“Then let’s make them straightforward. I’ve seen mentions, names scratched from records like ink mistakes.”
I hold his gaze, one journalist to one sheriff.
I decide not to blink first.
If he’s trying to intimidate me, it’s not working. It’s just making me more determined.
“Was there oversight, Sheriff? Or does Moonhaven intentionally bury its history?” The question tastes like challenge, leaving no room for gentle retort.
Caleb’s eyes betray nothing, controlled depths lacking warmth yet avoiding hostility.
He answers like someone who’s very good at answering without actually saying anything. That might work on tourists. It doesn’t work on me.
“You misunderstand intentions, Ms. Carter. We manage what history fails to resolve. It’s not buried—it’s awaiting interpretation.”
His words ring as terse and distant, carrying absolutely no investment in me or this case.
“I’m gathering more interpretations,” I parry, holding tightly to the focus sketched in my notes, “These stories need more than guarding; they need unlocking.”
Again, the pause encircles us, toes the line between dismissal and engagement.
“Why now?” His voice touches curiosity, thinning margins between mystery and ordinary procedure. “Why surface these decisions when peace is prominent?”
I resist the urge to retreat, committed to each word’s weighted worth. “I believe peace can't hold under falsities. Moonhaven deserves truth unearthed, not fears concealed.”
As a journalist, each question extracts evidence—not merely fact or fiction—but the unknown, treasured by truths I determine to excavate.
He regards me, expression flickering, restrained beneath layers unreadable to outsiders.
“Ms. Carter, your agenda conflicts with how we maintain the town’s stability.”
My wariness bends beneath repetition yet holds.
“These records sing echoes no one silenced yet. How can those reverbations not keep you up at night, Sheriff?”
Pressure builds, chipping at polished stoicism. It’s time to step away—I know answers don’t always shout at demands. Yet my resolve quickens.
Frustration surges along the seams of my composure, wanting desperately to force a truth out into the open.
He finally responds, pragmatically deflecting inquiries with what I assume is rote professionalism—answers constructed to protect, not inform. Timelines reshape fluidly under his words, procedures cloak intent with sterile precision. There’s integrity in his speech, no lies tangling with truth. But generosity seems missing; context withheld, substituted by calculated distraction.
“Sheriff, these records,” I press, “they point to gaps. Twenty years is a long time for oversight.”
“Moonhaven tracks closures thoroughly,” Caleb replies. His tone's steady, masking unease, “Some details shift within different departments’ processes over time.”
Different departments? What departments? He has one deputy!
His infuriating lack of specifics is brushed with politeness, neither confirming nor denying the holes I've uncovered. It tastes of containment—a restraint intensified by the implication that I’m peripheral in this scheme.
“But the Jenkins file?” I prod, testing if detail could breach his guard. “I need to know who finalised them. Locating this paper trail is critical.”
Caleb nods, deliberate, folding deep under controlled boundaries. “I recommend conferring with local historians; past narratives occasionally wander without clear records.”
His suggestion appears earnest; yet, within the words lurks unmissed diligence.
“That’s less accurate than anticipated,” I retort, covering irritation beneath the pretense of rhetorical tension.
Silence stretches thin, bringing with it what feels like hostility cloaked in courtesy. He won't offer more. Whether his withholding arises from predation or protection remains elusive.