"Lacey, we discussed this." The woman's smile stays polite but firm. "Ms. Carter probably has work to finish."
I don't shrink into the suggestion. Don't gather my things or offer to relocate somewhere less visible. Instead, I settle back in my seat, claiming the space I occupy.
"Actually, I'm happy to answer questions. The story belongs to everyone now, not just me."
The mother's discomfort ripples visibly. She expected gracious retreat, the kind of social choreography that allowsdifficult topics to dissolve into politeness. My refusal to cooperate disrupts her script.
"I'm sure you understand why some parents might prefer…"
"I understand completely. But I won't pretend the truth is more dangerous than the silence was." I meet her eyes directly. "Lacey asks intelligent questions. She deserves honest answers."
The words land with weight I didn't anticipate. Around us, conversations pause. Coffee cups hover mid-sip. The audience area around me seems to recalibrate to accommodate a confrontation that should have been avoided.
Before, this attention would have sent me scrambling for the exit. Now I register the discomfort without absorbing it. Their awkwardness doesn't require my retreat.
"Come on, Lacey." The mother's voice tightens. "We're leaving."
Lacey shoots me a look of frustrated solidarity before following her mother toward the door. Those seated around me exhale, and conversations resuming at carefully modulated volumes.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Text from an unknown number:Saw your piece in the Herald. Some stories should stay buried.
I screenshot the message without hesitation, add it to the growing file of similar communications. Three weeks of threats, warnings, suggestions that I reconsider my commitment to transparency. Each one gets documented, reported, filed away as evidence of exactly why silence was never safety.
Caleb enters, scanning the room with the automatic assessment that's become second nature. His gaze finds me, holds. No subtle nod this time, no careful distance.
He approaches me directly.
"Mind if I sit?" He gestures to the open seat next to me.
"Only if you're prepared for people to notice."
"Let them notice." He settles in with deliberate visibility. "Time I stopped pretending that protecting you meant hiding you."
The declaration carries, rippling through the space like dropped stones. Conversations don't pause this time—they stop entirely.
Caleb reaches over and covers my hand with his. The gesture is simple, unmistakable, public.
"There's something you should know." His voice stays level, but I catch the tension underneath. "Ranger station picked up movement near the old Henderson property. Could be nothing."
I don't flinch. Don't immediately start calculating exit strategies or worst-case scenarios. Instead, I squeeze his hand, grounding us both.
"Could be something, though."
"Could be." He doesn't minimize the possibility or rush to reassure me. "We're monitoring it."
The threat settles between us, real but manageable. Not the crushing weight of the unknown, but information we can work with. I realize this is what stability actually looks like—not the absence of danger, but the ability to face it without disappearing.
"Well," I say. "Good thing I'm not planning to go anywhere."
34
CALEB
The impulse hits me like a physical force when Ellie closes her laptop and stands. Every instinct I've honed over decades screams at me to ask where she's going, to suggest I accompany her, to position myself between her and whatever waits outside this coffee shop.
I grip my coffee cup instead of her arm.
"I need to follow up on something," she says, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "Won't be long."