By the time the police let me step past the yellow tape, the night had thinned to that gray hour when streetlights look embarrassed to still be on.
Noah’s car sat at the edge of the bridge like it had changed its mind halfway through jumping.
The sedan’s hazard lights pulsed an anemic orange, blinking a slow heartbeat against the metal rail. One back door was slightly ajar, a sliver of darkness cut into the damp light. The driver’s seat was empty. The passenger seat was empty. My life was empty.
“I’m fine,” I said, to no one in particular.
My voice sounded like it belonged to a stranger who’d been told how a wife should sound and was doing her best imitation.
The uniformed officer beside me shifted, boots scraping wet asphalt. “Mrs. Hart, you don’t have to—”
“I said I’m fine.” The words came out thinner, but at least they came out.
The air smelled like rain and exhaust and the metallic tang of the river below us. Traffic on the far side of the bridge murmured a distant, indifferent hum, as if this were just an inconvenient lane closure, not the moment my world had suddenly misaligned.
I moved closer to the car, wrapping my coat tighter when the wind slipped up my sleeves. Someone had dusted the driver’s door for prints; white powder clung to the black paint, a ghostly sheen. I recognized the small coffee stain near the handle where Noah always braced his cup in the mornings.
“Mrs. Hart.” This voice was lower, controlled. “Please don’t touch anything.”
I turned, slower than I meant to. The man who’d spoken wasn’t in uniform. Dark coat, tailored but practical, collar up against the wind. Hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed in a way that said he wasn’t actually relaxed at all.
His eyes were what I noticed first. Not the color—they were that unremarkable gray that could be called blue or green depending on the light—but the way they observed. Noted. Filed. Like every part of this scene was being catalogued behind them.
“I’m his wife,” I said.
He inclined his head slightly. “Ethan Cole. Consultant.”
Consultant. The word sat vaguely between everything and nothing.
The officer who’d been hovering at my elbow cleared his throat. “Mrs. Hart, this is Mr. Cole, he’s… helping us assess some aspects of the case.”
“Case?” I repeated. “He’s been gone six hours. This is a misunderstanding, not a case.”
Ethan’s gaze flicked briefly to the car, then back to me. “Cars don’t usually misunderstand their way to the side of a bridge with the engine still warm and the keys in the ignition.”
My fingers tightened around the strap of my bag. I hadn’t realized I was shaking until the leather bit into my palm. “Maybe he… got out. Went to get help.”
“For what?” he asked, and there was no cruelty in it, just precision.
I hated him instantly for that precision.
“For whatever happened,” I snapped. “I don’t know. I wasn’t here.”
He held my gaze a beat longer than was polite. If he was looking for cracks, he’d find plenty. My makeup was smudged, my hair scraped back in the hasty knot I’d made after the call. I probably still smelled like the burnt toast I’d been scraping into the sink when the officer first knocked on my door.
