Chapter Text
It was winter in White Harbour. The kind of winter that seeped into your bones and made a man feel every year he carried. The chill settled bitingly in the morning air, carried by a wind sharp enough to cut. White flurries fell in steady spirals, dusting the earth with an unsettling purity that felt at odds with the horrors Jon was about to witness.
The snow crunched beneath his boots as he trudged along the white ground, his steps sinking nearly to his ankles in the untouched frost. The boots were old, older than his time as sheriff, but they served him well, better than most things in his life. Ahead of him, the clearing opened up, a cluster of officers and forensics workers scattered around like displaced crows. Everyone looked busy, hands moving, voices murmuring, but Jon had been at enough crime scenes to know half of them were just trying to look useful, as if movement could ward off the darkness that lingered here.
He could see his breath condense in the frozen air, each puff dissipating too quickly as though even the atmosphere didn’t want to hold onto it. The morning light, pale and hazy, cast everything in an eerie glow.
“Sheriff,” Alec’s voice called out, cutting through the soft crunch of snow and quiet murmurs. Jon turned to see his deputy approaching, face pale, his usual youthful energy dampened. “It’s bad.”
Jon didn’t need to be told. He could already feel it—a gut-deep certainty, the kind that settled low and made his pulse quicken. His dark eyes scanned the scene as he walked forward, noting the small knots of townsfolk standing off to the side, their breaths puffing out like smoke as they whispered to each other. Officers were taking down accounts, jotting hurried notes with stiff, gloved fingers. A handful of Margaery’s team worked further in the clearing, a bright orange tent already being pitched.
“Is it ever good?” Jon muttered, more to himself than anyone else, his voice low and roughened by years of chain-smoking and sleepless nights.
“Here.” Alec extended a small box of latex gloves. Jon pulled off his worn leather ones, slipping on the sterile pair with a grimace as they snapped snugly over his fingers. He didn’t like gloves. They made him feel clumsy, like he couldn’t touch the world properly, but it was necessary now.
“Get all these people out of here,” Jon said sharply, gesturing with a gloved hand at the townsfolk who loitered too close. “Anyone who’s not from my station, I want them out. No gawkers.”
“Yes, Sheriff.” Alec nodded, his blonde hair bobbing awkwardly beneath his cap. He looked almost relieved to have something to do, shuffling off to bark orders at the crowd.
“Does that include me, Sheriff?”
Jon turned to see Margaery Tyrell walking toward him. She was already suited up, her white forensic coat standing out starkly against the bloodied snow. Her auburn 0hair was pinned back neatly, though a few strands had escaped to frame her face, and her blue eyes held that same mix of curiosity and steel that made her good at her job. She gave him a faint, sardonic smile, though there wasn’t much humor behind it.
“Not if you can give me some good news,” Jon replied, his voice dry as he fell into step beside her. They both moved toward the scene, their footsteps muffled by the snow.
“You’re shit out of luck,” Margaery said, tone clipped.
Jon’s jaw tightened as they approached the edge of the clearing, where most of the activity centered. He didn’t have to see it to know this was worse than most. He could smell it—beneath the crispness of snow and pine, there was that unmistakable stench of blood. Fresh, metallic, and sickeningly sharp. He swallowed hard as Margaery led him forward, her pace slower now, as if bracing him.
“Dear Gods,” Jon muttered when the body came into view. His stomach lurched, bile rising to the back of his throat before he swallowed it down. He’d seen corpses before. Too many. Mangled bodies, suicides, bar brawls gone wrong—but this…
This was different.
The girl lay sprawled on the snow like a broken doll, limbs splayed unnaturally. The whiteness around her was stained crimson, the red soaking outwards in jagged patterns, already beginning to freeze along the edges. Her hair—light, almost white—fanned out around her head almost blending with the snow surrounding her. The sight of it, made Jon’s stomach lurch and her pale face was turned toward him, did not help. Eyes open, unseeing. Lips parted, as though her last breath had been stolen.
“I don’t think you should see this, Jon,” Margaery said quietly, almost gently.
“I don’t want to,” he admitted, his voice hoarse. “But we both know I have to.”
“Jon—”
“Don’t.”
He stepped closer, the crunch of his boots on the icy ground far too loud in the silence. His knees felt stiff as he crouched beside the girl, taking in her features. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until it escaped in a shaky exhale.
She looked like Dany.
No, not just like Dany now, but the younger Dany that he knew— when she was free to have her hair light and was not forced to hide. She looked like his Dany, the resemblance was staggering. The same light hair, the same soft curve of her jawline, the slight arch of her brows. The only difference was the girl’s lifeless eyes, frozen wide open, and the thin, jagged cut along her throat. A visceral, brutal wound. It was enough to make Jon’s fingers curl into fists, the latex of his gloves straining at the knuckles.
“Who called it in?” His voice came out strained, clipped as he forced himself to look away. He focused instead on Alec, who had returned and stood nervously nearby.
“Some hikers found her early this morning,” Alec replied quickly. “Edd was first on the scene. He’s… over there.” Alec gestured toward the far side of the clearing.
Jon stood, his knees protesting the motion. He cast one last look at the girl before trudging over to where Edd stood, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. Edd’s usually ruddy face was pale beneath his thick beard, his eyes heavy with something that looked far too close to sorrow.
Edd stood a few feet away, his silhouette hunched against the wind, hands buried deep into the oversized pockets of his coat. His beard, usually tinged ruddy from the cold, looked pallid today, the color seemingly drained along with his demeanor. His posture was rigid, his head slightly bowed, and Jon noticed how Edd’s breath trembled as it left him in pale clouds. Something in his friend’s face—something beyond the usual wear and tear of this job—made Jon’s gut twist uncomfortably.
“Edd,” Jon greeted, his voice low and gravelly, the single word carrying the weight of shared experience and mutual understanding.
Edd turned slightly, his eyes flicking up to meet Jon’s before dropping just as quickly, as though looking him in the eye might be too much. “You’re not gonna like this one, Jon,” he said quietly, the words almost apologetic. His voice was roughened, the edge dulled by something heavier than the morning cold.
“Do I ever?” Jon replied, though his tone lacked the usual dry humor he often brought to these situations. There wasn’t any room for it here.
Edd exhaled slowly, his breath curling visibly in the sharp air. He reached into his coat and pulled out his pack of cigarettes, the soft crinkle of the paper breaking the silence as he tapped one out and cupped it to shield the flame from the wind. The small flare of orange seemed to glow brighter in the muted winter morning, casting faint shadows on his face. He inhaled deeply, the tip of the cigarette flaring before he let out another slow, weary breath.
“It’s disturbing,” Edd muttered finally, his voice quieter this time, almost reluctant.
Jon’s shoulders stiffened. That word—disturbing—didn’t come lightly from Edd. The man had been a detective longer than Jon had been sheriff, and they’d seen their fair share of horror over the years. But this felt different. It looked different.
“Do we know the time of death?” Jon asked, his voice steady despite the growing unease twisting in his chest.
Edd shifted, his boots grinding against the snow, and flipped open the clipboard he carried under his arm. “Estimating about five hours before it was called in, paramedics arrived almost immediately,” he replied, his tone almost clinical now as he read from the notes. He passed the sheet toward Jon, though his hands lingered a beat longer than necessary, as though hesitant to let go of it.
Jon took the clipboard, his eyes scanning the scribbled report. “Who found her?”
“A couple of youngsters out for ‘an early morning hike,’” Edd answered, his words laced with disbelief and a faint bitterness. He mimicked air quotes with one hand while the other brought the cigarette back to his lips.
Jon raised an eyebrow, his head lifting slightly. “High?”
“As a fucking kite,” Edd repeated, this time with a dry, humorless laugh. The sound was brittle, like a twig snapping underfoot. “I doubt either of them could tell you what direction was up, let alone where they were going.” He flicked ash from the tip with his thumb, watching it scatter darkly across the snow like tiny insects.
“Makes me terrified to think about raising Ben in this town.” Jon stated, letting the hushed words sit for a moment, his gaze fixed on the snow-laden trees at the edge of the clearing. He’d had this conversation with himself more times than he cared to count—wondering what kind of world his son was growing up in, the dangers lurking just beyond the familiarity of home.
Edd took another drag, the smoke curling around him like a phantom before he exhaled it away. He reached out offering Jon the cigarette.
“Dany’s been on me to quit,” Jon muttered, half to distract himself and half because the silence between them was getting too heavy.
Edd huffed out a short, unamused laugh, the lines around his eyes crinkling faintly. “You see it, don’t you?”
Jon stiffened at the sudden shift in topic, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Let’s not even discuss it,” he said sharply, cutting off whatever Edd was about to say. His tone left no room for argument, and Edd, to his credit, simply nodded and took another pull from his cigarette.
“Yes, sir.”
For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of the wind rustling through the trees and the faint hum of activity from the clearing behind them. Edd looked back down at his clipboard, flipping through the pages as though searching for something. “Sorry, Edd. It’s early,” he mumbled, his voice quieter now.
“What else do you have on her?” he asked after a beat, his voice steady despite the undercurrent of tension he couldn’t quite shake.
“Nothing much yet. Waiting for Marg to finish processing before we get the full scope,” Edd replied, his brows knitting together. “But we know everything happened here. No drag marks, no signs of a struggle further out. It’s clean. Too clean.”
Jon’s jaw tightened, and his gaze drifted past Edd to where the girl’s body lay, surrounded by a sea of white and crimson. “Poor girl died in the cold,” he muttered softly, almost to himself.
Edd’s expression darkened as he followed Jon’s line of sight. “Yeah,” he said quietly, the word heavy and final.
The two of them stood there for a long moment, the silence stretching between them, broken only by the soft whistle of the wind. Edd knew Jon well enough to leave him alone with his thoughts, and Jon knew Edd well enough to recognize when he, too, was trying to bury the unease that had taken root.
Finally, Jon exhaled through his nose and turned back toward the clearing. His boots crunched rhythmically against the snow, the sound sharp and deliberate as though grounding him in the present. But even as he moved away, the sight of the girl’s face lingered behind his eyes—a cruel echo that refused to fade.
By the time Jon left the crime scene, the weight of the girl’s face followed him like a ghost, clinging to the edges of his thoughts. In his truck, the heater rattled softly, sending bursts of lukewarm air that did nothing to ease the chill settling deep into his bones. His hands gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary, knuckles pale and stiff. No matter how hard he tried to shake it, her lifeless eyes stayed with him—staring blankly at nothing but somehow still seeing him, accusing him, haunting him.
The drive home was slow and quiet. The town, still blanketed in the soft gray of winter, passed by in a blur. By the time he turned into the driveway, the afternoon sun was hanging low, and the house stood still and quiet against the pale sky. Jon shut off the engine and let out a long breath that fogged up the windshield. For a moment, he sat there, unmoving, his chest hollow, his thoughts heavy. Eventually, the cold nudged him forward, and he stepped out, boots crunching over frost-dusted gravel.
When he walked through the door, the warmth of the house felt almost foreign. The faint smell of Dany’s tea drifted from the kitchen, mingling with the quiet hum of the radiator. Dany was there, perched on the edge of the couch, cradling a cup of tea between her hands. She looked up when he entered, her eyes soft but cautious, taking in the drawn lines of his face, the slump of his shoulders.
“You’re late,” she said softly. There was no accusation in her voice, just an observation, but it landed like a small, sharp jab anyway.
Jon paused in the doorway, his coat still hanging off his shoulders, his boots leaving faint marks on the floor. He looked at her then—really looked at her. The resemblance hit him square in the chest like a punch he hadn’t braced for. The now dark hair, the sharp curve of her jaw, the faint shadows under her eyes. He couldn’t help it—his mind flitted back to the girl at the crime scene, frozen and hollow, and the sight of Dany breathing, living, was enough to twist his insides into knots.
“What?” Dany’s voice broke the silence. It was soft, cautious.
Jon blinked, snapping back into the present. He swallowed thickly and shook his head, forcing himself to move. “Nothing.”
But it wasn’t nothing, and Dany could see it written all over him. The tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders wouldn’t quite relax, the far-off look in his eyes. He tossed his coat over the back of a chair and ran a hand down his face as if trying to wipe away whatever followed him home.
Dany set her cup down carefully on the table. “You were already gone when I woke up,” she said, her voice measured but tight at the edges.
Jon sighed. Here it comes.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he replied, as though that was the point.
“That’s not the point, Jon.” Dany stood now, facing him with her arms crossed. “You were supposed to take Ben to school. You promised me last night—you swore you’d handle it. You said you’d call the bakery to open early for the cupcakes. You said ‘Don’t worry about it, Dany enjoy your off day, I’ve got it covered.’”
Jon winced at the words thrown back at him, words he’d barely remembered saying. “Dany, I—”
“Did you call the bakery?” she cut him off, her voice rising slightly.
He didn’t answer, and that was enough.
“Of course you didn’t,” she said bitterly. “So there I was, scrambling to get Ben ready, because you were gone. I had to drag him out of the house, screaming, because he didn’t want to go without you. He cried the whole way, Jon. The whole way to school. You know what he kept asking me? ‘Where’s Daddy? Daddy promised.’”
Jon’s jaw tightened as guilt started to coil around him. “Dany, I had a call—work came up early. I couldn’t—”
“Work came up?” Dany’s voice cracked, frustration spilling over. “Work always comes up! Do you know what that was like? Dropping him off with no cupcakes, no nothing at the school I work at, while other kids’ parents waltz in with their happy smiles and trays of baked goods? Do you?”
He looked away, jaw clenched, but Dany wasn’t finished.
“And because of that, I was late. Late, Jon. I missed my meeting. You know, the one I’ve been talking about for weeks, the one I took the day off for? The one I’ve been preparing for every night while you were out late or passed out on the couch?”
“I didn’t mean to make you late, Dany,” he muttered, his voice low.
She let out a humorless laugh, shaking her head. “But you did. And it wasn’t just me, Jon. Ben cried because of you. I missed something important because of you. And the worst part? You couldn’t even leave me a note. Nothing. I woke up and you were just gone.”
Jon looked at her then, his face worn and tired. For all the weight he carried on his shoulders, this was heavier than anything the job could throw at him. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his voice rough.
Dany stared at him for a long moment, searching his face. She wanted to believe him—she always wanted to believe him—but it was hard when the disappointment felt like an old, familiar ache. She finally turned away, her arms falling to her sides.
“I’m going to pick up Ben.” she said softly, her voice tight.
She grabbed her coat and keys, brushing past him without another word. The door shut softly behind her, leaving Jon standing alone in the quiet house, the sound of her frustration still echoing in his ears.
He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling shakily. The girl’s face flashed in his mind again—her lifeless eyes and blue-tinged lips—and now Dany’s words piled on top of it all, like bricks stacking against his chest.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, the house empty except for him and his guilt.