The word hangs between us like a polite threat wrapped in grandmotherly concern.
Margaret reaches over and pats my hand, the gesture gentle and practiced.
“You seem like a nice girl,” she says. “Smart. Capable. The kind who lands on her feet.”
“I like to think so.”
“Then you’ll know when to stop asking questions that don’t have answers.”
Her grip tightens for half a second before she lets go.
“Moonhaven takes care of its own,” she adds softly. “The trick is deciding who counts.”
The silence hangsheavily between us, filled with the weight of everything Caleb Hart isn’t saying.
I've seen this choreography before—the careful stepping around truth, the collective decision to look away. It's the same dance every newsroom knows, every community perfects when protecting itself becomes more important than protecting individuals.
"Right." I shift my weight, feeling the familiar settling of pieces into place. "This is where you tell me I'm imagining things. Where you suggest I might be more comfortable somewhere else. Somewhere safer."
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, but he doesn't deny it.
"And this is where I'm supposed to nod and agree that maybe I've gotten in over my head. That maybe I should stick to stories that don't make people uncomfortable."
The pattern is so predictable it's almost comforting. At least I know the steps.
"Because that's how this works, isn't it? Everyone agrees not to ask certain questions. Everyone agrees that some stones are better left unturned. And if someone from outside shows up asking the wrong things, well—they just need to be managed until they lose interest."
I click off my flashlight, plunging us into the dim wash of moonlight filtering through the canopy. The darkness feels less threatening than the careful concern in his eyes.
"The thing is, Sheriff, I've built a career on being the person who doesn't lose interest. Who doesn't take the hint."
Even as I say it, something tugs at the edge of my resolve—the memory of how he moved when that thing was tracking me, the way his presence had felt like shelter rather than coincidence. The irritating truth that despite everything, some part of me wants to trust the steadiness in his voice, the careful way he holds himself like he's protecting something fragile.
I push the thought away with practiced efficiency. Attraction is just another variable to control, another potential weakness to guard against. I've learned that lesson thoroughly enough.
"So thank you for the rescue. And thank you for confirming that I'm asking the right questions."
I turn toward the path, then pause without looking back.
"But don't mistake me for someone who needs protecting. I've been taking care of myself longer than you've been sheriff."
The words taste sharper than I intended, but they create the distance I need. Whatever this is—whatever he knows, whatever he's hiding—I'll figure it out without accepting his managed version of safety.
Some stones are worth turning over, even when everyone else has agreed to walk around them.
My back to him, my flashlight cuts through the darkness as I navigate back toward the street and civilization. The adrenaline from our confrontation keeps my legs steady, but I can feel his presence behind me—not following, exactly, but watching. Always watching.
To the point where he was here blocking the trailhead just at the moment you were going to take another stroll through the woods.
Margaret’s voice echoes in my head as I start my walk back to the inn.
Moonhaven takes care of its own.
I’d assumed she meant people looking out for each other. Now I’m not so sure.
Care can mean protection.
Or it can mean supervision.