But the conflict is still there, unresolved, waiting beneath the surface of our skin. I can see it in the tension of his jaw, the way his fingers linger for a second too long on his belt buckle before he steps away. He won’t meet my eyes, and I know—this isn’t over. Not really.
I don't knockwhen I reach Caleb’s office. The front door opens to reveal a space that feels more lived-in than professional.
"We need to talk."
He looks up from paperwork, looking like he’s been expecting this moment.
"Office hours ended three hours ago, Miss Carter."
"Good thing this isn't official business."
I drop the folder on his desk, pages scattering across whatever he was reading. Crime scene photos peek out from underneath my research, and my stomach lurches at the glimpse of violence I wasn't prepared to see.
"What is this?"
"Everything I've found about the disappearances. And a few things I think you already know."
20
CALEB
The folder hits my desk harder than it needs to. Papers slide across the surface, some spilling over the edge.
Crime scene photos flash into view before I can stop myself from seeing them. Blood. Woods. Angles that tell stories I wish didn’t exist.
I still my hands. Look up at her.
“Ellie, it’s late,” I say, keeping my voice even. “You should…”
“No.” The word cuts through the space between us. "No more suggestions about what I should do. No more careful redirections or professional concern. I want the truth."
I set the pen down with deliberate precision. "What truth?"
"Don't." She steps closer to my desk, her hands flat on the scarred wood. "Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. You've been watching me since I arrived. Not investigating—watching. People clam up when I mention your name. Thomas Reed looked terrified when he tried to warn me about something he couldn't name."
I can feel my jaw tighten almost imperceptibly, and I wonder if she notices.
"And tonight, when I walked past the diner, Mrs. Henderson actually crossed the street to avoid me. So either I've developed some spectacular body odor in the past week, or there's something you're all protecting me from. Or protecting from me."
"Ellie…"
"Why were you really in those woods? And don't give me that patrol route bullshit. You knew exactly where I was going before I got there."
Silence.
Of course.
“Do you have any idea how insulting it is,” she continues, “to be treated like I’m fragile instead of informed?”
“Ellie…”
“No. I don’t need a babysitter. I need context.”
I exhale sharply, scrubbing a hand over my face. “You think I don’t know that?”
“Then stop acting like ignorance is protection.”
Something shifts. I try to keep it in place, but the careful mask slips, and for a moment I can tell she sees what’s beneath. Fear. Longing. Guilt.