I catchmy reflection in the station door and barely recognize the man staring back.
Ellie thinks I was dismissing her. That I was managing her. Worse — that I found her lacking in some way.
The truth is simpler and far more dangerous.
I know exactly how much ground she’s covering, how close she’s getting, and how badly I’ve misjudged how little distance can protect someone like her.
Whatever happens next, I’ve already failed once.
And I don’t get to fail again.
15
ELLIE
The diner's morning rush provides perfect cover—enough ambient noise to mask a conversation, but not so much that I have to strain to hear. I slide into the corner booth where Margaret Finch has been holding court for the past twenty minutes, regaling anyone within earshot about her grandson's soccer achievements.
Margaret Finch, born and bred in Moonhaven, is in her late 70s. She worked for decades as a school secretary at Moonhaven Elementary and later the middle school — not a teacher, not an authority figure, but someone whosaw everything: family histories, absences, unexplained transfers, children who stopped showing up mid-year.
Her husband, Harold Finch, was a volunteer firefighter and later a part-time EMT. He responded to at least one of the “accidents” in the forest years ago — officially logged, unofficially never discussed at home. Harold died ten years earlier of a stroke, taking whatever he knew with him.
But that doesn’t mean he didn’t share it with Margaret.
"Mind if I join you? The counter's packed." I gesture vaguely toward the front, where exactly three people sit with plenty of space between them.
"Course, honey. Always room for one more." Margaret's face lights up with the kind of genuine warmth that makes me feel guilty for what I'm about to do. "You settling in okay? Town treating you right?"
"Everyone's been wonderful. Almost suspiciously wonderful, actually." I laugh, testing the waters with self-deprecating humor. "Back in New York, strangers cross the street to avoid eye contact. Here, people wave at me from their porches."
"Well, we're not complicated folk. See someone new, we say hello. See someone in need, we help. That's just how it's always been."
The waitress refills Margaret's coffee without being asked—the kind of practiced intimacy that comes from decades of routine. I order tea and a muffin I don't want, buying myself time.
"It's refreshing, honestly. Though I have to admit, I'm a bit of a history buff. Love hearing about how places got to be the way they are." I tear open a sugar packet, keeping my movements casual. "Must be nice living somewhere with such deep roots."
"Oh, families here go back generations. My Harold's people were some of the first to settle this area. Course, not everyone who came through decided to stay."
“I’ve watched this town grow up,” Margaret continues, not quite looking at me now. “Worked at the school for forty-two years. You learn a lot that way. Who belongs where. Who doesn’t.”
“That sounds… educational,” I say lightly.
She smiles. “It was. Especially when kids stopped coming back after summer. Transfers that never quite made sense. Families that moved without forwarding addresses.”
Her spoon taps once against the mug. “Most folks don’t notice patterns unless they’re paid to.”
The way she sayspaidmakes my stomach tighten.
Something else in her tone shifts too—not quite warning, but not quite neutral either.
"Really? I'd think a place this beautiful would be hard to leave."
"Beautiful, yes. But not always easy." Margaret stirs her coffee with deliberate precision. "Some folks, they come looking for something specific. Adventure, maybe. Or trouble. And when they don't find what they're after..."
She lets the sentence drift, but her eyes stay on my face, measuring my reaction.
"They move on?"
"Most do. The smart ones, anyway." Her smile returns, but it feels different now—still warm, but bounded. "Course, some folks just aren't cut out for small-town life. All that quiet can make a person... restless."