JACK RIDER THE BIG BAD WOLF

Most people look at life and see change-new seasons, shifting relationships, people growing up or growing apart. They talk about transitions like they're natural, like they're just part of the ride. But not me. I don't see change. I see death.

The leaves don't just fall-they wither, dry up, and die. Lovers don't just drift away-they disappear, leave a hollow ache behind. People don't just move on-they're buried. Every so-called "new chapter" is just another goodbye wearing a different mask.

Maybe it's a grim way of looking at the world. But after thirty-two years of surviving it, I've stopped trying to see it any other way. Life hasn't been kind to me-it's been a long, slow series of cuts. Loss isn't just something I've experienced; it's something I breathe. It follows me, shaping the way I move, the way I think, the way I love-if I even remember how to do that anymore.

Now, I find myself on this road, chasing another shadow. Not for closure. Not for peace. But because this is all I have left-empty pursuits and questions that may never have answers.

The trees stood tall on either side of the road, dressed in their fall finest-shades of green giving way to firelight oranges, deep yellows, and blood-reds. The wind rustled through the branches, and the leaves danced like dying embers. The beauty of it was undeniable, but to me, it felt like nature mourning-one final burst of color before everything faded to gray.

I slowed down as the road curved, easing my car across a narrow bridge. Beneath it, a stream sliced through the rocks like it had somewhere to be. The water was shallow, but wild. Raging. Like it was angry about being trapped in its bed. I could relate.

The car groaned as it switched gears, pushing up the steep hill ahead. Trees blurred past, and I caught glimpses of the forest through the windshield-silent, still, and watching.

Wisconsin always looked like a postcard in the fall. But for me, the beauty felt cold.

I'd been here before, once. Back then, it was farther north-along the rocky shores of Lake Superior. I wasn't a detective on assignment. I wasn't a woman grieving a shattered life. I was just someone's fiancée, walking hand in hand through craft fairs and pumpkin patches, sipping cider and laughing like nothing could ever go wrong.

Back then, I had Martin.

He made everything feel safe. Simple. Whole.

Now I was back in this state, but not for joy. Not for love. This time, I was chasing death.

I tried not to think about him-about what this place reminded me of. I had to stay focused. My reason for being here wasn't about the ghost of Martin or the pieces of myself that died with him. It was about a young woman-Kelly Morrison-who'd been ripped from her life far too early, and in the most brutal way imaginable.

And someone-something-was responsible.

I reached for the tape recorder, the little red button staring up at me like an unblinking eye. I pressed it, feeling the soft click beneath my fingertip, and steadied the recorder against the wheel. I kept my other hand on the steering wheel, the car rumbling softly as dusk began to settle around me.

The clouds were rolling in, turning the sky a bruised gray. The light was vanishing fast, but I kept driving.

I took a slow, steady breath before speaking.

"Victim: Kelly Morrison. Age: twenty. Height: five feet, six inches. Blonde hair. Brown eyes. Found not far from the bank of Wolf River. Cause of death..." I hesitated, the memory of her file sharp in my mind, "...was severe lacerations to the throat and chest. Her stomach had been gutted-completely emptied. Her right leg was torn from her body and found nearly a mile away from where she was discovered."

My stomach twisted. I'd seen the photos. I'd read the reports. But nothing ever really prepared you for the real weight of violence-not when it was this savage.

"There were animal tracks," I continued. "The local authorities ruled it a bear attack. No suspects. No further investigation."

But something didn't sit right. It never had.

"The problem is, the claw marks don't match a bear. My expert looked over the wounds. He said bear claws, especially black bears, tend to be dull from climbing. The cuts on Kelly were... surgical. Clean. Too clean. Almost as if they weren't claws at all, but knives."