the places where people hesitate. And once noticed, they don’t like being ignored.

Word Count: 15.2k

TW: canon-typical violence. brief descriptions of drowning. use of mild language.

- - - - - -

The road is empty in the way rural roads get after midnight, not quiet exactly but withdrawn. Like it’s waiting. Evan keeps his headlights low as he drives, knuckles resting loose on the steering wheel, radio humming softly with a late-night talk show he isn’t really listening to. The GPS insists he has another twenty miles to go, but the town lights are already long gone behind him, swallowed by trees and darkness. The bridge ahead is narrow, old concrete arching over a stretch of black water that doesn’t reflect the moon so much as absorb it. He slows automatically. The bridge has no guardrails on one side, just a rusted sign warning of flooding during heavy rain. It hasn’t rained in days, but he eases off the gas anyway. Habit. Caution.

That’s when he hears it. At first, he thinks it’s the radio, some caller’s voice cracking through the static. He reaches to turn the volume down, frowns when the sound doesn’t fade. Crying. Soft, broken, and entirely too close. His foot presses harder on the brake. The car slows to a crawl as he leans forward, peering through the windshield. The headlights catch the edge of the bridge, the pale line of the road curving gently ahead. And then her. She stands just beyond the bridge, half in the road, half in shadow. A woman in white, hair dark and plastered to her face, clothes hanging heavy on her frame like they’ve been soaked through. Water drips from her sleeves, pattering softly onto the asphalt. Her shoulders shake as she sobs, the sound thin and desperate, like she’s trying not to be heard.

His stomach tightens. “Hey,” he calls out through the closed window, voice rough with uncertainty. “Hey, are you okay?”

She doesn’t look up.

He glances around, pulse ticking faster now. No other cars. No houses. Just the bridge, the river below, and this woman standing alone in the dark. He rolls the window down a crack. Cold air spills in, damp and sharp. “Miss?” he tries again. “Do you need help?”

The crying falters. For a moment, the night holds its breath. Slowly, she lifts her head. Her face is pale, eyes dark and unfocused, lips trembling like she’s trying to form words and failing. Water runs down her cheeks, indistinguishable from tears. She takes one step toward the car, bare feet slapping wetly against the road.

“Please,” she whispers.

The sound of it cuts through him. Too raw to ignore. He’s already shifting in his seat, reaching for the door handle before he really thinks it through. “It’s okay,” he says, the words automatic. “I can call someone. I’ve got a phone —”

The instant the door unlocks, the air inside the car changes. It’s subtle at first. The warmth drains away, replaced by a damp chill that crawls across his skin. The windows fog over in seconds, breath clouding thick and white in front of his face.

“Wait,” he mutters, suddenly uneasy.

Water beads along the edges of the dashboard. At first, he thinks it’s condensation, some weird trick of the cold, until a drop splashes onto his jeans. Then another. Then a thin sheet of water spills across the passenger-side floor, pooling around his feet.

“What the —” He scrambles backward in his seat as the water rises, sloshing violently now, the smell of river mud and rot filling the car. The woman steps closer, her sobbing gone, replaced by something quieter. Intent.

“No,” Evan gasps, fumbling with the door handle. It won’t budge. The locks click uselessly under his fingers. The water surges higher, soaking his seat, climbing his chest, his throat. Panic explodes in his lungs as he sucks in a breath and gets nothing but cold.

The woman presses her hand to the glass. Her touch leaves a smear of river silt behind.

“You stopped,” she says, her voice echoing strangely, like it’s coming from underwater. “You saw me.”

The car jolts violently, rocked by a force he can’t see. Water slams into his face, filling his mouth, his nose, burning as he chokes. His scream bubbles uselessly through the flood as the world tilts, spins, disappears. The headlights flicker once. Then go dark.

• • •

The Impala hums beneath them, steady and familiar, the engine’s vibration traveling up through the floorboards like something alive. Nellie drives with both hands on the wheel, eyes forward, posture relaxed but alert. The highway stretches ahead, empty but bright with the morning, broken only by the occasional sign flashing past the windshield.

Jack flips open the folder on his lap, the papers already worn soft at the edges. “This is the fifth victim,” he says quietly.

“Yeah,” she replies. No inflection. Just acknowledgment.

He scans the page. “Same town. Same general area.” He glances at the map clipped inside the folder. “All found within about ten miles of each other.”

“Locations.”

“Basement. Empty barn. Dry culvert. Storm cellar.” He pauses, then adds, “And now a rural road. A couple miles outside town.”

“All waterlogged.”

He nods. “All drowned.”

“No signs of flooding at any of the sites. No burst pipes. No standing water nearby when the bodies were discovered.”

“Time of death?”

“Late night. Early morning.” He hesitates. “Different days. Spread out just enough that it didn’t look connected at first.”

Nellie hums softly. “Until now.”

Jack flips to another report. “The last one was reported while we were driving. Found in a ditch along a backroad. No buildings nearby. No water source at all.”

“That’s new, but our kind of unusual. Why don’t you see what the locals are saying.”

He looks up from the closed folder. “About the victims?”

“About anything,” she replies. “Town history. Folklore. Urban legends. Whatever people write down when they don’t know what they’re looking at.”

He hesitates. “You already checked, didn’t you?”

She doesn’t look at him. “Does it matter?”

He considers that, then reaches for the laptop she keeps tucked between the seats. It’s old, scuffed at the corners, a faint crack spidering one edge of the casing. It hums softly as it wakes, screen lighting up the inside of the car. He opens a browser and types in the town’s name, adding words like legend, haunted, river, bridge. The first few results are useless. Tourism pages. Fishing reports. A blog post complaining about potholes. He scrolls before finding a title that makes him at least consider: TOP 10 HAUNTED SPOTS IN PINE RIDGE COUNTY (YOU WON’T BELIEVE #7!). He winces but clicks anyway. The site is cluttered with ads and autoplay videos he immediately mutes. The writing is sloppy, full of misspellings and dramatic punctuation. He skims until something catches.

“There’s a recurring mention of a… ‘crying woman,’” he says slowly. “Near roads. Bridges, mostly. Locals say if you drive the backroads late at night, you might hear her crying. Some say she looks soaked, like she just came out of the river. Others say she’s dressed all in white and disappears if you get too close. That’s not very specific.”

“Keep going,” Nellie prompts.

Jack scrolls again. “Here’s another one. Different site. Looks like some kind of short story collection? Or… personal accounts, maybe.” He reads more carefully this time. “They call her the Wailing Woman. Some folks say she’s La Llorona, like the legend from Mexico, but older residents say she was here long before that name stuck. If you stop your car, she’ll ask for help. If you don’t, she follows you.” He frowns. “That doesn’t make sense.”

She finally glances over. “Why not?”

“Most versions of La Llorona lure people toward water,” he says. “This one seems tied to roads. Movement. Cars.”

She nods, approving but says nothing.

He scrolls again. “This one’s… wow. This is really bad. My cousin’s friend swears she saw her once, crying on the bridge. Said the road flooded out of nowhere, even though it hadn’t rained. The next day they found some guy drowned in his basement. Sheriff said it was an accident, but everyone knows that’s bullshit.” He pauses. “That’s… actually close.”

“Uh-huh.”

“There’s a lot of disagreement. Some say she only appears if you stop. Others say slowing down is enough. Some say she’s a mother who lost children. Others say she was a traveler herself.”

He looks up from the screen. “There’s no consensus.”

She smiles faintly. “There usually isn’t.”

He leans back, the laptop warm against his legs. “Most of this feels like people trying to force a familiar name onto something they don’t understand.”

“Say that again,” she says.

He does, slower this time. “They recognize pieces. Crying. Water. A woman on the road. So they grab the closest story they know.”

“And?”

“And then they stop asking questions.”

Silence settles between them again, broken only by the road noise and the steady hum of the engine.

He closes the laptop carefully, setting it aside. “I don’t know if any of this is useful,” he admits.

She shrugs. “You found what you were supposed to.”

He glances at her. “Which is…?”

“That the locals noticed something before we did,” she says. “And that none of them agree on what it is.”

• • •

The Impala slows as they crest the final rise in the road. Red and blue lights flicker ahead, washing the trees in brief, artificial color before fading back into the early-morning gray. A pair of cruisers sit angled along the shoulder, hazard lights blinking steadily. The road itself is narrow here, barely wide enough for two cars to pass, bordered by a shallow ditch and a stretch of dry brush that crowds close to the pavement.

Nellie eases the car onto the shoulder a short distance back, killing the engine before they’re fully in the wash of the lights. “Alright,” she says, already reaching for her badge. “Don’t forget your badge.”

Jack nods, straightening his jacket. The tie sits right this time. He checks it anyway, habit more than necessity, then pockets his badge as he steps out of the car.

The air smells like dust and cold asphalt. No dampness. No river. Just early morning and exhaust and the faint metallic edge of ozone from the cruiser lights. The sky is pale and undecided, light creeping in without warmth.

A deputy notices them immediately, posture stiffening until Nellie flashes her badge. “County task force,” she says easily. “We’re here about the body.”

The deputy nods. “Found earlier this morning. Jogger called it in.”

“Location?”

He gestures down the road. “Ditch, about thirty yards up. No water anywhere near it.”

Jack follows her gaze as it tracks the stretch of pavement ahead. The road curves gently, disappearing into trees and scrub on either side. No buildings. No creeks. No culverts. The ground looks dry enough to kick up dust with a good step.

“That’s a long way from any water,” she says.

“Closest water’s over two miles,” the deputy replies. “Doesn’t make sense.”

She nods once, already filing that away. “Anyone hear anything last night?”

He hesitates. “Couple calls came in about noise. Crying, maybe. Hard to say. Sound carries weird out here.”

She thanks the deputy and starts forward, her pace unhurried, controlled. Jack falls in beside her, eyes scanning the road, the trees, the empty stretch ahead. They stop at the edge of the ditch. Up close, the body looks wrong in a way he can’t quite articulate. Not gruesome, not overtly violent, just misplaced. Like something dropped where it doesn’t belong. The man lies on his back in the dry grass, arms slack at his sides, clothes darkened and stiff with moisture that has no business being here. The ground beneath him is cracked and dusty, blades of grass bent but not flattened by water.

He hesitates. It’s not fear, exactly. He’s seen death before. Too much of it. But this is different from battles and explosions and cosmic aftermath. This is death by drowning does something weird the body. He swallows and forces himself to breathe evenly. Nellie, on the other hand, doesn’t hesitate at all. She steps down into the ditch with practiced ease, careful with her footing but unflinching, already crouching near the body without touching it. Her expression shifts, not hardened or cold, just focused. Professional. This is familiar ground for her.

“Take a look around,” she says quietly, not looking up. “See what you notice.”

He nods, grateful for the task. He moves along the edge of the road, eyes scanning wide first, then narrowing the way Sam taught him. He notes the lack of disturbance. No drag marks, no broken branches, no scuffed earth. The grass is flattened only where the body rests. Tire tracks nearby, but nothing unusual for a rural road. No footprints leading away. Behind him, she closes her eyes for just a moment. It’s subtle. Anyone watching would think she’s centering herself, taking stock. But beneath the surface, she reaches carefully, brushing the edge of her awareness against the space around the body. She doesn’t push. She doesn’t dig. She’s learned that lesson the hard way. Instead, she listens.

The impression comes faint and fractured. Cold. Pressure. A sharp, panicked pull in the chest, like lungs screaming for air that isn’t there. Not a memory, exactly. More like a residue. The echo of a moment stretched too long. She exhales softly and opens her eyes. Drowning, she thinks. No doubt about that. But there’s no sense of water here now. No lingering presence. Whatever did this didn’t stay.

Jack crouches near the shoulder, peering into the trees. “There’s no sign he was dragged,” he says. “If he ended up here, it was… immediate. Like he collapsed.” He glances down at the body again, forcing himself to look longer this time. The man’s hair is matted, as if plastered to his head when wet. His shoes are muddy, but the mud is dark and fine, not the dry dust of the roadside. “That dirt,” he adds slowly. “It doesn’t match the ground here.”

Nellie finally looks up at him, something like approval flickering across her face. “Silt.”

“So, he was wet before he got here. Really wet.”

“Yes.”

“But he didn’t die in water,” he continues, voice steadier now. “He died like he was in water.”

Silence settles between them, heavy but shared.

She rises smoothly to her feet, brushing her hands against her slacks like she didn’t just kneel inches from death. “Alright, that’s enough for now.”

He straightens too, a little surprised. “That’s it?”

“For this pass,” she replies. “We don’t need to touch him to know what happened.”

She steps back toward the road, giving the body one last measured look. He follows, his gaze lingering a second longer before he forces himself to turn away. They step back up onto the road as the morning light continues to thin the shadows. The deputies give them space, clearly unsure what to do with two calm, well-dressed outsiders who don’t ask for permission and don’t look rattled by what they’ve seen.

The sheriff sidles up to them as the hunters reach the shoulder. He’s middle-aged, tired-looking, uniform rumpled in the way of someone who’s been answering too many calls at the wrong hours. His gaze flicks from the cruisers to the ditch, then back to them. “You the task force?” he asks.

Nellie turns, badge already in hand. “Detective Alvarez,” she says smoothly. “This is my partner. We’re assisting with the investigation.”

He exhales, something like relief loosening his shoulders. “Good. Because I’ll be honest with you, I’m out of my depth.”

Her expression stays neutral. “Walk me through what you’ve got.”

“Five deaths,” he says, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “All ruled accidental at first. Drownings. Except there’s no water. Not where they’re found, anyway.” He lets out a humorless huff. “My guys are chasing plumbing issues and bad wiring and God knows what else. None of it sticks.”

Jack watches quietly as she nods, letting the man talk himself into the truth.

“We just want to make sure we’re all looking at the same information,” she says, handing him a business card with one of her throw away emails. “Autopsy reports. Toxicology. Anything the medical examiner’s pulled so far.”

The sheriff doesn’t hesitate. “I’ll have them sent over. ME’s been itching for someone else to look at this.” He pauses, glancing back toward the road. “You think these are connected?”

She meets his eyes. “I think they deserve a closer look.”

That seems to satisfy him. He nods once. “Alright. I’ll email what we’ve got as soon as it clears.”

“Appreciate it,” she says.

He tips his hat slightly and turns back toward his deputies, already half-absorbed into logistics and clean up. The case, at least for now, is no longer his problem.

Jack watches him go. “He’s… not pushing back.”

“No,” Nellie agrees. “He’s tired.”

“And relieved.”

She gives a small shrug. “When things stop making sense, people like it when someone else takes responsibility.”

He absorbs that as they walk back toward the Impala. The road is quieter now, the flashing lights dimmed in the growing daylight. The body is covered, scene contained, questions temporarily boxed up and labeled for later.

“So,” he says as they reach the car, “next step?”

She opens the driver’s door. “Autopsies. Toxicology. Timelines.”

“And then?”

She slides into the seat, already reaching for her phone. “Then we figure out what she’s doing.”

They pull away from the scene with the quiet efficiency of people who know there’s nothing more to be gained by standing around. The Impala settles back into motion, engine smoothing out as the road unwinds beneath them. Morning has fully turned into noon, sunlight filtering through the trees in thin, pale strips that flash across the windshield.

“ME’ll need a bit,” Nellie says causally. “Couple hours, at least. And we’ll probably get the more recent reports tomorrow morning.”

Jack nods, still staring out the window. He hasn’t said much since they left the ditch. His jaw is set, expression thoughtful in a way that feels heavier than nerves.

She glances at him. “You hungry?”

He blinks, clearly not expecting the question. “Uh… I hadn’t really thought about it.”

She smirks. “That’s a yes.”

Jack lets out a faint huff. “After that?”

She shrugs, casual. “My appetite survived worse.”

He looks at her, incredulous. “That wasn’t… worse?”

She shoots him a look. “Wait until you see a Hag victim.”

Despite himself, he chuckles, surprised, like the sound escaped before he could stop it. He rubs a hand over his face. “I don’t know how you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Switch it off,” he says. “Go from… that to lunch.”

She considers that as she turns into a small diner parking lot, the kind with faded signage and a gravel shoulder. “I don’t switch it off,” she says. “I just don’t let it take everything else with it.” She parks, killing the engine. “Besides,” she adds, unbuckling her seatbelt, “if I let every body ruin my appetite, I’d starve.”

He winces. “That’s… comforting. In a very alarming way.”

She grins. “See? You’re learning.”

Inside, the diner smells like grease, coffee, and something fried that’s been sitting under heat lamps too long. It’s late enough in the morning that the breakfast rush has thinned, but early enough that lunch hasn’t fully started yet. A few locals sit scattered in booths, nursing mugs and staring into nothing. They slide into a booth near the window. Vinyl squeaks. The waitress drops off menus without much ceremony.

Jack stares at his for a moment longer than necessary. “I’m not sure I can eat,” he admits.

Nellie arches an eyebrow. “You don’t have to finish it. Just… try.”

He exhales slowly, then nods. “Okay.”

She orders without looking at the menu. He hesitates, then follows suit, choosing something simple. When the waitress leaves, silence settles, but it’s different now. Easier.

“You did good back there,” she says suddenly.

He looks up. “At the scene?”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t really do much.”

“You didn’t freeze,” she says. “And you noticed things that mattered.” She pauses, then adds, lighter, “Also, you didn’t throw up. Bonus points.”

He snorts despite himself. “Low bar.”

“Still counts.”

He studies her for a moment, then says carefully, “You joke more than I expected.”

She leans back against the booth. “I don’t always.”

“But you are now.”

“Yeah,” she admits. “Guess that means I don’t think you’re going to bolt.”

He smiles faintly. “Not planning on it.”

Their food arrives, steam rising off the plates. Jack takes a tentative bite, then another. His shoulders relax a fraction.

“See?” Nellie says. “Survivable.”

He nods. “Barely.”

She smirks, picking up her fork. “Enjoy it while you can. Once the reports come in, we’re back to books and bad coffee.”

He glances at her, then at the road visible through the window. “I’m ready.”

She meets his gaze, something like approval settling there. “Good. Because lunch breaks are temporary.”

They eat, quiet but companionable, the world holding its breath just long enough for them to refuel, knowing full well it won’t last.

• • •

The motel is exactly what they expected. Two stories. Flickering neon sign. A front desk clerk who barely looks up as she slides a credit card across the counter. The room smells faintly of industrial cleaner and old carpet, the kind that’s seen too many boots and not enough sunlight. It’s not terrible. It’s functional. Which is all they need.

Jack drops his bag on the bed closest to the window, then hesitates before sitting, like he’s not quite sure he’s allowed to relax yet. Nellie claims the small table by the wall immediately, opening her laptop and plugging in the charger without comment. She barely has time to kick off her shoes before her phone buzzes. “That’ll be the ME,” she says, already opening the email.

He straightens. “That was fast.”

“Told you they were eager,” she replies. She scans the subject line, then exhales slowly. “Autopsy reports and photos.”

He swallows. “Photos?”

She glances over at him, a corner of her mouth twitching. “You want to take a crack at those, or should I?”

He doesn’t even pretend to consider it. “No.”

“Smart answer.” She opens the file, scrolling past the first page with practiced ease. He turns away, grabbing the folded map from his bag and spreading it out across the bed instead. It’s already creased and marked from earlier research, roads and waterways penciled in with careful precision.

“Alright,” she says, eyes on the screen. “I’ll spare you the visuals.”

“Much appreciated.”

“Victim one,” she continues, voice steady, professional. “Found in a residential basement. North side of town. About half a mile from County Road Twelve.”

He marks it with a small X. “Got it.”

“Victim two. Empty barn off Route Six. South end. No utilities.”

Another mark.

“Third was the culvert. Under Old Mill Road.” She pauses. “Dry when the body was found.”

He nods, marking the spot. “That one’s close to the water.”

“Yeah, but still not in it.” She scrolls. “Fourth victim. Storm cellar behind an abandoned farmhouse. East side.”

He adds the mark, then leans back, studying the map. “They’re spread out.”

“But not random,” Nellie says.

She moves on. “Fifth victim from this morning. Rural road outside town. About two miles west. No structures. No water sources. And we won’t have that autopsy till the morning.”

He marks the final X, then freezes. He leans closer, tracing an invisible line between the points with his finger. “They’re all near roads. Not just near water,” he clarifies. “Near routes. County roads. Backroads. Places people pass through.”

She nods slowly, closing the laptop just enough to give him her full attention. “That’s what I was seeing too.”

He glances at the map again, then at her. “You didn’t need the photos for that.”

“No,” she admits. “But they confirm it.”

He hesitates. “Anything else… important?”

She considers for a moment. “Consistent cause of death. Drowning. No toxins. No drugs. No trauma that explains it. And the water in the lungs is river water and silt. Same composition every time.”

He exhales. “Even when they died miles from it.”

“Even then.”

They fall quiet, the motel’s air conditioner rattling softly in the background. She continues scrolling through the autopsy reports with practiced efficiency. She doesn’t linger on the photos, just the descriptions, timestamps, measurements, notes from the medical examiner. Facts. Anchors.

He still stands at the foot of the bed, arms folded, staring at the map like it might rearrange itself if he concentrates hard enough. “I don’t get it,” he says finally. “I mean… I do, but I don’t.”

She doesn’t look up. “Try me.”

“They’re drowning. Actually drowning. Not just suffocating. Not some mimicry. Their lungs are full of water. River water.” He gestures at the map. “But they’re nowhere near it when they die.”

“No,” she agrees. “They’re not.”

“So, either the water’s coming to them,” he continues slowly, “or they’re being taken to the water and brought back.”

She pauses her scrolling. “Bodies don’t usually come back dry.”

He nods. “Which leaves the first option.”

She hums thoughtfully and returns to the report. “ME notes consistent pressure damage in the lungs. Like prolonged submersion.”

He exhales. “That’s not fast.”

“No, it’s not.”

He rubs the back of his neck, then turns toward his laptop on the bed. “Okay. Let me check the lore again.”

She looks over. “You already did.”

“Yeah,” he says. “But I was skimming. This time I want to read the bad stuff.”

“Be my guest.”

Jack types, pulling up folklore sites, scanned books, archived articles. He scrolls past the sensational headlines and into dense blocks of text, brow furrowing as he reads. After a moment, he starts reading aloud, not like he’s lecturing, but like he’s thinking out loud and wants her in the loop. “‘La Llorona,’” he says. “‘The Weeping Woman. A spirit associated with water, grief, and loss. Often described as appearing near rivers or lakes —’”

Nellie half-listens, eyes on the screen, but she registers the cadence of his voice. Steady. Focused. Careful in the way it always is when he’s trying to understand something fully.

“— ‘In some regional variations, the spirit appears on roads or bridges, particularly to travelers.’”

That makes her glance up.

He scrolls. “‘Sightings often precede unexplained deaths by drowning.’”

“That’s closer,” she says.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Here, this one’s older.” He clears his throat. “‘Some scholars suggest the figure predates the La Llorona legend and was later folded into it. Earlier accounts describe a woman who died attempting to cross a river at night, whose spirit lingers near places of passage.’ Bridges. Roads. Crossings.”

She leans back in her chair without realizing it, watching him instead of the screen. The way he keeps going, pulling threads, offering them up without insisting on being right, it tugs at something familiar. Not the same, exactly. But close enough that it makes her chest tighten for a second. She hasn’t done this in a while. Not really. Sitting in a bad motel room, piecing something together with someone who knows how to think sideways, who talks it through instead of bottling it up. Sam used to do this. Pace. Read. Talk things out until the shape of the problem finally showed itself.

Jack scrolls again. “‘Unlike later versions, these spirits do not target children specifically, but rather those who stop, stare, or hesitate.’”

“The name stuck,” Nellie says. “The rules didn’t.”

He nods. “That’s what it looks like.”

She glances back to the autopsy report, refocusing, but the thought lingers longer than she expects. She’s been alone on the road for months. Capable. Functional. Fine. But fine isn’t the same as this: shared silence, shared work, someone else holding half the weight without being asked.

“There’s also a note about water manifestation,” he continues. “Not possession. More like projection. Memory. Trauma.”

She exhales softly. “That tracks.”

He looks up. “It does?”

“No defensive injuries. No struggle. They weren’t fighting something they could see.” She pauses. “More like they were overwhelmed.”

He swallows. “Drowned where they stood.”

“Yeah.”

He sits on the edge of the bed, laptop balanced on his knees, still reading, still talking. She listens with half an ear while she scans the reports, marking timestamps, cross-referencing locations. The work moves easier this way. Faster. Lighter. She doesn’t comment on it. Doesn’t name it.

But when he asks, “You mind if I keep reading?” and she shakes her head without looking up, there’s a quiet certainty under it.

• • •

Night settles in fully by the time they pull back onto the road. The Impala moves like it belongs here, headlights cutting two steady lanes through the dark as they leave the last strip of town behind. Nellie keeps the radio off, dashboard lights dimmed low enough that the windshield reflects almost nothing back at them. The world narrows to pavement, trees, and whatever waits just beyond the reach of the beams. The roads are smaller out here. Narrow country stretches that wind instead of run straight, bordered by ditches and scrub and long driveways that vanish into darkness. Houses sit far back on wide plots of land, most of them dark, a few with porch lights burning like tired sentinels. Occasionally they pass a mailbox leaning at an angle, a rusted fence, a stand of trees that crowds close enough to feel intrusive.

She soon eases off the gas without comment. Jack notices anyway. She does it near the first house tied to one of the earlier victims — the basement drowning. The structure itself is barely visible through the trees, roofline cutting a jagged silhouette against the sky. She lets the Impala coast, foot hovering just above the brake. He cracks his window a little wider. The night air slides in, cool and faintly damp, carrying the smell of dirt and grass and something older underneath. He listens hard, straining past the normal sounds; insects, the distant bark of a dog, the low creak of trees shifting in the breeze. Nothing else comes.

Further down the road, she slows again as they approach the first bridge. It’s small, barely more than a concrete slab spanning a narrow cut in the land where water sometimes runs after heavy rain. Right now, the channel beneath it is mostly dry, moonlight glinting faintly off a shallow ribbon of water that doesn’t move much at all. She lets the car idle forward. His pulse ticks up, unbidden. He sits straighter, eyes scanning the edges of the bridge, the guardrails, the darkness beyond. His hand drifts toward the door without him quite realizing it, fingers brushing the handle like muscle memory. The Impala hums softly. No crying, no movement, no sudden drop in temperature. They cross the bridge untouched, the sound of tires on concrete fading back into asphalt as the road continues on.

They drive for another ten minutes, the road twisting deeper into the countryside. Nellie slows near the old barn next, or what’s left of it. Just a sagging structure set back from the road, boards gray and warped with age, the lot around it overgrown and empty. The place looks abandoned enough that Jack can’t imagine anyone going near it at night unless they had a reason.

Still, the air stays stubbornly normal. Crickets chirp loudly, filling the quiet with something almost aggressive in its constancy. A night bird startles somewhere in the trees, wings beating briefly before disappearing again.

“She might not show up tonight,” Jack says at last, voice low, like he doesn’t want to break something fragile.

Nellie nods once. “Probably not.”

He waits, then asks, “Because…?”

“Because she already fed. And because she doesn’t hunt every night.”

That thought sits heavy between them.

They keep driving, marking time by landmarks instead of miles. The culvert, the storm cellar turnoff, the stretch of road where the trees arch overhead and swallow the sky completely. When they turn onto the road where the most recent body was found, she drops the car to a crawl. This stretch feels different. Not colder, not louder, just… empty in a way that feels intentional. The road curves gently ahead, flanked by open land and sparse trees. The ditch runs shallow alongside it, dry and unremarkable. She scans the shoulder, the tree line, the space just beyond the headlights where shadows collect. He checks the mirrors, then the darkness behind them, half-expecting to see something standing where there hadn’t been anything before. The road stays clear.

After a long moment, she eases the car back up to speed. “That’s enough,” she says quietly.

He nods, though part of him resists it, some instinct insisting that stopping now might mean missing something. But another part understands. You can’t force a haunting to happen just because you’re ready.

They turn back toward town, the roads unspooling in reverse. The bridges remain silent. The houses remain still. But then she slows the Impala without warning. He looks up just in time to see a narrow bridge emerge from the dark ahead, concrete, low, spanning a wide creek bed that cuts through the land like a scar. The water beneath it is barely visible, just a dull, dark shape reflecting fragments of moonlight. She pulls onto the shoulder and kills the engine.

Before he can ask, she’s already opening the door. “Nellie?” he says, confused but not alarmed.

“I just want to check something,” she replies, voice calm, like this makes perfect sense to her.

She steps out into the night. Jack follows a second later, closing his door softly behind him. The air feels different here, heavy, like the sound carries farther than it should. The bridge creaks faintly under their combined weight as they walk toward the railing. She stops near the center, resting her hands lightly on the cold concrete. She doesn’t close her eyes. She doesn’t reach out obviously. She just kneels there, breathing evenly, letting the place exist around her. He hangs back a few steps, hands in his jacket pockets, watching her profile in the dim light. He doesn’t interrupt. Whatever she’s doing, she’s done it before. He can tell by the stillness of her, the way her attention narrows without tightening.

After a long moment, she exhales and straightens, turning back toward the car. He relaxes slightly, ready to follow. Then she stops. Her head tilts, just a fraction. Her shoulders go rigid.

He frowns. “What?”

She doesn’t answer right away. She listens harder, eyes unfocused now, like she’s trying to separate one sound from another. “Do you hear that?” she asks quietly.

He goes still, instinct flaring. He listens, past the night insects, past the distant wind moving through trees. “No,” he says. “What do you hear?”

She opens her mouth to answer and the sound crashes into them. Water. A sudden, violent rush, loud and immediate, like a dam breaking somewhere beneath their feet. The quiet creek below surges to life all at once, the sound filling the night air as if it’s been unleashed. He spins toward the railing. The water is rising. Not slowly. Not naturally. It swells upward in seconds, churning and foaming, climbing the banks of the creek as if pulled by an invisible force. The surface roils, dark and restless, reflecting the moonlight in sharp, broken flashes.

“Back,” Nellie commands sharply.

Jack doesn’t hesitate. They retreat together, boots scraping against concrete as they put distance between themselves and the railing. The sound of rushing water grows louder, angrier, like it’s following them. They reach the car just as the creek swells high enough to lick at the underside of the bridge.

His pulse is hammering now. “That’s not —”

“Normal,” she finishes, already unlocking the door.

They get inside fast, doors slamming shut, the Impala suddenly feeling very small against the roar outside. She twists the key, engine flaring to life. Then she feels it. Cold, seeping through the fabric of her jeans. Dampness spreading where it shouldn’t be. She looks down. The driver’s seat is wet. Not splashed. Not misted. Soaked. Darkened beneath her, water pooling slightly where the vinyl dips. It trickles down toward the floorboard, dripping with quiet, obscene insistence.

“What the hell?” she mutters, shifting.

The air inside the car feels wrong now. Heavy. Pressurized. Like the space has shrunk around them. She turns her head. A woman is sitting in the back seat. She’s drenched head to toe, long dark hair hanging in wet strands over a face that might have once been human. Water pours from her clothes, running down the seat, dripping onto the floor, soaking into the carpet. Her eyes are hollow and black, mouth open in a silent wail that seems to vibrate through the bones instead of the air.

Jack sucks in a sharp breath. For half a second, neither of them moves. Then his training kicks in. He lunges for the duffel bag at his feet, hands scrambling for something, anything useful.

Nellie reacts faster.

“Oh, absolutely not,” she snaps, spinning in her seat. “If you’re going to haunt us, you are not doing it in my car. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get river water out of upholstery?”

The woman’s mouth opens wider. The sound that comes out is a wail, high, broken and furious, layered over the roar of the flooding creek outside. Nellie’s hand closes around the salt canister from Jack’s hand. She doesn’t hesitate. She whips it backward and flings it hard. Salt explodes through the back seat in a white spray.

The spirit shrieks, the sound sharp and furious, and then she’s gone, ripped away like smoke in a sudden wind. The water vanishes with her, soaking sound and presence collapsing into nothing all at once. Then she reappears in the middle of the bridge, standing where the concrete disappears beneath rushing water, white dress plastered to her body, hair whipping wildly as the creek roars around her. The water should have swept her away, should be dragging her downstream, but it bends around her instead, churning and surging as if she’s the eye of the storm.

Nellie and Jack jump out of the car, stopping short at the edge of the bridge. Neither of them is stupid enough to move closer. The air vibrates with the sound of rushing water now, loud enough to feel in Jack’s chest. Spray drifts up from the bridge, misting the road, slicking the pavement beneath their boots.

“She’s not attacking,” he says, voice raised just enough to be heard over the roar.

“No,” she agrees. Her eyes never leave the woman. “She’s waiting.”

“For what?”

She doesn’t answer right away.

The spirit tilts her head, mouth opening in a soundless wail that cuts through the night without making noise. Her gaze fixes on Nellie with an intensity that makes his skin prickle.

He shifts closer to he, hand hovering near the duffel strap at his side. “What do you want to do?”

She swallows. “I don’t know,” she admits quietly. “This isn’t how it usually goes.”

The water surges higher, spilling over the edge of the bridge in violent sheets. The woman doesn’t move. She takes a slow breath, grounding herself. Then, before he can stop her, she steps forward, not onto the bridge, not into the water, just close enough to be seen clearly.

“Nellie,” he warns.

“I know,” she says softly. “I’m not going any farther.” She lifts one hand, palm open, fingers relaxed. Not a command. Not a ward. An invitation. She closes her eyes. She doesn’t reach out psychically, just opens herself enough to let intent bleed through. Calm. Not dominance. Not fear. A single, clear thought: I see you.

The woman’s wailing falters. Slowly, impossibly, she steps forward. The water parts for her feet, surging back together behind her with each step. She moves like someone walking against a current only she can feel, soaked and shaking, eyes locked on the hunter’s outstretched hand. Her presence is cold, radiating outward in waves that raise goosebumps along their arms. Water drips steadily from her hair, her sleeves, splashing onto the road between them.

Nellie opens her eyes. “You don’t have to stay here,” she says, voice steady despite the pounding water. “You can move on. This —” she gestures slightly to the bridge, the flood, the night “— this isn’t helping you.”

The spirit’s face twists, grief contorting into something raw and furious.

“Killing them won’t fix it,” she continues. “It won’t undo what happened. It won’t take you where you want to go.”

For a long, terrible second, nothing happens. Then the woman reaches out. Her fingers brush her palm. The touch is ice-cold, sharp enough that her gasps, pain flaring up her arm. The spirit’s eyes flicker, something like recognition flashing there. And then she screams. The sound rips out of her, no longer silent. A keening wail that cuts through the roar of the water and slams into them like a physical force. The woman’s grip tightens and she yanks the hunter forward. Toward the bridge and the rushing water.

“Nellie!” Jack lunges.

His fingers brush her sleeve, just barely catching fabric before it slips free. There’s a sickening moment where his hand closes on nothing at all, and then she’s over the edge of the bridge, swallowed by the surge of water below. He stumbles forward, heart slamming, boots skidding on slick concrete. He drops to his knees at the railing, gripping it hard enough that his palms sting. Spray kicks up, cold and sharp against his face.

“Nellie!” he shouts again, voice tearing out of him before he can stop it.

The creek churns violently beneath him, muddy water roiling where she disappeared. The sound is deafening up close, a rush and roar that fills his ears, drowns out thought. For half a second, instinct screams at him to jump. He doesn’t. He clamps down hard on the impulse, forcing himself to look instead.

Below him, Nellie is fighting the current. The water isn’t deep enough to drag her under completely, but it’s strong, pulling insistently at her legs, filling her ears, her nose, her mouth with the taste of earth and rot. Her footing is gone, replaced by slick mud that gives way under every attempt to stand. She surfaces just long enough to suck in a breath before being pulled sideways again. No. The word hits her fully formed, sharp and furious.

She doesn’t reach carefully. Doesn’t shape the power. Doesn’t think about consequences. She lashes out on instinct alone, a raw psychic shove, uncontrolled and unrefined, driven by nothing but refusal. The effect is immediate. The water shudders. The current stutters like it’s hit an invisible wall, surging once more in protest before collapsing in on itself. The unnatural pressure snaps outward and then vanishes, leaving the creek disoriented, confused. Just as quickly as it rose, the water level drops.

She breaks the surface with a sharp gasp, coughing violently as she scrambles toward the bank. The current slackens enough for her to plant her hands in the mud and haul herself upright, chest heaving as she sucks in air that tastes blessedly dry. She ends up sitting in the creek, soaked through, pants caked in mud from the knees down, hair plastered to her face in dark, dripping strands.

“Nellie!” Jack is already sliding down the bank, stopping short of the water’s edge. He crouches low, hands out but not touching her, eyes darting over her with frantic efficiency. “Hey —hey, I’ve got you. Are you hurt?”

She coughs again, spitting out water, then looks up at him with a glare sharp enough to cut. “Wow,” she rasps. “What a bitch.”

He blinks, breath hitching. “What?”

She gestures weakly at the creek behind her. “She didn’t even introduce herself properly. Just —” she jerks her thumb over her shoulder “— straight to throwing me in.”

The sarcasm hits him like a release valve popping. Relief crashes through his system so hard his knees threaten to buckle. He lets out a shaky breath he didn’t realize he was holding and inches closer, careful.

“Can I help you up?” he asks. “Or do you want a minute?”

She squints at him, considering, then snorts. “I’m cold, wet, and annoyed. If you leave me here any longer, I’m going to start making bad decisions.”

He offers his arm without another word.

Nellie grabs it, grip strong despite the shaking in her hands. Jack braces himself, steady but controlled, letting her set the pace as she hauls herself up the bank. Mud squelches under their boots, water streaming off her clothes and pooling briefly before soaking into the dirt. Once she’s standing, she releases him and rolls her shoulders, testing for pain. She winces slightly, then scowls down at her boots. “Fantastic,” she mutters. “I just cleaned these, too.” She glances back at him, eyes sharp but not angry. “You didn’t jump.”

He hesitates. “I almost did.”

“But you didn’t,” she says. “That was the right call.”

He nods, swallowing. “Why did you do that?”

“Sometimes these spirits are trapped in a cycle of anger, and they need something to interrupt the flow. But I guess she got pissed that we trespassed.”

They stand there for a moment longer, the night settling back around them, insects cautiously resuming their chorus.

Finally, she straightens. “Alright. Let’s get out of here before she decides round two sounds fun.”

“Agreed.”

• • •

The motel parking lot is quiet when they pull in, neon sign buzzing softly overhead. Nellie parks a little crooked, not bothering to correct it, and kills the engine with more force than strictly necessary. She sits there for a second, staring at the steering wheel.

“I am absolutely detailing this car when we’re done,” she mutters. “Seats. Carpets. Everything.”

Jack glances at the salt-streaked back seat, the damp floorboards, the faint smell of river water still clinging to the air. “It survived a lot worse than that.”

“That doesn’t make it okay,” she replies, already reaching for her door. “River water is disrespectful.”

He huffs quietly and follows her inside.

The room feels colder than before, the air conditioner humming steadily as the door shuts behind them. She kicks off her boots immediately, peeling off her jacket and hanging it over the back of the chair like it personally offended her. Water drips onto the carpet in an irregular pattern.

He stands near the door for a moment, watching her move. She doesn’t pace, but she moves with restless purpose, grabbing towels from the bathroom, tossing one his way before he can ask. “Here. Before you drip everywhere.”

“Thanks,” he says automatically.

She wipes at her hair, then sits on the edge of the bed, already mentally shifting gears. “Okay. So, we know she’s strong, and we know she’s angry, but there was something else under it.”

He looks up. “What do you mean?”

“When I reached out,” she says, more quietly now. “There was… sadness. Not just rage. Like she’s been stuck in the same moment for a long time.”

He nods slowly. “That fits.”

“We should check older records. See if there were drownings here before the recent ones. Accidents. Missing persons. Anything that predates the first victim.”

“That would help anchor her.”

She nods, satisfied, and finally looks up at him. He hasn’t moved much. He’s leaning against the wall now, towel forgotten in his hands, watching her with an expression she can’t quite read.

“What?” she asks.

He blinks, like he didn’t realize he was. “Sorry. I just —” He hesitates, then shrugs slightly. “This feels familiar.”

“How?”

He considers his words carefully. “The way you handled tonight. The way you talk through things. The sarcasm. The… car loyalty.” A faint smile tugs at his mouth. “It feels like hunting with Dean all over again.”

The room goes quiet. Not abruptly. Not tensely. Just… still. Nellie’s expression doesn’t change right away, but something closes in her posture, subtle enough that Jack almost misses it. She looks away, reaching for her phone, then stopping halfway like she forgot why she picked it up.

“Oh,” she says finally.

He frowns. “Oh… what?”

She shakes her head once. “Nothing.”

He shifts, uncomfortable now. “Did I say something wrong?”

She doesn’t answer right away. She stares at the floor, jaw tight, a familiar knot forming in her chest. Her dad’s name still does that to her sometimes, not pain exactly, but absence. The version of him she never got to know. The stories that belong to everyone else but her.

He watches her, confused by the sudden distance. He didn’t mean it as a comparison. Or a replacement. Just an observation. “I didn’t mean —” he starts.

“I know,” she cuts in gently. Too gently. “You didn’t.” She finally looks back at him, forcing a small, controlled smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Then she clears her throat. “We’ll look at older records in the morning,” she says, businesslike again. “For now, let’s get cleaned up and get some sleep. We’re not doing anything useful while we’re soaked and tired.”

“Okay,” he agrees calmly. He moves toward his bed, still glancing at her like he wants to say more but isn’t sure how.

She turns away, focusing on wringing water out of her sleeves, giving herself a moment to breathe. It is a subject she isn’t ready to broach yet with him, but she knows he is willing to wait.

• • •

Morning light filters through the motel curtains in thin, pale bands, cutting across the bedspread and the cluttered desk. Coffee steams in mismatched paper cups, the smell just strong enough to fight off the lingering dampness from the night before. Jack stands over the bed, map spread wide again, yesterday’s marks circled and crosshatched in pencil. He traces a finger slowly along the roads, brow furrowed, following the lines backward instead of forward this time.

“Okay,” he murmurs to himself. “If it’s not where they died… it’s where they passed through.” He flips the map, aligning it with the notes he made overnight. His finger stops. “That bridge,” he says aloud.

Nellie looks up from the laptop. “Which one?”

“The one from last night,” he replies. “The creek. The surge.” He taps the map. “It’s not the closest bridge to any of the victims, but it’s the only one that sits on a route all five of them would’ve taken at some point. Different days. Different reasons. Same crossing.”

“That makes sense,” she says. She scrolls again, scanning statements and police notes, looking for overlap. She doesn’t find much. Different ages. Different backgrounds. Different lives. “No connection between the victims,” she mutters. “No shared jobs, no shared addresses, no social overlap.” She leans back slightly, eyes narrowing as she rereads a line in one of the older reports. “Wait.”

He looks up. “What?”

“One of the earlier victims’ cars. It says it was recovered and towed to the station. Evidence hold, pending insurance.” She checks the date. “That was months ago.”

“You think it’s still there?”

“Small town. Good chance no one’s gotten around to clearing it yet.”

He considers that. “You want to check it out?”

“I do,” she says, already closing the laptop. “If she’s attached to roads and vehicles, there might be residue. Something I can pick up on.”

He hesitates. Just briefly. “You’ll be okay going by yourself?”

Nellie pauses, then looks at him, really looks this time. There’s no edge in her expression, no defensiveness. Just honesty. “I’m used to doing things solo,” she says gently. “And this isn’t dangerous. Not like last night.”

Jack nods but doesn’t quite relax.

She adds, lighter, “Besides, this gives you time to keep doing that.” She gestures toward the map. “If there’s a pattern hiding in there, you’re the one who’s going to see it.”

He exhales, the tension easing a notch. “Alright. I’ll keep digging.”

“Good,” she says, grabbing her jacket. “Hopefully when I get back, I’ll have something useful. Psychic impressions are a lot more helpful when they’re attached to something physical.”

“And if not?”

She smirks faintly. “Then I wasted an hour and learned nothing. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

He watches as she heads for the door, boots thudding softly against the carpet. She pauses with her hand on the knob and glances back at him.

“Don’t go anywhere,” she says.

He smiles. “Wasn’t planning to.”

The door closes behind her, leaving him alone with the map, the quiet hum of the motel, and a growing sense that whatever they’re dealing with isn’t done teaching them yet. He bends back over the map, pencil in hand, tracing the roads again, this time with a little more purpose.

• • •

Nellie blends in easily at the police station. The suit helps. So does the badge, flashed just long enough to be seen and not long enough to invite scrutiny. The building smells like old coffee and paper and something faintly metallic, the kind of place that’s more functional than welcoming. A few officers glance up as she passes, curiosity flickering and then fading when she doesn’t hesitate.

“Detective Alvarez,” she says at the front desk. “I’m following up on a closed case. Vehicle recovery from earlier this year.”

The officer squints at the screen, scrolling. “Which one?”

She gives him the name. The date. The case number she memorized an hour ago.

“Oh,” he says. “Yeah. That one.” He hesitates. “Car’s still in impound, I think. Insurance never followed through.”

“Mind if I take a look?” she asks. “I’m checking for anything we might’ve missed.”

He shrugs. “Can’t see why not. I’ll grab the keys.”

She nods, calm and patient, already mentally preparing herself. Vehicles hold memories differently than places do. They move. They absorb. Whatever she finds, if she finds anything, it won’t be gentle.

Back at the motel, Jack is still hunched over the map, pencil tapping lightly against the paper. He’s circled the bridge from last night now, the one with the surge. He traces the creek beneath it, following the thin blue line as it winds its way across the page. He flips the map, grabs another, and starts lining them up. County, state, watershed overlays he pulled from online databases. His finger follows the creek again, then again, watching how it changes names as it passes through different stretches of land. That makes him pause. He leans closer. The bridges tied to the other victims; they don’t sit on the same roads. But they do sit on creeks. Different creeks, according to the reports. Different names. His eyes narrow. He pulls up a watershed map and overlays it with the roads. The blue lines converge.

“Oh,” he breathes.

It’s not multiple creeks. It’s one. One long system, branching and narrowing, fed by runoff and rain, changing names as it crosses county lines. What looks separate on paper is actually connected underground, a single body of water that spreads thin, then gathers again. And every victim crossed it.

He sits back slowly, pulse ticking up. Creeks don’t look dangerous. They’re narrow. Shallow. Easy to underestimate. Until they flood. He opens another tab and starts searching local news archives. The results come fast.

FLASH FLOOD WARNING ISSUED FOR PINE RIDGE COUNTY
BACK ROADS CLOSED AFTER SUDDEN RISE IN WATER LEVELS
LOCAL MAN SWEPT FROM BRIDGE DURING STORM — BODY RECOVERED DOWNSTREAM

Jack scrolls. Dates line up. Years back. Months back. A handful of incidents scattered but consistent. Sudden storms. Unexpected surges. Creeks swelling far beyond their banks with little warning. Some of the reports mention stalled cars. Others mention people trying to cross anyway.

He swallows.

“This isn’t about where they died,” he says softly to the empty room. “It’s about where she died.” He reaches for his phone, thumb hovering over Nellie’s name.

• • •

The impound lot sits behind the station, ringed with chain-link and sun-bleached warning signs. Rows of cars line up like they’re waiting for something that never comes; dented fenders, flat tires, dust layered thick enough to write names in.

Nellie spots the car easily once the officer points it out. It’s unremarkable. Mid-sized sedan. Dark paint dulled by months in the open air. One of the back windows is cracked just enough to let in dirt and leaves, the interior faintly fogged with the residue of time and neglect. She circles it slowly first, hands in her coat pockets, letting her eyes do the work. The doors are dry now, but when she opens the driver’s side, the smell hits immediately. Old mildew, stale water, the unmistakable scent of something that was soaked and never fully dried. The seats are stained in uneven patterns, darker along the seams. The floor mats are stiff with dried silt, a fine grit that crunches faintly under her fingers when she crouches to inspect it. River water, not rain.

She straightens, closes the door gently, and takes a breath. Then she lets herself listen. She rests one hand against the roof of the car, grounding herself before she opens the door again and slides into the driver’s seat. She keeps her eyes open at first, anchoring herself to the cracked dashboard, the faded upholstery, the quiet lot beyond the windshield. Then she reaches. The impression comes fast and sharp. Panic. Sudden and overwhelming. The sense of space collapsing inward, air turning thick, lungs burning as water fills a place it shouldn’t be. The victim’s hands claw at the door handle, at the steering wheel, movements frantic and useless. The water isn’t there, not really, but it might as well be. Pressure crushes the chest. Breath becomes impossible. Her jaw tightens. She rides the edge of it, refusing to sink deeper, just long enough to understand. This wasn’t an accident in water. This was drowning without escape.

The sensation shifts, thinning out, and something colder seeps in beneath it. A presence, not active or aware, just residue. Grief layered so thick it feels heavy. The echo of a sound that once filled the space: crying, distorted and endless, like it was pressed into the metal itself. The crying woman. Not here now. Not watching. Just the aftermath of her passing through.

Nellie exhales slowly and pulls back, grounding hard as the world snaps back into focus. Her hands are cold. Her pulse is steady, but only because she’s forcing it to be. The phone ringing jolts her. She flinches, then fumbles it out of her pocket, blinking at the screen reading JACK KLINE.

“Hey,” she says, voice a little rough as she answers.

“You busy?” he asks. “Because I think I found something.”

“Go ahead,” she says, shifting in the seat and glancing out across the lot. “I’m listening.”

“It’s the creeks. Not multiple ones. One system. They all feed into each other. Every victim crossed it at some point.”

She closes her eyes briefly. “That tracks.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” she says. “I’m sitting in one of the cars now. Creek water. Silt. Mildew.” She pauses. “They drowned. Fully drowned. Just not in water.”

He is quiet for a beat. “Did you feel her?”

“Residual only. She passed through. Left an imprint. A lot of grief under the anger.”

“That matches the flooding reports I found. Flash surges. Sudden rises. A few deaths going back years.”

She straightens. “Years?”

“Yeah.”

She nods to herself. “Then I’m not done here.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m going to see if I can find records,” she says. “Accidental drownings. Flood deaths. Specifically, women. I want to know where this started.”

He exhales slowly on the other end of the line. “Okay. I’ll keep digging from here.”

“I’ll head back once I have something solid,” she says. “Don’t move the map.”

“I won’t,” he promises.

The station feels different in daylight. Less ominous. More worn-in. Phones ring intermittently. A printer whirs somewhere down the hall. She steps back inside, posture relaxed but purposeful. “I’m looking for records related to flood victims,” she tells the desk sergeant. “Drownings. Accidental deaths. Going back as far as you’ve got.”

He blinks. “Flood victims?”

“Flash flooding. Washed-out roads. That kind of thing.”

He leans back in his chair, thinking. “You’d probably have better luck with funeral home directories. They keep more complete death records than we do, especially older stuff.”

“I’ll check there too,” she replies. “But if you’ve got anything on drownings, I’d appreciate a look.”

He nods, already opening a drawer. “Might take a bit.”

“That’s fine.”

Nellie settles into one of the hard plastic chairs along the wall, crossing her legs and pulling out her phone. She checks the time. Middle of the day. She hesitates for only a second before tapping a familiar name. A picture of Sam in a Christmas sweater and an annoyed smirk fills the screen. It rings once.

“Nellie?” he answers immediately. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

She exhales softly. “Hi to you, too, Sammy.”

There’s a pause, then his voice lowers, concern sharpening it. “You don’t usually call in the middle of a hunt. Did something happen? Are you okay? Is Jack —”

“Everyone’s fine,” she says quickly. “Promise. No emergencies.”

Another pause. A longer one. “Okay,” he says, and she can hear him consciously backing his worry down a notch. “Good. I was already halfway to assuming you were calling because something went sideways. Or because you were regretting the whole partner thing.”

She smiles faintly. “No. I’m not.”

“That’s… good to hear,” he admits. “So, what’s going on?”

“Crying woman,” she says. “Or at least, something that got folded into that legend. Water-linked, grief-heavy, very territorial.”

He hums thoughtfully. “Alright. Those can be tricky. How’s she behaving?”

“Not fully aggressive,” she replies. “But strong. She can manifest water where it doesn’t belong. We had an encounter last night, more of a warning than a fight.”

“And you’re calling me,” he says gently, “because you want to be prepared before it is a fight.”

“Yes,” she replies. “What actually works against something like this?”

There’s a brief rustle on the other end, like Sam shifting position, already mentally in research mode. “Okay,” he says. “First rule: don’t trust the version of the legend people like to repeat.”

“Already figured that out.”

“Good. Crying women — La Llorona–types, river widows, flood spirits — they’re usually bound to movement more than water itself. Crossings. Thresholds. Places where people hesitate.”

“That fits,” Nellie says.

“As for tools,” he continues, “salt and iron still matter, but not the way they do with simpler spirits. You’re not going to trap her with a salt line if she’s tied to an entire watershed.”

“So, more disruption than containment.”

“Exactly. Iron filings in moving water can break manifestation temporarily. Salt works better in bursts, thrown or scattered, than static barriers.”

She nods, filing that away. “What about grounding objects?”

“Very important,” he says. “If you can find something tied to her death. A bridge marker, a piece of debris, even the vehicle she was in. That gives you leverage. Not control, but focus.”

“That’s what I’m working on now,” she says. “I am getting a list of flood victims now.”

“Flood deaths don’t always get labeled the same way. Especially older ones.”

She hesitates, then adds, quieter, “There was a lot of sadness under the anger. When I reached out.”

His voice softens immediately. “Yeah. That tracks too.”

“But empathy alone didn’t help,” she says. “It just… pissed her off.”

“That’s not a failure. That’s information. Some spirits hear empathy as judgment. Like you’re telling them they should’ve moved on already.”

She exhales. “Good to know.”

“And Nell,” he adds, more gently now, “be careful how much of yourself you put into reaching her. Water spirits don’t always let go cleanly.”

She smiles faintly. “You sound like you’re talking from experience.”

“Unfortunately. That’s kind of my brand.”

There’s a brief silence, comfortable, familiar.

“So,” Sam says after a moment, “how’s it really been? You and Jack.”

Nellie leans back in the chair, eyes drifting to the ceiling tiles. “Good. Different. He’s observant. Notices patterns fast. He handled last night better than I expected.”

He chuckles softly. “He always does in a crisis.”

“And it’s nice not having to carry everything alone.”

He doesn’t joke this time. “I was hoping you’d find that.”

A voice from the desk calls her name.

“They found something. I’ve got to go.”

“Call me if you need backup. Or if you just want a second opinion.”

“Always,” she replies. “Thanks, Sam.”

He smiles into the phone. She can hear it. “Be safe, kiddo.”

She hangs up and slides the phone back into her pocket as she stands, squaring her shoulders. The officer walks up to the desk a thin stack of papers clipped together.

“Alright,” he says, handing it over. “These are drownings from the last few years that weren’t officially classified as flood-related. Not a long list.”

“Thanks,” Nellie says, taking it.

She doesn’t rush. She never does. She scans the names slowly, letting her eyes move line by line, dates and locations blurring together. Her fingers still. The reaction is subtle but immediate, like a pressure change behind her eyes. A faint pull, almost like vertigo, but quieter. Familiar. She reads the name again. Mara Ellison.

She looks up. “This one,” she says, tapping the page lightly. “Do you remember this case?”

The officer squints, then nods slowly. “Yeah. That was a rough one.”

“What happened?” Nellie asks, keeping her tone neutral.

“She lived out on a farm with her parents and younger sister,” he says. “Bit outside town. Disappeared one night during a bad storm. Real nasty weather—wind, heavy rain.” He pauses. “They found her body a day later, downstream. On the riverbank over in the next county.”

Her jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “She drown?”

“Yeah. ME ruled it accidental. No signs of foul play.”

“Any reason she’d be out in that kind of weather?”

The officer hesitates. “She’d had some mental health struggles. Depression, mostly. Family figured she went for a walk during the storm. She’d done stuff like that before when things got bad.”

“And the farm?” she presses. “Where was it located?”

He thinks for a second. “Near one of the county creeks. There’s a bridge not far from the property.”

Nellie nods slowly. The pieces settle into place with a quiet, sickening certainty.

“So,” the officer says, shifting his weight, “what does this have to do with the recent drownings?”

She looks at him, expression smooth, professional. “Probably nothing,” she says easily. “I’m just making sure we’re not missing anything obvious.”

He studies her for a beat, then shrugs. “Alright.”

She hands the papers back. “Thanks for pulling these for me. I appreciate it.”

“No problem,” he replies, already turning back toward the desk.

The station feels louder now, brighter, like someone turned the volume up while she wasn’t paying attention. She heads for the exit without looking back.

• • •

Jack hears the Impala before he sees it, the familiar rumble pulling into the parking space outside their room. A minute later, the door opens and Nellie steps inside carrying two paper bags that smell aggressively like fried food and regret.

“Please tell me that’s dinner,” he says, already standing.

“It is,” she confirms. “And before you ask, no, I didn’t psychic-read the menu. I just guessed.”

“That’s somehow more alarming.”

She smirks and sets the bags on the small table, already shedding her jacket. “Eat first. Then I’ll talk.”

They don’t argue about that. They sit at the table, spreading the food between them. It’s quiet for a minute, the kind of quiet that comes from shared exhaustion rather than awkwardness. He takes a bite, then looks up at her expectantly.

“Mara Ellison,” she says, wiping her hands on a napkin. “Thirty-four. Lived with her family on a farm just outside town. Disappeared during a storm a couple years ago.”

He freezes mid-bite. “Storm.”

“Yeah,” she says. “Body was found downstream in the river. Ruled an accidental drowning. She struggled with depression. Family assumed she went for a walk in the rain. Towards a bridge. Right near the property. Over the same creek system you traced this morning. Different span than the one we hit last night, but upstream.”

He exhales, sitting back. “So, she didn’t start as a monster.”

“No,” she says quietly. “She started as someone who got overwhelmed. And then stuck.”

They sit with that for a moment.

“So tonight,” Jack says, “we go to the Ellison bridge.”

“Yeah,” Nellie replies. “It’s closer to where she likely died. Stronger anchor point.”

He nods, then glances up at her. “You know… we’re getting pretty good at this.”

She arches an eyebrow. “At eating takeout?”

“At working together,” he clarifies. “Splitting research. Covering different angles. Putting it together.”

Something warm flickers across her face before she schools it back into something casual. “Yeah,” she says. “We are.”

The word team hangs between them without being said. Jack feels oddly proud of that.

They eat a little more before he asks, carefully, “How are you holding up?”

Nellie looks at him over the rim of her drink. “You mean psychically?”

“I mean… in general,” he says. “After last night. After the car.”

She considers the question, which tells him more than the answer ever could. “Readings aren’t too bad. Some fatigue. Nothing I can’t manage.”

He nods, accepting it, but only halfway. “And tonight?”

She shrugs lightly. “Tonight might be different.” There it is. Casual. Offhand. Like she’s talking about the weather.

He studies her for a moment, watching the way she shifts topics without actually changing the subject. He’s starting to recognize the pattern now, the way she keeps moving, keeps planning, keeps going until there’s nothing left to give and then a little beyond that. “Hey,” he says gently.

She looks up. “Yeah?”

“If you need to slow down,” he says, choosing each word with care, “or step back, or anything, just say it.”

She smiles, small and appreciative and very practiced. “I know.”

But he notices she doesn’t promise anything. She reaches for another fry instead, already mentally three steps ahead, and he lets it go. For now. He’s still learning how to be this kind of partner. How to watch without hovering. How to push without crossing a line. Tonight, he decides, he’ll just stay close.

• • •

They drive for a while before Jack says anything. The road narrows the farther they get from town, asphalt giving way to patched pavement and gravel shoulders. Fields open up on either side, dark and quiet, interrupted occasionally by fence posts and the outline of farm equipment left where it was last used. The night is clear but heavy, the kind that feels like it’s pressing down instead of stretching out.

“So,” he says eventually, keeping his tone light. “What’s the plan?”

Nellie doesn’t answer right away. She eases off the gas as they pass a hand-painted sign warning about livestock, eyes scanning the road ahead like she’s already measuring distances. “You know the obvious parts,” she says finally.

“Salt and iron,” he agrees. “Always.”

“But this isn’t a textbook spirit,” he adds. “She’s not sticking to the usual rules.”

“No. She’s not.”

He waits. Normally this is where she’d ask what he thought, bounce ideas back and forth until they landed on something that felt right. Tonight, she keeps going without prompting.

“I want to place sigils and wards directly on the bridge,” she says. “Not a circle. Not a trap. Just boundaries. Enough to keep her from pulling the same stunt she did last night.”

He turns that over in his head. “You’d anchor them to the structure itself.”

“Yeah,” she says. “Bridges already function as thresholds. They’re good focal points.”

“And then you energize them.”

“Right.”

He watches the road slide past through the windshield, then glances over at her. “Psychically.”

She nods once, eyes still forward.

“That’s… a lot,” he says carefully. “Especially after yesterday.”

She shrugs, one shoulder lifting and falling like the comment barely registers. “We don’t have remains. We don’t have a clean anchor. This isn’t a salt-and-burn, and I don’t think it ever was.” She exhales. “So, we stack the deck where we can.”

He goes quiet.

The Impala rolls over a shallow dip in the road, suspension creaking softly. The bridge sign flashes past them in reflective paint, Cane Creek, 1 Mile, then disappears into the darkness behind them.

After a moment, Jack says, “I don’t know how you did this alone for months.” The words come out before he fully thinks them through.

Nellie stiffens almost imperceptibly. “I didn’t really have a choice,” she replies after a beat. Her voice is steady, but something in it flattens. “I’ve had to do most things alone my whole life.”

The sentence hangs there, heavier than either of them expected.

He looks at her, really looks this time. The set of her shoulders, the way she keeps her hands loose on the wheel, like she’s bracing for nothing and everything at once. He knows pieces of her past. Enough to understand the outline. Not enough to fill in the spaces that statement just opened up.

“Oh,” he says softly.

The car continues on, engine steady, the world outside unchanged by the shift inside it.

“I’m sorry,” he adds after a moment. It’s not dramatic. It’s not loud. It’s just true.

She shrugs again, a little sharper this time. “It’s fine. That’s just… how it was.”

He doesn’t push. He knows better than to dig when she’s closed a door like that. But the thought settles in his chest anyway, not pity, not quite. Just a quiet sadness that someone as capable as her learned early on that aloneness was the default.

The bridge comes into view slowly, headlights catching the reflective strips bolted to the guardrails before revealing the structure itself. It’s older than the road leading to it. Concrete worn smooth by decades of tires, metal barriers rusted through in places, paint flaking away in long curls. The creek beneath it is quiet for now, water sliding past rocks with an almost lazy sound that doesn’t match what Jack remembers from the night before. Nellie pulls onto the shoulder just past the bridge and kills the engine. For a moment, neither of them moves. Then she reaches for the trunk release. Humid air rushes in when they step out, carrying the smell of damp earth and iron-heavy water. The night feels watchful here, not hostile exactly, just alert, like it’s paying attention back. He grabs the familiar gear first: salt canisters, iron bars, the duffel with the basics he’s learned to trust. She reaches past all of it and pulls out something slimmer, more precise. A pen.

He blinks. “Is that… a pen?”

She shakes it and pulls the cap off. “Paint pen.”

He frowns. “Since when do sigils get office supplies?”

She gives him a sideways look. “Since chalk washes away.”

His brow furrows, then smooths as the logic clicks. “Right. If she floods the bridge —”

“Anything on the ground is gone,” she finishes. “And I’m not redrawing wards while standing in rising water.”

“Fair point,” he admits.

She moves toward the guardrail, running her fingers briefly along the rusted metal as if feeling for the right spot. The paint pen squeals as she starts writing, white lines stark against the dark corrosion. The sigils are tight and deliberate, not decorative, practical marks meant to anchor, to reinforce, to hold.

He works in parallel. He pours salt carefully along the edges of the bridge, tracing lines where concrete meets metal, where road meets structure. He doesn’t rush. He’s learned that rushing is how you miss things. Every few seconds, he pauses, lifting his head to scan the tree line, the creek, the road behind them. Nothing moves. Still, he keeps watching.

“You’re quiet,” Nellie says without looking up.

“Multitasking,” Jack replies. “I can worry and work at the same time.”

She smirks faintly and keeps drawing.

The paint pen squeaks as she finishes one sigil and moves to the next barrier, her breath fogging faintly in the cold air. He notices the way she shakes her hand out between strokes, subtle and quick, like she doesn’t want him to see. He pretends not to.

The creek murmurs below them, water sliding over stone in a sound that’s almost soothing if you don’t know better. He sets an iron bar near the edge of the bridge, positioning it where the ward lines intersect. “Let me know if you feel anything,” he says quietly.

“I will,” she replies. “You do the same.” She energizes each sigil as she goes. Not all at once, not recklessly, just enough to wake them. The air around her fingers prickles faintly, like static before a storm, the wards settling into place with a low, almost imperceptible resistance.

He feels it more than he sees it. A subtle pressure change. A tightening in the space around the bridge, like the night has drawn a breath and is holding it.

“You good?” he asks, glancing up from where he’s finishing a salt line.

“Yeah,” she says. “Just about done with this side.”

The paint pen sputters. She frowns, clicks it again, drags the tip across the metal. The line comes out thin, uneven, then fades entirely.

“Damn it,” she mutters. She gives it one more shake, but nothing happens. She exhales sharply. “Jack, can you grab another pen from the trunk?”

“Yeah,” he says immediately.

He turns away from the bridge, boots crunching softly on gravel as he heads back toward the Impala. The trunk is still open, gear laid out in neat, familiar disarray. He reaches for the duffel and slows. Something feels… off. Not cold. Not sharp. Just wrong, like the air has thickened around his chest. He swallows and straightens, testing the feeling. It doesn’t go away. He clears his throat once. Then coughs. It’s dry at first, more reflex than need, but the second cough digs deeper, scraping his chest in a way that makes him pause. He presses a hand briefly against his sternum, brow furrowing.

“What the hell…?” he mutters.

He grabs the spare paint pen and turns back toward the bridge. Halfway there, the world tilts. His next breath doesn’t go all the way in. He stops walking. The sensation hits him hard now, pressure wrapping around his ribs, squeezing inward. His lungs burn, sharp and immediate, like he’s been holding his breath too long without realizing it.

“Nellie —” he starts. His voice breaks. He coughs again, harsher this time, bending slightly at the waist as his body tries to force air where there isn’t any. His vision blurs at the edges, spots flashing like distant lights underwater.

He looks up. The woman stands behind Nellie. She’s close, closer than he expects, her soaked jacket clinging to her frame, hair hanging in wet strands over her face. Water drips steadily from her sleeves, splashing silently onto the concrete. Her eyes are fixed on the hunter with a grief so dense it feels heavy even from here.

His heart stutters. “Nellie!” he tries again. No sound comes out this time.

The ground beneath his boots squelches. He looks down in sudden panic. The concrete is darkening, water seeping up through cracks that weren’t there a moment ago. It spreads outward in an uneven ring, pooling around his feet, soaking into the gravel at the bridge’s edge. He staggers back a step. His lungs seize. The air tastes wrong, thick and metallic. His chest tightens painfully, muscles locking as his body panics, demanding oxygen that won’t come. He clutches at his throat instinctively. Water isn’t there. And yet his lungs burn as if they’re filling anyway. He drops to one knee, gasping silently, vision tunneling now. The roar of the creek rises in his ears, loud and immediate, drowning out everything else.

Nellie glances over her shoulder. She’s been waiting for the sound of Jack’s boots on concrete, the familiar rhythm of him moving back toward her with the spare pen. Instead, she sees him stagger. Her stomach drops.

Jack is kneeling, one hand braced against the ground, the other clawing uselessly at his chest. His face has gone pale in the spill of the headlights, eyes wide and unfocused.

“Jack?” she calls.

No answer.

She straightens sharply, paint pen forgotten, and starts toward him. Then the night screams. The sound tears through the air without warning, high, broken, full of grief and fury all at once. It vibrates through her bones, rattles the metal guardrails, turns the quiet creek below into a living thing. Water surges. The creek, low and manageable seconds ago, roars to life, swelling violently against the banks. Spray kicks up, misting the bridge, soaking the air until it tastes like iron and earth. The concrete beneath her boots slicks over, darkening as water seeps up from nowhere. Panic flashes hot and sharp. Then she shoves it aside.

“No,” she snaps under her breath. “Not him.”

She pivots back to the guardrail, slamming her palm down over the nearest sigil. Power flares outward, brighter and rougher than she intended, the ward lines burning stark white against the rusted metal. The air resists. The spirit shrieks again, the sound furious now, attention snapping away from Jack like a snapped cord. He gasps. Air floods back into his lungs in a ragged rush, harsh and painful but real. He collapses fully to the concrete, coughing hard, dragging in breath after breath as the pressure around his chest loosens.

Nellie doesn’t look back. She can’t afford to. She pushes more energy into the wards as she moves, stepping deliberately along the bridge, hand trailing over sigil after sigil to keep them active. The salt lines glow faintly where the water tries to cross them, hissing and steaming instead of washing away. Mara stands within the boundaries now.

The spirit lashes out, water surging against invisible walls, her scream splintering into something almost wordless. Her soaked dress whips around her legs as she surges forward, then slams hard against the warded edge, recoiling with a howl of rage. Nellie plants her feet. Her heart is pounding hard enough to hurt, breath coming faster now as the air thickens around her. She feels the pressure creeping in, subtle at first, like the beginning of a held breath that’s gone on too long. She ignores it.

“In nomine —” she begins, voice steady despite the chaos, pulling the words of the banishment up from memory. Not shouted. Not forced. Spoken like an anchor dropped into rushing water.

Mara screams again and lunges, hands clawing, fingers stretching impossibly long as they scrape against the wards. The air around the hunter tightens, squeezing her chest, her throat.

Her next breath burns. Spots dance at the edges of her vision, the sensation all too familiar now; pressure, panic, the echo of drowning without water. Her lungs protest, muscles locking as her body demands air. She swallows hard and keeps going. She takes another step forward, closer to the center of the bridge, closer to the spirit’s rage. The words of the ritual tremble once, then steady as she forces them out, each syllable a deliberate act of will. “You don’t belong here,” she says through clenched teeth. “This isn’t your crossing anymore.”

The woman shrieks, water surging high enough to slap against the wards, spray soaking Nellie’s hair and clothes. The pressure in her chest spikes, sharp and punishing, stealing her breath mid-sentence. For a terrifying second, she can’t inhale. Her vision tunnels. She digs her heels into the concrete and pushes on anyway, voice raw now, power burning hot and uneven as she finishes the next line of the banishment.

Before she can brace herself, cold fingers close around her wrist. The world drops away. The bridge vanishes. The roar of the creek cuts out mid-sound. The night folds in on itself. She is standing in rain, a hard, driving downpour that soaks through everything in seconds. Wind tears at her clothes, shoves rain into her eyes until the world blurs. Thunder cracks overhead, close enough to rattle her teeth. She knows immediately this isn’t now.

She turns. Mara stands several yards ahead of her, alive. Her clothes are wrong for the weather. A thin jacket, soaked through, hair plastered to her face as rain runs down her cheeks. She looks exhausted. Hollow-eyed. Not frantic. Not hysterical. Just… worn down to the bone. The creek beside the road is already rising, dark water churning fast and high, swallowing the banks with alarming speed. The bridge looms ahead, slick with rain, water roaring beneath it. The woman walks toward it anyway. Nellie tries to move. Tries to call out. Nothing. She’s a passenger here.

Mara stops at the edge of the bridge, shoulders hunched against the storm. For a moment, she just stands there, staring down at the water like she’s trying to understand something that’s been following her for a long time. A truck barrels down the road behind her. Its headlights flare bright through the rain, engine loud and impatient. It doesn’t slow. Doesn’t honk. Doesn’t roll a window down or shout a question. It passes her like she’s not there at all.

Maybe her foot slips on wet concrete. Maybe the truck startled her just enough. Maybe the water surging beneath the bridge pulls harder than gravity. She’ll never knows which. Mara goes over the edge. The moment fractures into chaos. Screaming wind, rushing water, the sickening drop as she hits the flood below. The creek swallows her instantly, cold and violent, dragging her under, spinning her like debris.

Mara fights. Nellie feels it. The panic, the shock, the desperate clawing for anything solid. Water fills the woman’s mouth, her nose, her lungs. The current pins her against something hard, then tears her free again. There is no time. No one stops. No one sees. The storm doesn’t care. The water takes her.

The bridge slams back into existence around her. Sound crashes in all at once. The roar of the creek, the shriek of the wind, the crackle of the wards straining under pressure. Her knees buckle, breath tearing out of her in a broken gasp that doesn’t quite work. Her lungs burn. Water surges up her throat and she coughs hard, doubling over as muddy creek water spills from her mouth and onto the concrete. It shouldn’t be there. It doesn’t belong there. That doesn’t stop her body from reacting like she’s just been pulled from the river. She drags in a breath that scrapes raw on the way down. Then another.

Mara is still there, raging within the warded space, her scream sharp and fractured now, grief splintering through it. Water lashes against invisible boundaries, slapping hard enough to spray the hunter’s face and arms. She tightens her grip on the iron bar. Her arm trembles as she lifts it, muscles weak and uncooperative from the lack of oxygen. The first swing is sloppy, the iron cutting through air instead of connecting cleanly. She stumbles, catching herself on one knee as another cough wracks her body.

Jack’s voice reaches her, distant and strained. “Nellie —”

“I’ve got it,” she gasps, more promise than certainty.

She forces herself upright again, boots slipping on wet concrete. The iron bar feels heavier than it should, like gravity has doubled just to spite her. She plants her feet anyway and swings again, this time striking the space just in front of the spirit, iron ringing sharply as it hits the warded boundary. The crying woman recoils, shriek breaking into something almost human.

“There’s no need to stay,” Nellie says hoarsely, forcing the words out through burning lungs. “You don’t have to keep drowning for this.”

The pressure tightens around her chest again, stealing the end of the sentence. She clenches her jaw, vision tunneling, and shoves more energy into the sigils without finesse or restraint. The paint lines blaze. The wards flare bright and hot, their boundaries snapping into place with finality. Salt hisses where water tries to cross it, iron thrumming in her hands like it’s alive. Mara screams one last time, a sound full of fury, grief, and something dangerously close to relief, and then she unravels.

The water drops away mid-surge, collapsing back into the creek as if gravity suddenly remembered itself. The scream cuts off sharply, the presence tearing loose from the bridge in a rush of cold air. Nellie drops the iron bar. It clatters against the concrete as she sinks down, coughing once more before finally dragging in a full, real breath. Her lungs ache, but they work. The air tastes normal again.

She eventually pushes herself upright slowly, legs still unsteady, and takes a few deliberate steps toward Jack. He’s crouched near the edge of the bridge, one hand braced against the concrete as another cough tears through him. Muddy water splashes onto the pavement with each harsh breath, his shoulders shaking as his body finally finishes rejecting what never should’ve been there.

“Hey,” she says quietly.

He looks up, eyes red and glassy, breathing still uneven. “I — I’m sorry,” he manages between coughs. “I should’ve done more. I didn’t —”

“No,” she cuts in immediately. Her voice is firm enough that it stops him cold. “This wasn’t a failure. And you weren’t weak.”

He blinks at her.

“We didn’t know what she could do,” she continues, tone steady despite the exhaustion dragging at her words. “Neither of us. She changed the rules mid-fight. That happens.” She shrugs slightly. “So, we adapted.”

He swallows, nodding slowly as he listens.

“That’s the job,” she finishes. “Not being perfect. Being able to adjust when things go sideways.”

He exhales, some of the tightness easing out of his shoulders. “Okay.”

They sit there for a moment in the aftermath, letting the night settle back into something manageable. The creek murmurs below them, harmless now. The bridge creaks faintly as it cools.

Jack glances over at her. “You okay?”

Nellie waves a hand dismissively. “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t argue, but he doesn’t look convinced either.

She catches his look and snorts. “What?”

“That was a lot,” he says carefully. “And you don’t usually say you’re fine unless you mean ‘I’ll deal with it later.’”

She opens her mouth, then closes it again, clearly deciding it’s not worth the effort. “You’re learning my bad habits faster than I’d like.”

He smiles faintly, then, testing the waters, adds, “If you want… I could drive us back to the motel.”

She stares at him. Flat, unimpressed. “Hell no.”

He winces. “Worth a shot.”

She huffs out a tired laugh and pushes herself to her feet, offering him a hand. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before something else decides to crawl out of the creek.”

He takes her hand and stands, still a little shaky but upright. As they head back toward the car together, the night feels quieter than it has in days. Not empty, just finished. And for once, that’s enough.