Cole pulled in behind Brady's truck on King Street, wipers ticking against a fine, stubborn drizzle. Murphy's Grand Irish Pub glowed ahead like a warm pocket in the cold, windows throwing gold through the wet. Neon bled across the pavement, Guinness green and amber smeared into long streaks by the rain.
Brady's old Ford leaned tiredly against the curb. Through the windshield, Cole spotted him slumped in the driver's seat, one hand still on the wheel, blue dash light carving hollow shadows under his eyes.
Cole killed the engine and stepped out. Wet asphalt and fried food scented the air. His knuckles tapped Brady's window as he passed.
Brady jerked awake and cracked the door.
"You're late," he said.
"You're dramatic."
Brady snorted and swung his legs out. "Come on. Before the kitchen decides we don't exist."
They crossed the sidewalk together. Mist clung to Cole's hair, beading along the shoulders of his sweater. His body still remembered the riverfront cold, the way it crawled through him at the park. The storm had eased, yet a part of the night still clung to his skin.
Murphy's door swung open on a wave of heat and noise. Conversation overlapped with laughter. Glasses clinked. A game ran on the mounted TV over the bar, the announcer's voice dulled beneath the crowd's rise and fall.
Inside, the pub smelled of Guinness, lamb, old wood, and polish. Dark paneling climbed the walls beneath framed jerseys and black-and-white photos. Sconces cast warm pools of light across polished tables. Floorboards complained underfoot, though their shine proved someone cared for them.
Crowds stayed easier than quiet. Easier than the echo of strange laughter in his skull.
Crowds also turned feelings into background noise—weather patterns instead of warnings.
A hostess met them at the threshold of the main room. A simple black dress hung to her knees, auburn hair twisted into a practical bun, smile professional and frayed at the edges.
"Evening," she said. "Just the two of you?"
"Yeah," Brady answered. "Table if you've got one."
She checked a small tablet and nodded. "Right this way."
They followed her through the maze of bodies and tables. Cole let his gaze drift without staring. A couple leaned toward each other over a shared shepherd's pie. A cluster in loosened office clothes crowded a high-top, ties crooked, voices too loud for a story on its third retelling. Near the bar, someone wiped at red-rimmed eyes while their friend pretended to scroll a phone.
Emotion slid past him in waves. Warmth. Irritation. Boredom. Tipsy delight. Years of practice had taught him to let that tide roll by like traffic—noticed, not invited in.
The living washed over him like shifting air currents; the dead always cut through with purpose.
The cold did not pass.
Cold like that never drifted. It walked with intent, the way only the dead ever did.
It slipped in behind him, quiet and close. The same thin chill that had shadowed him through the park, the same weight between his shoulder blades that had followed him onto the pier. Not as sharp now, not as frantic, but present. Watching.
The hostess led them to a small table near the middle of the room. Dark wood, two padded chairs, a candle flickering between salt and pepper shakers.
"Your server will be right with you," she said, setting menus down.
Cole chose the chair with his back half to the room. The cushion dipped under his weight, then sank a fraction more on his right side, as if someone smaller settled in close. Air cooled along his arm, a soft press of cold brushing his sleeve.
He kept his eyes forward. Experience had taught him that attention sharpened things, pinned them, let them bleed into thought.
Brady dropped into the chair opposite and shrugged his coat off, hanging it over the back.
"Feels good to sit," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "If I stand one more hour, my spine is going to file for divorce."
"You married your job years ago," Cole said. "Alex is just the mistress."
Brady's mouth twitched. "You tell her that, not me. I like my internal organs where they are."
He handled the line lightly, but fatigue dragged at his features. New creases pinched the corners of his eyes. The last few years had not treated either of them kindly.
A woman with dark curls and a name tag that read EMMA approached with a notepad in hand.
"Hey, gentlemen. What can I get started for you?"
"Guinness and lamb stew," Brady said. "If there is any mercy left in the world, throw in extra bread."
Emma smiled. "We can probably manage that."
"Martini," Cole said. "Extra dirty. And stew for me too."
"Got it." She scribbled tight shorthand and glided toward the bar.
Brady leaned back and stretched his arms before letting them rest along the chair. His joints popped softly.
"So," he said, "tomorrow is the official farewell tour."
"Seven A.M.," Cole said. "Movers, paper, landlord, the whole exit parade."
"You ready for that?" Brady asked. "Or are you just pretending really hard?"
Cole picked at the corner of his napkin. "Both."
Brady huffed. "Figured."
The cold at Cole's side pressed tighter, like a child edging closer during a grown-up conversation. No hostility rode in it. Tension did. Attention did.
Certain presences leaned in when truth neared; they recognized it before the living ever caught up.
"How did the last day at the Times go?" Brady asked.
"Awkward speeches," Cole said. "Too many donuts. My editor threatened to chain me to the desk. I promised to send photos from the land of mountain goats and spiritual retreats."
Brady snorted. "If Purgatory is anyone's idea of a spiritual retreat, they haven't stayed long enough to meet the school board."
The name settled between them. Purgatory. It had started as a joke when he first heard it. The weight on it now killed the humor.
"You could have gone anywhere," Brady said. "Seriously. New York. L.A. London if you wanted to be extra dramatic. Why pick the one town that still owes my father favors he doesn't deserve?"
"Because I don't want a bigger circus," Cole drawled. "I want less of one."
Brady lifted an eyebrow. "Less circus. More pitchforks and bake sales."
"Something like that," Cole said.
Emma returned with their drinks. Guinness settled nearly black beneath a thick foam cap. Frost filmed the martini's rim, the liquid inside cloudy with olive brine, olives speared neatly through the center. She set an extra water glass down and moved on.
Cole took a sip. Vodka burned pleasantly, mellowed by salt and brine. The heat sank through him without touching the knot in his chest.
Brady watched him over the rim of his own glass. "You still having nightmares about the candidate thing?"
"I have nightmares about repetition," Cole said. "Same interview questions and talking points. Thin smiles from people who hate you but need you. It gets old."
"You blew open a presidential campaign," Brady reminded him. "Not much about that stays small."
"Containment doesn't stick either," Cole said. "Everywhere I go, someone knows my face. Or thinks they do."
The cold at his side tightened, as if the boy he refused to acknowledge leaned in toward that admission.
Recognition pulsed against him—urgent and small, not his emotion but still carried to him.
"And now you want to hide in a mountain town," Brady said. "Write about bake sales and zoning disputes. Live out your days as the weird but talented outsider."
"Something like that," Cole repeated. "I'd like a year where my biggest problems are a lost dog and a crooked councilman."
"Joke's on you," Brady said. "Our councilmen are very straight. They only bend for money, power, and my father."
Cole pulled out a flat smile.
Room noise swelled, filling the space around Brady's last words. Someone at the bar raised a glass in a crooked toast. Two stools down, another patron muttered into their drink. Emma laughed at a regular's joke without turning her head all the way.
Cole let his awareness drift. The usual noise beneath the noise rose to meet him. A woman at the next table radiated anger and buried it under wine. The group near the door buzzed with low-grade anxiety. A man at the bar locked onto the game with the focus he probably applied to every feeling he didn't want to name.
He had learned to live with that extra layer—treat it as weather instead of prophecy.
Cold never joined the weather. It waited, watched, and carried a reason.
The chill beside him stood out against all that warmth.
He felt it in the prickling hair along his arm. In the way condensation slid down his water glass, beads twisted into crooked paths that ignored gravity.
Physics bent under unfinished stories; he had seen it often enough to stop arguing with it.
He kept his gaze away from the space at his side. The last time he acknowledged something like that out loud, Alex spent an hour convincing him he wasn't losing his mind and another swearing she would never tell a soul.
He had believed her. He still did.
Brady dug into his stew as soon as it landed. Emma barely cleared the rim of the bowl before his spoon went in.
"Sorry," he said with a mouthful. "I don't remember lunch. That's how my day went."
"Then this is technically breakfast," Cole said. "You're just in the wrong time zone."
"How was your day?" Brady asked. "Aside from signing your soul over to a moving company."
"Lawyer. Movers. Landlord. Closing tabs," Cole said. "Throwing away junk I dragged in three years ago and never looked at again. Found old photos. Found a few things of Shane's I missed on the first sweep."
Brady's expression softened. "Did you talk to her today?"
"No."
"Think you will?"
Cole tore off a piece of bread and pressed it into his broth without lifting it to his mouth. "Not tonight."
Brady nodded and let the subject drop. He always knew when to pry and when to let a wound keep its quiet.
They ate in companionable silence for a stretch. Clatter and low conversation filled the gaps.
The cold at Cole's side stayed constant, a small hand wrapped around his sleeve, refusing to let go.
Some spirits clung when truth hovered close; they felt it building the way animals sensed incoming storms.
Half a bowl later, with his drink nearly gone, he felt the weight shift—not away, but forward. Anticipation threaded through it. Expectation waited.
He set his spoon down.
"Let me ask you something."
"That tone never ends well for me," Brady said, but he leaned back and gave him room.
"During your time here," Cole began, "on the job… did you ever handle a case with a boy? Nine, maybe ten. Dark hair. Near the river."
Brady stilled.
The pub's noise kept rolling, yet a glass dome might as well have settled over their table.
"Oddly specific," Brady said. "What brought that on?"
Cole kept his expression flat. "I walked through the park before I came here. Ended up on the pier. Things felt wrong. The air shifted. The whole place carried a bruise I couldn't see."
Brady studied him. He had listened to Cole talk like this for years—about crime scenes, interview rooms, neighborhoods that felt off long before facts arrived. Others called it instinct or paranoia. Brady never filed it away that easily.
"You get that gut knot a lot," Brady said. "Some people call it anxiety and get meds. You call it research."
"It earned me a Pulitzer shortlist," Cole said. "I'm not racing to medicate it."
Brady dropped his gaze to the stew, then lifted it again.
"Yeah," he whispered. "A kid."
The cold beside Cole tightened so sharply it almost hurt.
Grief spiked—jagged and silent—pressing into Cole's ribs from the outside.
"Four winters back," Brady said. "Gray sky. Nasty wind. We caught a call about a child down near the riverbank. No details about how he got there. No word on parents, custody issues, nothing. Just a kid in trouble." He let the breath out slow. "I reached him first."
His spoon carved slow lines through the broth.
"Found him curled up on the rocks," Brady said. "Shoes gone. Fingers raw. No jacket. He stayed so cold his body forgot how to shiver. Eyes didn't meet mine—just looked through me."
The cold quivered beside Cole—an echo answering an old moment.
Spirit pain always matched the second that anchored them here.
"I got a blanket around him," Brady said, voice roughening. "Radioed it in. Tried to keep him awake until EMS rolled up. He wouldn't answer questions. Flinched when I leaned in. Had marks that didn't come from slipping. Those never made the official report."
Anger crossed his face—banked long ago, still hot at the core.
"Official story blamed exposure," he said. "Weather. Water. Bad luck. He never made it to the hospital."
Cole swallowed. "You did what you could."
Brady lifted one shoulder in a brittle shrug.
"Maybe. Doesn't stop the replay."
The cold at Cole's side loosened—edges smoothing, like a quiet exhale from someone who had waited years to hear those words spoken aloud.
Truth eased certain spirits more effectively than prayer ever had.
"Anyone else reach him before you?" Cole asked.
Brady's jaw tightened. "Yeah."
"Who?"
"Nolan Maddox," Brady said. "He called it in, said he secured the scene, then went back to patrol. I took over and rode with the kid. Maddox wrote the first note. My father signed off."
Cole felt the truth like a stone in his chest.
"He walked me out of the park tonight," Cole said. "He's the one who offered the escort."
Something ugly moved across Brady's features.
"Maddox stayed," he said. "Of course he did."
"You two never got along," Cole said.
Brady nodded once, sharply. "He's the cop people point at when they talk about bad cops. He enjoyed scaring people more than helping them."
The cold flared again—sharp, immediate—then slowly eased.
Fear and recognition and memory stacked inside that spike.
"You think he had something to do with the boy?" Cole asked.
"I think plenty of things I can't prove," Brady said. "Evidence went missing. Reports came back edited. Questions died in in-boxes. When the man in charge wants something buried, it goes deep."
He lifted his glass and drained what remained. "Why bring it up now? Writing a retrospective already?"
"Not sure yet," Cole said. "Maybe nothing. Maybe just my brain chewing old patterns. Might be the weather."
Brady scrubbed a hand across his face. "If you tug that thread in Purgatory, you'd better brace for what unravels."
"Is that your professional opinion?" Cole asked. "Or your son-of-the-town-tyrant opinion?"
"Both."
The cold at Cole's elbow softened. It no longer clung to him. It rested—light, almost trusting. A faint impression grazed the edge of his thoughts: relief. Gratitude. A knot loosening.
Some presences moved on only after someone living finally touched the truth they carried alone.
He kept his face neutral. He had learned not to react.
Instead, he picked up his spoon and took another bite. Warmth spread deeper this time as the stew settled.
"Do you regret leaving?" Cole asked.
"Purgatory or the department?"
"Both."
Brady leaned back and thought about it.
"Regrets?" he said. "Not changing more. The kid by the river. Every time I kept my mouth shut when my father leaned on people who couldn't push back." Guinness washed down his next words. "I don't regret getting out before it swallowed me whole."
"Then maybe you didn't leave him entirely alone," Cole whispered.
Brady frowned. "Who?"
"The boy. You remember him. You tried. Sometimes that's more than most people give."
Something released deep in Brady's shoulders. Subtle. Noticeable to someone who watched him this long.
"You're sentimental tonight," he said.
"Long day."
The cold that had pulsed beside Cole for hours withdrew—slow, gentle, unhurried. A tide rolling back after bearing witness.
They always left quietly once their story locked into place.
The chair at his side felt like just a chair again. Hair lay flat along his arm. His water glass behaved like glass, condensation sliding in straight lines.
He kept his thoughts to himself.
Emma returned. Brady ordered another beer. Cole shifted to the water. Conversation wandered into safer territory—Alex's latest driving rant, a goat-and-trampoline disaster, old cases dulled enough by time to laugh at.
By the time their bowls emptied, the tightness under Cole's ribs had eased.
Brady set cash on the table. "I've got this one. You can get the next round when you come back to complain about mountain life."
"Bold of you to assume I'll survive mountain life," Cole said.
"That's why I said when, not if."
They stepped outside. The mist had thinned to a damp breath. Clouds still hung low, but a faint, lighter edge brushed the horizon.
Cole paused beside his car.
No phantom weight leaned against him.
No invisible grip clung to his sleeve.
Only his own heartbeat moved behind his ribs.
The absence felt emptier than he expected. Also right.
Spirits rarely lingered without a need; whatever held this one loosened the moment truth landed.
"You text me when you get in tomorrow," Brady said. "I don't care how early. If anything feels off, you call. If my father breathes too close, you call."
"You're very needy tonight," Cole said.
"Shut up and promise."
"I promise."
Brady nodded and angled toward his truck.
"There's something I want you to do first," Cole said.
Brady paused. "I'm listening."
"The boy by the river. Look at Maddox when you look at that case. Really look." Cole held his gaze. "Your findings might surprise you."
A grim line cut across Brady's features. "Why would you even suggest that?"
Cole shrugged. "When have I not had a knack for other people's secrets?"
Brady exhaled, half protest, half reluctant agreement. "You're going to get me in trouble."
"You already live in trouble," Cole said. "I'm just pointing at a starting point."
Brady shook his head, though his stance had already shifted with decision. "Fine. I'll take another run at it."
"Good."
Brady stepped in and pulled him into a brief, rough hug—one arm around his shoulders, a solid thump between the shoulder blades.
"Take care of yourself," Brady said. "You're not running away. You're just turning the page."
"Feels like the same thing from this side," Cole said, returning the squeeze.
Brady climbed into his truck. Cole watched taillights fade down King Street, swallowed by the curve and the trees.
He slid behind his own wheel and rested his hands on it before starting the engine.
Tomorrow he would drive west to the mountains and the small town with too many old secrets, trade sirens for a quieter kind of noise, and start the new job he had already committed to. Tonight, Alexandria held him inside one last ordinary moment. A bar. A friend.
Beside him, in the space where something small and cold had finally let go, lingered the faint echo of a promise he had just set in motion.
The world always shifted a little when the dead placed their weight in his hands.