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The gunshot thundered through the facility, but Sheila was already moving. She dove sideways as Mark suddenly lurched upward, knocking into Wells's arm. The bullet struck concrete, sending fragments flying.

Sheila rolled behind a rusted piece of machinery, her heart pounding. Where was Tommy? And why the hell wasn't he shooting back?

"That wasn't very smart," Wells said to Mark, who had collapsed again, clutching his bleeding side. "But I appreciate the authenticity of the gesture. Heroic sacrifice makes for compelling imagery."

Sheila peered around her cover. The chamber's high windows cast strange shadows, making it difficult to track Wells's movements. Snow continued to drift through broken panes, accumulating in small drifts that glowed faintly in the dim light.

"You can't hide forever, Sheriff," Wells called out. "This moment needs its witness."

He was right about one thing—she couldn't stay hidden. Mark was bleeding out, and the temperature kept dropping, so she had to do something. But Wells had her gun, and she hadn't seen any sign of Tommy.

Had something happened to him?

A metallic groan echoed through the chamber as the wind picked up outside. The sound gave her an idea. She grabbed a piece of broken equipment and hurled it across the room. As Wells spun toward the sound, Sheila moved to a new position, hiding behind a support column.

"Clever," Wells said. "Using the environment to your advantage. My father taught me that trick—how to work with natural elements instead of fighting them." His voice moved closer. "He taught me a lot of things. Patience. Attention to detail. The importance of getting the perfect shot."

Sheila's mind worked feverishly to think of what to do next. The chamber had multiple levels, with a catwalk circling the upper walls. Staircases led up at intervals, their metal steps eaten by rust. Below, dark holes in the floor suggested maintenance access or drainage systems.

"You know what fascinates me about law enforcement?

" Wells continued. His voice echoed strangely, making it hard to pinpoint his location.

"The performative aspect. The badges, the uniforms, the carefully maintained illusion of control.

But underneath it all, you're just people playing dress-up.

Pretending you can impose order on chaos. "

Movement caught Sheila's eye—Wells circling toward her position, using Mark as a shield. She needed to separate the two of them, but how?

"Speaking of performances," she called out, "how long did it take you to plan those alibi photos? All that effort just to create a fake timeline."

"Fake?" Wells sounded genuinely offended.

"Those photos were completely authentic.

Real animals, real moments. I simply adjusted when they were captured.

" He paused. "Unlike your friend Mr. Davidson here, who stages everything for his followers.

Manufactures false experiences for social media likes. "

Sheila used his monologuing to shift position again, working her way toward one of the staircases. If she could get above him...

"The difference," Wells continued, "is that I use artifice in service of truth. These 'influencers' use truth in service of artifice."

A section of catwalk groaned overhead, drawing Wells's attention. Sheila seized the moment, sprinting to a new hiding spot closer to Mark. The young man's breathing had grown labored, his skin taking on a bluish tinge from cold and blood loss.

"You know what I think?" Sheila said, trying to keep Wells focused on her voice. "I think you're just as fake as the people you kill. Playing at being some kind of artistic vigilante when really you're just another murderer."

The taunt hit home. "You understand nothing," he snarled. "My work reveals authentic moments. When I pose my subjects, capture that final image—that's reality in its purest form."

"Reality?" Sheila edged closer to Mark. "You drug people, arrange them like mannequins, then pretend you've discovered some profound truth. The only thing authentic about your photos is the death."

Wells fired again, the bullet striking near her previous position. "Death is authenticity!" he shouted. "It's the one moment no one can fake!"

The facility's acoustics betrayed him—his voice gave away his position.

Sheila grabbed a length of pipe and hurled it toward the far wall. As Wells turned toward the noise, she launched herself from cover, tackling him from behind. They crashed to the ground, her gun skittering across the concrete floor.

Wells was strong, his hands like steel cables as he grappled with Sheila. Then, fumbling at his belt, he drew a knife and slashed at Sheila, opening a shallow cut on her arm. Sheila drove her knee into his side, trying to dislodge the blade.

They rolled across the floor, trading blows. Wells fought ferociously, each strike aimed at vulnerable points. But Sheila's kickboxing training gave her an edge in close combat. She caught his knife hand and slammed it against the ground until his fingers opened.

The knife clattered away, disappearing into the shadows. Wells headbutted her, stars exploding behind her eyes. They separated, both breathing hard.

"It didn't have to be this way," Wells said, blood trickling from his split lip. "You could have been part of something profound. A moment of pure truth."

"The only truth here," Sheila said, "is that you're going to prison."

She feinted left, then drove forward as he moved to counter. Her shoulder caught him in the midsection, driving him backward. But Wells turned with the momentum, using her own force against her.

They stumbled together, locked in combat, neither willing to give ground. Sheila's boot caught the edge of one of the drainage holes. She felt the floor crumbling beneath them.

Wells realized their situation too late. His eyes widened as the concrete gave way, sending them both plummeting into darkness. They fell together, still tangled, into blackness.

* * *

Consciousness returned slowly, like wading through deep water. Sheila's head throbbed as awareness crept back—the cold seeping into her bones, the rough concrete beneath her back, the absolute darkness pressing against her eyes.

She tried to sit up and immediately regretted it. Her body screamed in protest, every muscle feeling like it had been beaten with a sledgehammer. The fall could have killed her. Maybe should have.

"Tommy?" Her voice echoed strangely in the darkness. No response.

Sheila fumbled for her flashlight, relief washing over her when she found it still clipped to her belt. The beam illuminated rough concrete walls stretching up to where they'd fallen through. Snow still drifted lazily through the hole far above, catching the light like falling stars.

She appeared to be in some kind of maintenance tunnel or drainage system. The space extended in both directions, disappearing into darkness. Pipes ran along the walls, many broken open. The air was so cold her breath formed clouds in the flashlight beam.

A soft groan beside her made her jump. Wells lay crumpled nearby, blood matting his hair where he'd struck his head. Sheila checked his pulse—steady but weak. He was alive, at least for now.

"Tommy!" she called again, louder this time. Nothing but echoes answered.

She studied the walls, looking for handholds. The concrete was rough enough to potentially climb, but the ice made it treacherous. She tried anyway, managing to get about ten feet up before her grip slipped. She crashed back down, barely managing to land on her feet.

"Hello?" she shouted upward. "Anybody up there?"

A shadow moved across the opening far above. She sighed with relief as Tommy's face appeared, peering down at them.

"Thank God," she said. "We need rope, something to climb with. And medical assistance—Wells is unconscious."

Tommy didn't respond. He just crouched there, watching, his face oddly blank in the dim light filtering down.

"Tommy? Did you hear me? We need help down here."

"You know," he said finally, his voice echoing oddly in the shaft, "growing up on the farm, we had this massive rat problem. They'd get into the grain silos, the barn, everywhere."

Sheila stared at him, puzzled. "This isn't the time. Wells could wake any minute now. And we need to get medical assistance for Mark."

"Actually, I think it's the perfect time," Tommy said, settling into a more comfortable position.

"The first animal I ever killed was a rat, actually.

Dad taught me all kinds of ways to deal with them—drowning, crushing, poison.

Before he ditched the family, that is. But you know what was my favorite method? The traps."

Sheila swallowed uneasily. "Why are you telling me this, Tommy?"

Tommy went on as if he hadn't heard, his voice taking on a detached, dream-like quality. "With traps, you don't have to be there when the rats die. You just set everything up and walk away." He smiled faintly. "I never liked watching the actual dying part. Too messy. Too... personal."

Understanding hit her like a physical blow. "You're going to leave us down here."

"The cold will do the work," Tommy said, almost apologetically. "Shouldn't take more than a few hours. No muss, no fuss. Just like my rat traps."

"Why?" The word came out as barely a whisper. "Why would you do this?" But even as she asked the question, her father's warning came to her unbidden: Be careful who you trust. Even in your own department.

"Someone sent you to take me out," she said. "Who? Who sent you, Tommy—if that's even your real name? And why? What was I getting too close to?"

He shook his head sadly. "You're wasting your time. I'm not going to tell you, and even if I did, what good would it do me?"

"My father didn't tell me anything about my mother's murder. If you think you need to kill me because I know too much, you're wrong."

"Even if you're telling the truth—and that's quite an assumption—your father would've told you eventually. He's too much like you—too dedicated to truth, to justice." Tommy spat the words like curses. "You're both loose ends that need tying up."

"All those questions about my father," Sheila said, the realization dawning on her. "You were fishing for information."

"Had to know how much you knew. How much he'd told you about what really happened ten years ago.

" Tommy's voice grew softer, almost gentle.

"For what it's worth, I wish it didn't have to be this way.

I actually like you, Sheila. You're a good cop.

In another life, maybe things could have been different. "

"Tommy, please," she called up to him. "Whatever's going on, whatever my father knows—we can figure this out."

"No," he said quietly. "We can't."

He started to pull back from the opening.

"Tommy!" She hadn't meant to scream his name, but it tore from her throat anyway. "Don't do this! Tommy!"

But he was already gone. Snow continued to drift through the opening, the flakes now seeming more like a slow-falling funeral shroud.

"Tommy!" Her voice echoed through the tunnel system, bouncing off concrete walls until it became a chorus of betrayal. "TOMMY!"

Only silence answered. Beside her, Wells groaned again but didn't wake. The cold was already seeping deeper into her bones, and her flashlight beam seemed weaker than before.

Sheila sank to her knees, overwhelmed by the magnitude of the trap she'd fallen into. All those careful questions about her father, about old cases. All that eager enthusiasm masking something darker. She'd walked right into it, distracted by a charming, handsome rookie so different from Finn.

Finn. He had directed them here, so surely he would send help to the research station. But would it arrive in time? How long could she survive here in the cold?

She stared up at the snow drifting through the distant opening. Tommy's words echoed in her mind: The cold will do the work. It shouldn't take more than a few hours.

Unless she found another way out, he might be right.