The clinic lights were still on when Vince passed by, though the street around it had already gone quiet. Greyford folded into evenings early. Not by the clock, but by habit. People retreated indoors as if the air itself reminded them to.
He slowed near the curb, watching the windows. Shapes moved inside, indistinct. Claire's silhouette crossed one of the rooms, then disappeared. He didn't stop. He didn't wave. He told himself it was nothing more than timing.
Still, he noticed.
The road toward the storage yards was empty. A line of trucks sat parked where they always did, metal hulks resting nose to tail. Tommy Raines' truck was there too. Dustier than the others, but not abandoned. Vince had checked twice before, and again now. The tires hadn't shifted. The cab hadn't been opened. It was like the truck was waiting for someone who had simply stepped away for too long.
People talked about Tommy like that too.
Not gone. Just… elsewhere.
At the edge of the lot, Vince stopped. There were marks near the gravel, faint but deliberate. Not fresh enough to be urgent. Not old enough to ignore. He crouched, touched the ground, and then stood again without taking notes. He'd learned Greyford noticed notebooks more than questions.
A car passed on the main road. Slowed. Didn't stop.
Vince turned his head just enough to see it disappear past the trees.
At the diner, the usual low murmur filled the room. Mrs. Hill sat near the counter, hands wrapped around a cup she wasn't drinking from. She nodded when Vince entered.
"Quiet night," she said.
"They all are," Vince replied.
She smiled at that, but it didn't linger. "Quiet's a habit. Hard to break once it settles in."
Across the room, two men spoke in low voices. Vince caught fragments. A name almost said. A sentence cut off too soon.
"…used to come around after dark…"
"…not since…"
The rest was swallowed by clinking plates.
He didn't interrupt. He ordered coffee. Let the room forget him a little.
Someone mentioned the school. Someone else mentioned county inspections. Caleb's name surfaced briefly, attached to a complaint about drainage near the east road. Ordinary things. Useful things. Vince stored them away.
Marilyn Raines passed by the window outside, walking with purpose but no hurry. She didn't look in. She didn't need to. Vince noticed the way people made space for her without acknowledging it. A shared understanding. A line no one crossed.
When he stepped back out, the air had cooled. The clinic lights were off now. The street felt different for it. Less watched. More exposed.
He walked instead of driving.
Near the edge of town, he paused. The trees there grew close together, branches knitting overhead. Somewhere deeper in, a sound carried. Not footsteps. Not an animal. Something softer. Like movement meant not to be heard.
Vince waited.
Nothing followed.
When he turned back, he caught a reflection in the dark glass of a storefront. A shape behind him. Gone when he turned fully.
He didn't chase it. He didn't call out.
Back at the rental, he opened the door and stood still for a moment, listening. The house was empty. It had stayed that way. But the silence felt arranged, as if things had been set back into place carefully.
He sat at the table, notebook closed.
Tommy Raines had known something. Not enough to run. Enough to stop showing up. That mattered.
Daniel's name hovered in his thoughts. Not the full shape of it. Just the first name. The rest of it remained deliberately absent, like a door left shut even when no one stood behind it.
Vince leaned back, stared at the ceiling.
In Greyford, nothing disappeared all at once. It thinned first. Spread out. Became part of the background until people forgot where it had started.
That was the trick.
And somewhere in that slow thinning, someone had stepped back into the edges of town without announcing themselves.
Not a return.
A continuation.