After spending some time walking up and down the street and looking at the little shops offering antiques, thrifted items, and baked goods, Camilla pulled up a map of the town. Her finger hovered over the labeled districts, tracing the neat boundaries of Bitterroot's charming town center before landing on the less polished edge of the map—the west side. The streets here had fewer storefronts and more gaps, as if parts of the neighborhood had simply fallen away or been forgotten.

She saved the location of The Ranger and turned off her phone.

By the time she stepped out of the apartment again, the sky had deepened into bruised shades of indigo and ash. Streetlamps buzzed with a soft, electric hum, casting golden pools of light that didn't quite reach the cracks in the sidewalk. She had changed into something deliberate: a soft-knit sweater that dipped just enough at the collarbone to seem approachable, black jeans that hugged her legs without restricting movement, and a worn leather jacket to fend off the night's chill. .

Her red case stayed behind this time.

The walk to The Ranger took her through streets that grew quieter with each block, the air thicker, heavier. The homes became more run-down, the paint chipping and the yards going from cared for gardens to overgrown forests. The closer she got, the more the town felt different—less storybook, more real. The kind of real that didn't put out a welcome mat.

When she finally arrived, the bar didn't look like much: a squat, boxy building with a faded green sign hanging crooked above the door. " Nobody Is Ever A Stranger at The Ranger," it read in chipped gold paint. The windows were fogged from the inside, the smell of beer and fryer grease leaking out with every creak of the door.

Camilla hesitated only for a second before stepping in.

The inside was dim and low-ceilinged, lit by old filament bulbs that gave everything a honeyed haze. The bar itself stretched along the left wall, scarred and varnished too many times to hide the cigarette burns. A jukebox in the corner played something low and bluesy, nearly drowned out by the murmur of conversation and the clink of pool balls. Locals filled the booths and stools in loose, huddled groups. No one looked up at her entrance, but she knew they'd noticed her.

She picked a seat near the far end of the bar, close enough to the exit to leave quickly if she needed to, and with a clear view of the whole room. The bartender, a tired-looking woman with heavily lined eyes and a neck tattoo of a giant rose, walked over and raised an eyebrow.

"Whiskey. Neat," Camilla said with an easy smile.

As the glass was set down, she let herself relax into the hum of the room. The noise around her was layered. Casual chatter, the hiss of the fryer in back, a low cough from someone nursing a beer a little too hard. But she was listening for the cracks. The names said too softly. The words spoken with the kind of weight that made people glance around first.

Two men at a corner table stood out. Not for their appearance, one wore a flannel jacket and the other a trucker cap, but for the way they leaned in too close, their voices pitched low, their eyes scanning the room after every couple of sentences. She couldn't hear them yet, but she could tell: they were talking about something no one else was supposed to hear.

Camilla lifted her glass and took a slow sip. Warmth slid down her throat, settling like coals in her stomach.

She could wait. Be patient and approach with a simple plan. A large collage of pictures and newspaper clippings spread behind the man in the trucker cap that looked to be about the history of the bar could be a good cover. Wander over, gaze with doe-eyes at the pictures of old alcoholics, be invisible however she could.

Suddenly her shoulder is jarred from an unexpected impact, her ribs digging painfully into the bar. Her whiskey spills over the rim of her cup and coats her hand. Gross. That will be annoying and sticky.

Camilla glares over her shoulder before she could rein in her facial expression. An intoxicated young man- one that is definitely a little too young to legally be served alcohol- jolts forward and grabs the bar beside her. A grimace crosses his face. It is probably his attempt at a suave smile, but at his level of drunk he cannot control his facial muscles.

"Well hello there pretty lady. I don't think I have ever seen you here before." His words are slurred and his movements are jerky as he uses the edge of the bar to steady himself. Disgust roils in her stomach. This is most definitely not what she needs right now.

Camilla opened her mouth, ready to shut the boy down cold, when another voice cut through the air—low, unhurried, and unmistakably final.

"Alright. That's enough."

It wasn't barked or even raised. But the tone carried a weight that pulled the tension taut across the bar. A quiet voice that didn't ask to be obeyed—expected it.

The drunk froze. Slowly, he turned to face the speaker, his posture slackening.

The man standing just a few feet behind them looked like he belonged in the bar, jeans and work boots dusted from the trail, a canvas jacket open over a flannel shirt, collar a bit frayed at the edges. But where most of the patrons wore their weariness like armor, this man carried his with precision. His clothes were worn but clean. He didn't slouch. He didn't puff his chest. He didn't have to.

"You're bothering the lady," he said, tone mild. Not a challenge. Not angry. Just a line in the dirt.

The boy grumbled something incoherent and stumbled away, no longer interested in playing tough. The man watched him go for a beat, then turned to Camilla.

"Sorry about that," he said. "He's usually harmless. Just needs to learn to keep the volume down when he drinks."

Camilla looked at him fully now. Late twenties or early thirties, maybe. Strong jaw, short beard trimmed close. A scar traced a soft arc through his right eyebrow, the only thing rough about his otherwise even features. He looked like a man who spent a lot of time outdoors. The scent of cedar smoke and sun-baked pine clung to him faintly beneath the bar's mugginess.

"Mind if I sit?" he asked, motioning to the stool beside her.

"Sure," she said, voice light but measured. He wasn't threatening. Not obviously. But there was something about the stillness of him that made her alert.

He settled beside her like he'd done it a hundred times, no posturing, no pretense. Just comfortable. Present. A part of the room without fading into it.

"Whiskey, neat," he told the bartender when she came over, then nodded to Camilla's damp hand. "He spill yours?"

"Just enough to make it irritating," she replied, half-smiling. "But I've had worse things spilled on me in bars."

His chuckle was quiet and dry. "Sounds like a story."

"One I'm not drunk enough to tell."

The bartender dropped his drink off with a nod. He took a sip and exhaled like a man unwinding after a long day, but there was no slouch in him. No excess. Just a sense of someone who watched everything even when he wasn't looking directly at it.

"You new in town?" he asked.

"What gave me away?"

"You're too clean. Your jacket isn't thrifted, and no one here orders their whiskey with a smile."

Camilla smirked, taking a sip of her remaining drink. "Camilla."

He extended a hand. "James."

His grip was firm, dry, warm. A working man's hand. But careful.

"I've lived here most of my life," he said. "Used to be people looked out for each other more. Still do, mostly. Just harder now."

"Because of the murders?"

His pause was minimal, but it was there. A slight tightening of his jaw. Then he nodded.

"Yeah. You hear something about them?"

"Enough to be curious. I'm a writer." The words slid from her lips spiced from the whisky. "Thinking of doing a story. There's something strange about the way this town's reacting."

James watched her for a long second, and she could feel him weighing her—not the way a man sizes up a woman, but the way a man sizes up a potential problem.

Then he smiled. "Yeah. You're right about that."

A slight tilt of her head had her hair sliding across her shoulders, causing his eyes to slide from hers to follow the movement.

"Maybe you could give me a few words about it. Everybody else is giving me the cold shoulder about it, but you seem to be a warmer fellow." The corner of her lips tilted upward and she narrowed her eyes. A clear invitation. Or, more likely, a challenge.

A faint smile ghosted over his lips. He was amused, but not entirely entertained. His gaze returned to hers, slower this time. Measured.

He tapped a finger once against his glass. "Most people don't go poking into the town's worst wounds their first week in. Especially not while smiling."

Camilla shrugged, letting the expression stay soft. "Morbid curiosity. I hear it's a writer's disease."

"Hmm." He took a sip, eyes never leaving hers. "And here I thought you were fishing."

"Maybe I am," she replied, tilting her glass toward him. "The water seems deep around here. Plenty of shadows."

He chuckled low in his throat, the sound like gravel sifted through silk. "You don't scare easy, do you?"

Her smile widened just slightly. "You don't strike me as someone easily scared, either."

James leaned back on the stool, one arm resting casually on the bar, the other cradling his drink. The slight shift of posture made it clear: he was still comfortable, still in control but now he was paying attention.

"Most folks around here would take that kind of talk as trouble," he said. "Especially from someone asking questions about bodies that haven't even gone cold."

"I'm not most folks."

"No," he said, and this time the smile that touched his lips felt heavier. "You're definitely not."

They sat in that suspended moment. Eyes locked, glasses half full, each silently acknowledging the game without naming it.

"Tell you what," he said at last. "You keep showing up around town, ask the right questions, you'll get your answers. Maybe not all at once. But they'll come."

She raised a brow. "That an invitation?"

"That's a warning," he said, smiling like it wasn't.

Then he stood, drained the rest of his bourbon, and set the glass down gently.

"Good luck with your story, Camilla."

He turned and walked toward the back of the bar, nodding to a few people along the way. People extended quiet acknowledgments, the kind of respect earned, not demanded. No title. Just James.

But when the door swung shut behind him, Camilla found herself still staring after him.

A regular man, she thought.

But not really.

                                                                        ***

The walk back to the small apartment was chilly, but manageable after the stiff drink she slowly finished after her talk with James. After the brief conversation there was too much attention on her. The man's silent control of the room having had the opposite affect she needed when she was looking for information. The attention of the truckers in the corner particularly piqued as she tried to be completely unassuming on the rickety stool at the bar. She couldn't stop herself from replaying the tone of his voice. Quiet but absolute. James. Just James. The name didn't match the way people looked at him. Or the way he looked at her.

Damn, she thought, wanting to act out in anger at the debris that littered the edges of the concrete walkway. She'd misread the room. That pissed her off more than anything. Normally she could scent control—true control—from the door. But James had slipped past her radar. That meant something. Tonight's stakeout had been a total bust. Usually, she had more information by now, and a lead to pull her along the next day.

Damn.

The steep and narrow steps up the side of the garage were the worst part of the ordeal. She hadn't thought to turn on the outdoor light beside her front door on her way out, and she couldn't see a thing.

The door creaked open at last and her jacket and shoes were tossed away before it made it back closed again. Camilla let out a very unladylike groan as she sank into the armchair. She grabbed one of the rainbow pillows from the couch and stared up at the skylights dark glass as she dragged it to her chest. Tomorrow, she'd dig harder. And stay further from anyone who could see her coming.