Beneath the Badge: Chapter 1 – The Body

Amber Kane could still feel the burn in her shoulders when she walked into Blacklight Tavern.

The door swung shut behind her, cutting off the street noise and replacing it with something low and electronic—music she couldn’t name but recognized from a dozen other nights here. The bar was half-full, which for a Thursday at ten PM meant exactly the right crowd. Not empty enough to feel depressing, not packed enough to make her want to leave.

Perfect.

She’d hit Ironworks hard tonight. Two-twenty-five on deadlifts for reps, then accessory work until her grip gave out. Now her entire body was screaming in that good way, the way that told her she’d actually accomplished something. Work had been rough, stuck on three different stories with plot lines she didn’t feel right about – but at least the gym had been honest. The weights didn’t lie. You either moved them or you didn’t.

Amber claimed her usual spot at the end of the bar, where she could see the door and the whole room without having to turn around. Old habit. She liked knowing who was coming and going.

The usual crowd was scattered throughout the space. Two guys at the pool table arguing about angles. A woman in a corner booth with a book, somehow reading despite the noise. A few clusters of people at tables, talking and laughing.

And at the far end of the bar—a man sitting alone.

He was older, maybe early sixties, wearing a suit that looked expensive even in the purple neon light. Charcoal gray, pressed shirt, no tie but the collar still held its shape. He looked completely out of place in Blacklight, where most people wore gym clothes or work boots or leather jackets that had seen better days.

He was nursing what looked like scotch, sitting perfectly still, watching the room with the kind of attention that felt deliberate. Cataloging. Like he was taking inventory of every face, every conversation, every detail.

When his eyes swept past Amber, she felt something cold slide down her spine.

Then he looked away, back to his drink, and the moment passed.

Amber shook it off. Probably some corporate asshole slumming it in the Neon District for the “authentic” experience. The Skyline District types did that sometimes—came down here to feel edgy for a night before going back to their clean towers and doorman buildings.

“Kane,” Lou said, appearing in front of her with a bar towel over his shoulder. “The usual?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Lou was maybe fifty, with gray threading through his dark hair and the kind of face that suggested he’d seen everything twice and wasn’t impressed by any of it. He’d been tending bar at Blacklight for as long as Amber had been coming here—close to five years now—which meant he knew exactly what “the usual” meant: whiskey neat, the mid-shelf stuff, no ice.

He poured without measuring, set the glass down in front of her, and said, “You look like you just fought someone.”

“Just the iron. It won.”

“The iron always wins.” He leaned against the back bar, assessing her the way bartenders do when they’re deciding whether you want conversation or silence. “Rough day?”

Amber took a sip. The whiskey burned going down in exactly the right way. “The usual writer’s block. Nothing serious, just can’t get the pieces to fit, you know?”

“I know you’ll figure it out, that’s what I know.” Lou grinned and moved down the bar to help someone else.

Amber watched him go, then turned her attention to her drink and the familiar comfort of being exactly where she belonged.

She loved Blacklight. Loved the purple neon that gave the place its name, spilling through the windows and turning everything slightly unreal. Loved the scarred wooden bar that had absorbed decades of spilled drinks and bad decisions. Loved the clientele—people from the Neon District who came here because the drinks were cheap and nobody judged you for showing up alone at 10:00 PM on a weeknight.

This was her place. Her neighborhood. Her people.

The music shifted—something with more bass, still electronic, still atmospheric. The pool table argument had resolved itself and the two guys were racking for another game. Someone’s phone was playing a different song near the jukebox, creating a weird layered effect that shouldn’t have worked but did.

Amber was halfway through her whiskey when someone slid onto the stool next to her.

“This seat taken?”

Amber glanced over. A woman—maybe late twenties, red leather jacket that looked soft and worn-in, long copper-red hair falling past her shoulders in waves that caught the purple light. Sharp cheekbones, full lips, and the kind of eyeliner that suggested she knew exactly what she was doing with it. There were at least five empty stools along the bar.

“It is now,” Amber said.

The woman smiled. “Thanks. I’m Cara.”

“Amber.”

Cara flagged down Lou and ordered a beer. When it arrived, she took a long drink, then set it down with a satisfied sigh. “God, I needed that. Long fucking day.”

“Yeah?”

“I tattooed three people today and all of them wanted the same weird symbol. When I asked the third one what the symbol meant, he snapped at me. Fucking strange. Glad it’s over.”

Amber smirked. “You’re a tattoo artist?”

“At Vivid Ink. On Catalina.” Cara gestured vaguely in the direction of the street. “Been there about two years. You?”

“I’m a writer.”

Cara’s eyebrows went up with interest. “Yeah? What kind of writing?”

“Erotic fiction. At LustLit.”

“No shit?” Cara’s face lit up. “I fucking love LustLit. I’ve read so many of those stories. The free ones and—okay, I’ll admit it—I’ve got a subscription.”

Amber laughed. “Glad we provide something halfway interesting to read.”

“Worth every penny. Seriously.” Cara leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to something conspiratorial. “The marketing people know what they’re doing, but you writers? You’re the real deal. Some of those stories are…” She made a chef’s kiss gesture. “I’m jealous as hell. I can barely write a grocery list.”

“You draw on people for a living. I’d say that’s pretty impressive.”

“Different skill set.” Cara took another drink. “But really, which author are you? Or is that like, confidential?”

“Amber Kane. I write under my real name.”

Cara’s eyes widened. “Wait. You’re Amber Kane? The one who wrote that series about the—” She stopped, glanced around, then grinned. “Okay, never mind, I’m not gonna fangirl in public. But yeah. I’ve read your stuff. You’re fucking good.”

“Thanks.” Amber felt something warm in her chest that wasn’t just the whiskey. It was always weird hearing that people actually read her work. Enjoyed it. “I’m glad you like it.”

“Like it? I’ve recommended your stories to at least five people.” Cara shook her head. “This is so cool. I can’t believe I’m sitting next to you.”

“I’m just a person who types dirty words into a computer.”

“Don’t downplay it. You’re a person who makes people feel things. That’s not nothing.”

They both drank in comfortable silence for a moment. The music changed again—something slower, deeper, more atmospheric. The pool table guys were arguing again.

Amber glanced down the bar. The man in the expensive suit was still there, still watching the room with that same deliberate attention. He’d shifted slightly on his stool, angled now so he had a better view of Amber and Cara’s end of the bar.

Something about it felt wrong.

Amber looked away.

“So what do you write about when you’re not writing erotica?” Cara asked. “Or is that your whole thing?”

“Pretty much my whole thing. I tried literary fiction for a while, but nobody wanted to publish stories about sad people in Ohio. Turns out people would rather read about fucking.”

Cara laughed. “Can’t blame them. The world’s depressing enough.”

“Exactly. At least with erotica, everyone ends up satisfied.”

“Literally.”

They both grinned.

Lou appeared to refill Amber’s glass without asking. She nodded thanks and he disappeared again.

Cara was studying Amber’s arms—or lack of tattoos on them. “You don’t have any ink.”

Amber smirked. “Not where people can see it.” She let the implication sit for a beat. “But yeah, I’m pretty selective about what I put on my body permanently.”

Cara’s eyes widened and she let out a low whistle. “Okay, I respect that. Strategic placement.”

Cara held up her arms, showing off the sleeves that ran from her wrists to her shoulders. Flowers and geometric patterns and what looked like a moth with intricate wings. “I’m obviously biased, but I love tattoos.”

“They look good,” Amber said honestly. The work was clean, detailed, well-executed. “How long have you been doing it?”

“Tattooing? About four years professionally. I did an apprenticeship in Seattle before I moved here. Blackthorn’s got a good scene for it. Lots of people who want work done, not a ton of artists yet. Room to build a reputation.”

“Why Blackthorn?”

Cara shrugged. “Needed a change. Seattle was getting too expensive and I had a friend here who said the Neon District was cool. Figured I’d give it a shot. Been here two and a half years now. No regrets.”

“The Neon District’s not for everyone.” Amber said seriously.

“No, but it’s for me. I like that people here don’t bullshit. You know what I mean? Like, in Seattle everyone was so fucking polite all the time. All surface-level nice but secretly judging you. Here people just say what they think.”

Amber raised her glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

They clinked glasses and drank.

“You grow up here?” Cara asked.

“Columbus. Moved here about five years ago for work. Well, for a job that didn’t pan out, and then I found the LustLit gig.” Amber set her glass down. “My family’s still in Ohio. We don’t talk much.”

“Yeah? Family shit?”

“Family shit.” Amber didn’t elaborate and Cara didn’t push. That was another thing she liked about the Neon District. People understood boundaries.

“I get that,” Cara said quietly. “My family wasn’t thrilled when I told them I was dropping out of nursing school to apprentice as a tattoo artist. They thought I was throwing my life away.”

“Were you?”

“Nope. Best decision I ever made.” Cara grinned. “Turns out I’m really fucking good at this. And I’m happy. That counts for something.”

“It counts for everything.”

They drank again. The bar felt comfortable now, like they’d known each other longer than thirty minutes. Amber liked Cara. Liked her directness, her confidence, the way she talked about her work with pride instead of self-deprecation.

Cara checked her phone, made a face, and drained the rest of her beer. “Alright, I gotta bounce. Early appointment tomorrow. Some guy wants a full back piece and we’re doing the outline.”

“Sounds intense.”

“It’s gonna be like eight hours. I’m gonna need so much coffee.” Cara stood, left cash on the bar, and grabbed her red leather jacket from the back of the stool. She shrugged it on, the leather creaking softly. “Nice meeting you, Amber. Really. This was cool.”

“Yeah. You too.”

“Maybe I’ll see you around? I’m here most Thursday nights.”

“Same.”

Cara gave her a two-finger salute and headed for the door, her copper hair swinging as she walked, weaving through the scattered tables with easy confidence. Amber watched her go, watched the red leather jacket disappear through the door into the night.

The bar felt quieter without Cara’s energy, but in a good way. Amber liked the ebb and flow of conversation at Blacklight. You could talk to someone for thirty minutes and feel like you’d made a real connection, then maybe never see them again. Or you could run into them every week and build something that felt like friendship without the pressure of actually maintaining it.

Amber glanced back down the bar.

The man in the suit was gone. His glass sat empty on the bar, a twenty-dollar bill tucked underneath. He must have left while she was talking to Cara.

Good riddance.

Amber checked her phone. 11:52 PM.

Shit.

Later than she’d meant to stay. She had to be at LustLit tomorrow morning for a content strategy meeting—9:00 AM, which meant she needed to actually be awake and functional. And she still had to walk home, shower, and get at least six hours of sleep if she wanted to be anything resembling human tomorrow.

Amber finished her whiskey in one swallow, left cash on the bar—enough to cover both drinks and a solid tip—and caught Lou’s eye.

“Heading out?”

“Yeah. Gotta be a real person tomorrow.”

“Good luck with that.” Lou pocketed the cash without counting it. “Be safe out there.”

“Always am.”

She grabbed her gym bag from where she’d stashed it under the bar, slung it over her shoulder, and pushed through the door into the night.

—–

The Neon District at midnight was a different beast than the Neon District at ten.

Still loud. Still alive. But with an edge to it—the feeling that anything could happen and probably would. Music spilled out of open doorways, bass lines competing with each other in a way that should’ve been chaos but felt like texture. People clustered outside the bodega on the corner, smoking and talking too loud. A motorcycle roared past, weaving between cars like the speed limit was a suggestion.

Amber loved it.

The air was cool and sharp, cutting through the warmth she’d built up inside the bar. She inhaled deeply, letting it clear her head. The street smelled like rain and exhaust and the particular combination of grease and neon that defined this part of Blackthorn.

She turned down Catalina Avenue, her gym bag heavy on her shoulder, her body pleasantly tired from lifting and whiskey. Her loft was on Emberline Street, maybe a ten-minute walk. She could take the main route—straight down Catalina, well-lit and busy even this late—or cut through the alley behind the old machine shop.

The alley was faster.

She’d done it a hundred times. A thousand times. It was a shortcut everyone in the neighborhood used, a straight shot that cut three blocks off the walk and came out right near the intersection of Emberline and Forge. Half a block from her building.

Amber turned into the alley.

It was narrow—brick walls on both sides, dumpsters shoved against the left wall, fire escapes zigzagging up into darkness overhead. A single streetlight at the far end cast everything in harsh yellow, creating long shadows that stretched across the pavement. Her footsteps echoed against the brick, loud in the sudden quiet.

She was about halfway through when she saw something red.

A jacket.

Red leather, crumpled on the ground about thirty feet ahead. The streetlight caught it at an angle that made it almost glow.

Amber’s stomach dropped.

No.

That jacket. She’d just seen that jacket. Cara had been wearing it when she left the bar.

Amber’s feet moved faster. “Cara?”

No response.

She could see more now. Not just the jacket. A body. Someone lying on the ground, facing away from her. Long copper hair spilled across the pavement like a waterfall, darkened by shadows.

“Cara!” Amber was running now, her gym bag bouncing against her back. “Hey, are you—”

She dropped to her knees beside her.

Red leather jacket. Copper hair—beautiful hair, now matted and tangled. Slender build in dark jeans and boots.

It was her.

Amber grabbed Cara’s shoulder and carefully rolled her onto her back.

The face that looked up at her was Cara’s. Same sharp cheekbones. Same full lips. Same eyeliner, now slightly smudged at the corners.

But her eyes were half-open. Glassy. Fixed. Unseeing.

Her skin was pale—not the warm pale it had been at the bar, but drained. Gray. Cold.

Amber’s breath caught in her throat.

No. No, this wasn’t—

She pressed two fingers against Cara’s neck, searching for a pulse even though she already knew. Nothing. She leaned down, putting her ear near Cara’s mouth, listening for breath.

Nothing.

“No,” Amber breathed. “No, no, no this isn’t happening right now.”

She sat back on her heels, her mind racing. This didn’t make sense. Cara had left the bar maybe twenty-five minutes ago. Thirty at most. Amber had stayed for one more drink, paid, and left. Which meant Cara had been ahead of her by what—fifteen minutes? Twenty?

How had she ended up here? Dead?

Amber forced herself to look. Really look.

There was no blood. No obvious wounds. Nothing that screamed violence.

But there—on Cara’s upper arm—a bruise. Dark against pale skin under tattoos, shaped like fingers. Like someone had grabbed her. Hard enough to leave marks.

And on her neck—Amber leaned closer, her hands shaking—a mark. Faint in the yellow light, but there. Red. Like pressure. Like something had been pressed against her throat.

Strangulation?

Amber’s stomach twisted.

Someone had killed her. Someone had grabbed Cara, had choked her, had left her body here in this alley like garbage.

And Amber had just been talking to her. Laughing with her. Drinking with her. Cara had been telling her about her life and tattoo appointments and moving to Blackthorn for a fresh start.

Twenty minutes ago Cara had been alive.

Now she was dead.

Amber’s hands were shaking. She needed to call someone. The police. An ambulance. Someone who could—what? There was nothing anyone could do. Cara was dead.

But Amber had to call someone. Had to report this. Had to—

She reached for her phone, fumbling it out of her jacket pocket with hands that wouldn’t stay steady.

Headlights flooded the alley.

Amber looked up, squinting against the sudden brightness. A police cruiser had pulled up at the mouth of the alley, blocking her exit. Doors opened. Two cops stepped out, silhouettes against the headlights, hands already moving toward their belts.

“Step away from the body,” one of them called. Male voice. Hard. Authoritative.

Amber stood slowly, raising her hands without thinking. Her phone was still in her right hand. “I just found her. I was walking home and I saw her jacket and I—”

“Step away. Now.”

She took two steps back, her mind spinning. They thought—

No. That was insane. She’d just found Cara. She’d been trying to help. She’d been about to call them.

“I didn’t do anything,” Amber said, louder. “I was cutting through the alley and I saw her lying here and she’s—we were just at the bar together. Twenty minutes ago. I was about to call you—”

“Hands where we can see them.”

“My hands are up!” Amber’s voice came out sharper than she intended. Panic was starting to claw at her throat. “I’m telling you, I just found her. Her name is Cara. She’s a tattoo artist at Vivid Ink. We were just talking at Blacklight—”

The second cop—younger, tense, hand on his weapon—moved closer. “On the ground. Hands behind your head. Now.”

“You’re not listening. I didn’t hurt her. We were just drinking together. She left before me. I was walking home and I saw her jacket and I found her here—”

“On the ground!”

Amber’s phone slipped from her fingers and clattered against the pavement. She dropped to her knees, the impact sending pain shooting up her thighs. She laced her fingers behind her head, heart hammering, trying to make sense of what was happening.

They thought she did this.

They saw her kneeling over Cara’s body in an alley at midnight and they thought she’d killed her.

The older cop approached while the younger one kept his hand on his weapon. Amber felt hands grab her wrists, yanking them down behind her back. Metal cuffs bit into her skin. Too tight.

“You have the right to remain silent,” the cop said.

Amber wasn’t listening anymore.

Her mind was racing. Trying to process. Trying to understand.

She’d been at Blacklight. She’d talked to Cara. They’d connected. Cara had told her she was a fan of her work. They’d laughed together. Cara had left first. Amber had stayed for one more drink. Then she’d left. Walked through the alley like she did every night.

Saw the red leather jacket.

Found Cara’s body.

And now she was being arrested.

The cops hauled her to her feet. One of them kicked her phone—it skittered across the pavement and disappeared into shadow near a dumpster. The other grabbed her gym bag. A third cop had arrived, already on his radio.

“…suspect in custody, female victim appears deceased, requesting medical examiner and detectives to the scene…”

Suspect.

Victim.

Amber looked back at Cara lying on the pavement. Red leather jacket. Copper hair fanned out around her head like a halo. Eyes half-open and seeing nothing.

Twenty minutes ago she’d been alive. Vibrant. Talking about her early appointment tomorrow morning. Eight hours on a back piece. So much coffee.

Now she was dead.

And Amber was being blamed for it.

“I didn’t do this!” Amber yelled. Her long black hair flying as she twisted in their grip. Useless. “I swear to God, we were just at the bar together. Ask Lou. Ask anyone at Blacklight! We were talking. She left before me. She was ahead of me—”

“Save it for the detective.”

The older cop opened the back door of the cruiser. The younger one kept his hand near his weapon, watching Amber like she might bolt.

“I didn’t do this,” Amber said again. Louder. Desperate for them to hear her. To actually listen. “We were at the bar together. She left first. Someone killed her after she left. Someone set this up. They wanted me to find her—”

“In the car.”

The cop pushed her head down and guided her into the back seat. Hard plastic. Cage separating her from the front. The smell of disinfectant and fear.

The door slammed shut with a locking finality.

Through the window, Amber watched the younger cop walking back toward Cara’s body, his flashlight sweeping across the scene. The older cop was on his radio again, calling for more units. More cars were arriving—lights flashing red and blue against the brick walls, turning the alley into a crime scene.

Her gym bag sat abandoned on the pavement. Ten feet from Cara’s body. Her phone was somewhere in the shadows, kicked away, lost.

Twenty feet from where Amber was now caged.

Might as well be on another planet.

The engine started.

Amber closed her eyes and tried to breathe.

Someone had done this. Someone had killed Cara—vibrant, funny Cara who’d just been talking about tattoos and Seattle and fresh starts, who’d sat next to her and said she loved Amber’s writing—and left her body where Amber would find it.

Why?

What had Amber done? What had she seen? What had she written? What connection had she made that required Cara to die and Amber to be destroyed?

Nothing. She’d done nothing.

Except talk to Cara. Except sit next to her at a bar for thirty minutes. Except be exactly where someone wanted her to be.

Was Cara the target and Amber just collateral damage?

Or was Amber the target and Cara—

Amber’s throat tightened.

What if Cara had died because of her? What if someone had killed Cara specifically to frame Amber? What if that entire conversation at the bar had been orchestrated—Cara sliding onto the stool next to her, asking about her work, saying she read her stories, making her laugh—just to create a connection that would make Amber look guilty when Cara turned up dead?

No.

That was insane. That was paranoid conspiracy thinking.

Except Amber was sitting in the back of a police car, arrested for murder, and the woman she’d just been drinking with—the woman who’d told her she loved her work, who’d said meeting her was cool—was dead in an alley.

The cruiser pulled away from the curb.

Amber opened her eyes and stared out the window. The alley disappeared behind her. The body. The scene. Her gym bag. Her phone. The red leather jacket that had caught her eye and made her run forward.

She was arrested for murder.

And the only person who could prove she was innocent was dead.