The question carries weight beyond caffeine preferences. Three weeks since the truth broke open, and every interaction carries subtext. People want reassurance that normal still exists, that their sheriff still knows how to keep them safe.
"Situation's stable." I take the coffee, meet his eyes directly. "Different than before, but stable."
"Good. Good." She wipes the counter unnecessarily. "Town's been talking, you know. About changes. About what comes next."
Of course they have. Moonhaven operates on conversation and observation, and recent events gave them enough materialfor years of both. What they're really asking—what everyone's been asking carefully is whether their leadership can handle exposure. Whether transparency makes us stronger or just makes us targets.
"Changes are part of it," I tell her. "Growth usually requires some discomfort."
The words feel strange in my mouth. Earlier in my life, I would have offered bland reassurance, promised that nothing fundamental would shift. Now I'm admitting that discomfort is inevitable, that we're all going to have to learn new ways of being in the world.
Mara appears at my elbow, her timing impeccable as always. "Council meeting moved to four. Rowan wants to discuss the Henderson property situation before the full group convenes."
Her tone stays neutral, professional, but I catch the undercurrent. The Henderson property sits at the forest edge—prime territory for development now that certain restrictions have been... clarified. The kind of decision that will test every new principle we've committed to.
"Transparency from the start?"
"Full disclosure to all stakeholders. Including non-pack residents." She pauses. "It's going to be complicated."
Complicated. The understatement of the decade. Every decision now requires explaining not just what we're doing, but why, and to whom. The old efficiency of pack hierarchy, where my word settled matters definitively, has given way to something messier. Slower. More accountable.
"Good." The word surprises me with its certainty. "Complicated means we're doing it right."
Mara's eyebrows lift slightly. "Even when it means arguing in public? Defending choices that used to be private?"
The question hangs between us, laden with implications. She's asking whether I understand the cost of the path I'vechosen. Whether I'm prepared for authority that must justify itself, leadership that operates in the open rather than behind closed doors.
Ellie glances up from her laptop. Our eyes meet again, and this time I don't look away. The connection holds, visible to anyone paying attention.
Which, in Moonhaven, means everyone.
33
ELLIE
Three weeks of the same Tuesday morning diner routine, and suddenly I'm not just "the journalist" anymore. I'm "Ellie who takes her coffee like milk with a coffee problem."
I carry a to-go cup over to the hardware store to pick up a few home improvement supplies.
"Fixing up that rental I see." Marcus says, ringing up picture hanging strips and a level that's probably more optimistic than my actual skills warrant.
"Attempting to fix up the rental. There's a meaningful distinction." I hand over cash, noting how the transaction feels different when someone expects to see you again. "The bathroom mirror's been hanging at a fifteen-degree angle since I moved in. It's like getting ready in a funhouse."
"Could ask Tom Brennan to take a look. He's handy with that sort of thing, and his wife's been wanting to meet you properly anyway."
The offer comes without calculation, just neighborly practicality.
The rental Marcus is referring to is not a big move. It’s actually right next door to the inn—a roomy old house that needs some TLC, but it’s got great bones. It’s also right in the heart of town and close enough to the sheriff’s office for me to see Caleb doing paperwork from my front window.
"I might take you up on that." The words feel strange—accepting help without deflection or immediate reciprocal offers. "Though I should probably master basic wall mounting before I graduate to actual handyman consultations."
Marcus grins. "Fair enough. But when you get tired of crooked mirrors and decide you want someone who knows which end of the drill to hold, Tom's your guy."
I laugh and notice the familiar weight of visibility settling differently now. People still look—small towns operate on observation, after all—but the attention feels less like scrutiny and more like acknowledgment.
These interactions require more presence than anonymity ever did. When someone remembers your name, you can't just nod politely and disappear into the crowd.
The real estate office sits two blocks down, its window display featuring houses for sale that look like they belong in magazines rather than my price range. But looking doesn't cost anything, and lately I've been looking a lot.