Greyford woke the way it always did, and that was what unsettled Vince.
The diner lights came on at the same time they always did. Mrs. Hill unlocked the bakery and swept her front step, paused, then swept again. A pickup idled at the curb longer than necessary before pulling away. Nothing moved with urgency, and nothing moved out of place either.
Vince stood across the street from the sheriff's office and watched the flag above the door twitch once in the wind before settling.He stayed there longer than he needed to, as if waiting for something to correct itself, and it didn't.
Inside, Robert Mercer sat at his desk with his hands folded loosely in front of him. The coffee near his elbow had gone untouched. Paperwork lay stacked neatly, too neatly, corners aligned in a way that suggested it had been adjusted more than once.
"You're early," Robert said.
"So are you."
Robert nodded, as if that resolved the matter. "What can I do for you."
Vince didn't sit. He rested his hand on the back of the chair opposite the desk. The leather was cold.
"The culvert off County Road Six," he said. "The one past the tree line."
Robert's eyes lifted. Just briefly.
"That thing's half collapsed," Robert said. "County's been meaning to close it for years."
"Someone's been using it."
Robert leaned back slowly. The chair creaked, then steadied. He folded his hands over his stomach, posture settling into something familiar.
"People cut through there," he said. "Hunters. Teenagers."
Vince waited.
Robert glanced toward the window, then back to Vince. "You didn't come here to talk about teenagers."
"No."
Silence settled between them. Not strained. Not uncomfortable. It had weight, the kind that came from repetition.
"You start asking questions like that," Robert said, "you don't always get the answers you expect."
Vince didn't move. "I'm not looking for answers."
Robert's mouth tightened slightly. "That's what worries me."
Vince nodded. He let go of the chair and turned toward the door.
"Stone," Robert said.
Vince paused.
"Greyford doesn't do well with things left unfinished," Robert added.
Vince didn't respond. He stepped outside.
The flag hadn't moved.
The clinic was quiet. Too quiet for that hour.
Claire stood behind the counter reviewing a chart, though Vince noticed she hadn't turned the page in a while. She didn't look up when he entered.
"You're late," she said.
"I stopped."
"That explains it."
She slid a paper cup of coffee across the counter without asking. Vince took it and leaned against the wall, where he usually stood.
"You look tired," Claire said.
"I am."
She finally looked at him. "That's not the same thing."
He didn't answer.
Outside, footsteps passed the frosted glass. Steady. Measured. Vince watched the shadow move across the window and slow near the corner before continuing on.
Claire followed his gaze. "She's changed her route."
"When."
"A few days ago." Claire hesitated, then added, "She doubles back sometimes."
Vince sipped the coffee. "Running from something."
Claire shook her head. "People usually run toward something first."
The footsteps faded. and the quiet returned thicker than before.
"Have you noticed," Claire said after a moment, "how quickly the town reacts when it thinks no one's watching."
"Yes."
"And how slowly it admits to it."
"Yes."
She set the chart down. "That usually means it already decided what it's willing to lose," she said, and left the rest there.
Vince watched her for a moment. "And what it isn't."
Claire didn't answer. She turned back to the chart and flipped the page this time, though Vince noticed her hand lingered on the paper longer than necessary.
He finished the coffee and left the cup on the counter.
Vince didn't go far.
He walked the edge of town instead, letting the streets thin out until the buildings gave way to open space. The old baseball field came into view, grass grown uneven where no one played anymore, chalk lines long erased.
Evan Hale stood near the dugout, hands folded neatly in front of him. He wasn't watching the field. He wasn't watching Vince.
"You always pick places people agreed not to use," Vince said.
Evan smiled faintly. "They're quieter."
"They remember more."
Evan considered that. "Sometimes."
Vince stopped a few feet away. "You've been walking."
"So have you."
The town was visible beyond the trees. Lights flickered on one by one, unremarkable, synchronized.
"Things don't stay buried here," Vince said.
Evan's smile barely shifted. "They stay arranged."
"Until they don't."
Evan's gaze drifted toward the town. "That's usually when people get nervous."
Vince studied him. "About what."
Evan looked back at him, expression unchanged. "About whether the arrangement was ever theirs."
They stood there longer than necessary. The wind moved through the grass. Somewhere in the distance, footsteps broke rhythm, slowed, then resumed.
Vince turned away first.
Behind him, Evan remained where he was.
And in town, the lights stayed on longer than anyone mentioned.