“Trying not to trip over new ones,” I reply, leaning back against the worn wood of my desk, letting the solid weight anchor me. “Ellie’s digging close.”
Papers shuffle in Rowan’s hands like the rustle of minds turning. “You know the town’s patience for truth-tellers."
“I do." The words taste bitter as I pour them out. "Which worries me.”
“Worrying isn’t your style.” He leans in the doorway, a silhouette cutting across the soft light. “You step between a bullet and what you protect.”
“Only when the bullet decides to introduce itself.”
“And you think it will?”
The thought hits my gut, fast and hot: watchful eyes still roam the shadows here. "I know it can. Already did."
“News to us, Caleb.”
“Mmm.” I rub a thumb against my brow, smoothing absent creases. “But news hits hard when delivered wrong.”
Now, Rowan's quiet. Silence, frequently brimming with half-answers, tells untold stories. His face holds that half-light of doubt and understanding. “So maybe it's time to act.”
“Maybe it is.” My voice carries conviction I hardly feel, mingled with fear strung taut as wire.
Ellie’s navigation charts a course perilously close to uncovered truths. But more than that, it walks a line not so much between curiosity and exposure—between knowing and targeted silence.
Time dislodges its relentless embrace. Choices made don’t undo wrongs, but they stem losses before becoming casualties. I’m supposed to be distance, not involvement—but sometimes standing back equates to letting danger loose.
Rowan nods, words weaving an unspoken pact of action. “Moonhaven’s whisper hides screams.”
The time to rewrite the silence is overdue.
Steppingout from the diner where I've just questioned a reluctant local, a familiar scent winds my senses tighter than a spring.
Ellie.
She's near, her presence as distinct as a wolf's silhouette against the moon.
I stroll down Main Street, blending smooth motions with the town's lax afternoon rhythm, until sharp voices slice through my concentration. Ellie—and a second voice I dread.
Curiosity lifts my gaze toward the bookstore’s awning. From the shadows, she emerges across from Grady Sinclair. He's trouble wrapped in politeness, his ties to old scars in this town deeper than any root.
Ellie's voice is subtle but piqued with tenacity, "I heard stories about Jenkins. Forgotten tales. What's your take, Mr. Sinclair?"
Sinclair adjusts his impeccably knotted scarf, the picture of feigned innocence. "Darling, ancient stories are best left buried. They bite worse than snakes."
Ellie's skepticism shines in her eyes. "I’ve got thick skin. What if I don't mind a few bites?"
I close in, my pulse quickening beneath my skin. Talking to Sinclair is akin to poking a bear that's slept too long. Though the exchange appears harmless, every word slices sharper than steel wire.
"Ah!" Sinclair’s eyes flick to mine, calculating fast as ever. "Sheriff Hart, a pleasure in daylight!"
His sugary hospitality grates on my resolve. "Ellie," I nod in greeting. "I believe we have some unfinished business."
Ellie pauses, gauging my calm demeanor that belies the tremors beneath. "I didn’t realize we were on appointment terms."
"Our talk will keep, darling. History doesn't hurry," Sinclair quips, tipping an imaginary hat before retreating, like a viper curling into its skin.
Alone with Ellie, the void fills with unspoken truths crackling between us. Her gaze is a scorching fuse against my composed façade. "You know what that was about?"
A hundred answers, none safe, tumble through my mind. "Grady's history is complicated. It can tangle you in knots you’ll get stuck in."