The Dead Don’t Retire

The bar was exactly as Jessica liked it—dark enough to hide her thoughts, loud enough to drown them out when necessary, but not tonight. Tonight, it was quieter than usual, with just a handful of tourists and locals scattered about, murmuring under dim lights.

She sat across from Sam, watching the ice melt in their half-empty glasses. Outside, the Belizean night lay heavy and warm, salt in the air, palms whispering secrets. She let herself relax into the gentle rhythm, feeling the calm she’d spent years trying to earn.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Sam said softly, studying her over his glass.

Jessica smiled faintly, pushing a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “Just enjoying this. Quiet’s hard to come by these days.”

Sam gave her a slow, warm smile, the kind reserved just for her. “We’ve earned it, Jess.”

She leaned forward, elbows on the worn wooden table. “Have we?”

He raised an eyebrow, the lines around his eyes deepening in quiet amusement. “Still questioning?”

“Always,” she said, half-laughing. “It’s become a habit.”

He nodded slowly, setting his glass down. “Nietzsche again?”

She smirked, swirling the whiskey lazily. “Not tonight. Tonight it’s Kazantzakis.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, mock despair filling his face. “Not Zorba again. The last time we discussed him, I ended up questioning my entire career choice.”

Jessica laughed, genuinely this time. “Just making sure you’re paying attention.”

He leaned in, voice lower, teasing. “With you, always.”

Jessica rolled her eyes, but the warmth in her chest grew. She’d come to treasure nights like this, these quiet conversations that carried them from philosophy to memories, from laughter to silences rich enough to hold everything unsaid.

Sam reached for his glass again, about to speak, when his phone vibrated harshly against the tabletop, breaking their cocoon of quiet intimacy. He glanced at it, sighed heavily, then picked it up.

“Holden,” he answered, suddenly all business.

Jessica watched his expression shift, the easy warmth quickly replaced by something colder, more professional. After a few brief words, he ended the call and stood, a resigned look in his eyes.

“What is it?” Jessica asked, though she already knew their quiet evening had ended prematurely.

“They found a body. Right outside.” He hesitated, his eyes searching hers. “You want to come?”

Jessica’s fingers tightened around the glass instinctively. Old habits. But she forced herself to relax, shaking her head gently. “I’m off the clock. This one’s yours, Chief.”

Sam watched her carefully for a moment, clearly reading between the lines. Finally, he nodded. “All right. Stay put. I’ll handle this.”

He moved to leave, then paused, turning back with a soft half-smile. “Don’t leave without me.”

She smiled faintly in return. “Not going anywhere.”

He walked out, leaving her alone at the table, the intimacy of their evening suddenly dissipating into something colder, something familiar. She sat quietly, staring into the melting ice in her glass.

Jessica knew she should feel relieved, unburdened even, but the truth was simpler, darker:

It never really ended. She’d known that for a long time now.

She lifted her glass, drained the rest, and signaled the bartender for another. The quiet comfort she’d briefly tasted now felt as distant and impossible as ever.

In the distance, she saw the flashing lights through the bar’s tinted windows—red and blue splashes washing over the darkened street outside. She resisted the urge to get up and look, to involve herself again. Instead, she sat very still, her fingers tracing circles on the condensation of her fresh drink, fighting the instinct screaming that this night, this body, was no coincidence.

Because coincidence had never really been part of her life.

Not for Jessica Sanchez.