The first thing Vince noticed was how quickly Greyford adjusted.
Not changed. Adjusted.
By morning, Evan Hale's brief presence from the previous day had already settled into the town like a stone dropped into water. No ripples on the surface. Only something heavier below, shifting.
Vince walked the perimeter roads just after sunrise. The air still carried last night's chill, damp and sharp. Tire tracks cut through the gravel near Pine Road Woods. Not fresh enough to be urgent. Not old enough to ignore. He crouched, ran two fingers along the edge, then stood without writing anything down.
Some things were better remembered.
Caleb was already there, standing near a posted notice half nailed to a wooden pole. County inspection tags. Wetland boundary updates. His jacket was zipped halfway, clipboard tucked under his arm.
"You're early," Caleb said.
"Didn't sleep much."
"Town does that to people."
Caleb glanced toward the woods. Not wary. Assessing. The way someone looked at land they knew too well.
"Anything change overnight?" Vince asked.
Caleb shook his head. "Nothing official."
Official meant paperwork. Not movement.
They didn't linger. Caleb headed back toward the truck. Vince stayed long enough to let the silence return, then walked the opposite direction.
At the clinic, Claire's car was already parked. He hadn't planned on stopping, but plans had a way of forming after the fact in Greyford. Inside, the place smelled faintly of antiseptic and old paper. Claire stood at the counter, reviewing files, glasses perched low on her nose.
She noticed him without looking up.
"You're walking like you're counting steps," she said.
"Bad habit."
"Means you're thinking too much."
She closed the file, finally meeting his eyes. There was concern there. Not curiosity. Not expectation. Just something quiet and steady.
"Anything come in last night?" Vince asked.
"Couple of routine things. Nothing worth writing a report over."
Routine again. The word carried weight here.
She hesitated, then added, "Someone asked about old medical records. Pre-digital. Before my time."
"Who?"
She shook her head. "Didn't leave a name."
That was new.
"Did they say why?"
"Just said they were trying to confirm dates."
Dates. Always dates.
Vince nodded once. "Thanks."
She watched him longer than necessary as he turned to leave, like she wanted to say something else and chose not to. He felt it. Let it be.
By afternoon, the diner hummed with low conversation. Mrs. Hill sat near the window, bread basket untouched, fingers folded tight in her lap. She looked older today. Or maybe just tired.
"They're restless," she said when Vince sat across from her.
"Who?"
She tilted her head slightly. "People who thought things were done."
"Things like what?"
She smiled faintly. "You always ask questions like answers come easy."
Across the room, Harold leaned against the counter, listening more than talking. Marilyn Raines stood near the register, calm as ever, eyes steady, voice level as she spoke with the waitress. Vince noticed how she never raised her tone. Never hurried. Like panic was something she had already spent.
"Your brother ever work Pine Road?" Vince asked her later, quietly.
Marilyn didn't flinch. "He drove where the work was."
"Did he ever mention the school?"
A pause. Not long. Controlled.
"Tommy mentioned a lot of things," she said. "Most of them half finished."
That answer sat heavy.
As dusk settled, Vince returned to the rental house. The porch light was off this time. He checked anyway. Habit.
Inside, he opened the notebook and finally wrote a single line.
Not who is missing. Who wants things to stay missing.
Outside, a figure crossed the far end of the street. Too far to identify. Too deliberate to dismiss. Vince watched until the street emptied again.
Greyford was still quiet.
But the quiet felt thinner now.
And somewhere beneath it, something was moving again.