Then she looks down, tracing the rim of her cup.“I do it for the truth and what’s right.And it doesn’t hurt that I like the digging.The puzzle.”
“What?”My brow knits.
“When you asked earlier about what I did to get this assignment?”She stops recording.
I almost want to release a sigh of relief, but I’m too caught up in wanting to know what she’ll say next.
“Oh, yeah.Go on.”
“That’s what I was doing.My job.This isn’t penance—coming here—more like giving me a time out.It’s important to me to uncover the truth and make sure that those responsible pay for their actions.”
My gut clenches at how close her words hit.Sweat beads at the back of my neck, but I’m not stopping this conversation.I’m riveted and want more.The better I understand what makes Grace tick, the better I can strategize how best to counterstrike.
Too caught up to read my uneasiness, almost as if she’s reliving something, she continues, “The story I was working on before coming here—it’s everything to me, I’ve spent years on it, but I got too close.I poked the bear, and now the paper needs to keep me out of sight while they smooth things over…”
She swallows slowly as if something is caught in her throat.“And I get it.Shit happens.Sometimes, I wonder why I bother.”
Because you care,I almost say, but that feels too revealing, too close to the truth I don’t let anyone touch.This is about her.Not me.
Instead, I duck to catch her gaze.“Maybe because, like you said, you still think the truth matters.”
She looks up abruptly, and for a second, the mask slips, a fierce, stubborn flare in her eyes reminding me of every good driver I’ve ever known.
Then it’s gone.
A couple of locals wander by our table and some more students, more congratulating and more wanting to talk about our win and the bus.For the most part, Grace stays silent, observes, expression thoughtful, some emotion I can’t name sliding across her face.
When things settle again, and it’s only her and me, she stares intently at me.“You’re good with them.”
“They’re good kids.”I glance over at a group settling into a booth.
“That’s not what I mean.”
I meet her gaze.“Yeah.It is.”
There’s a stretch where something thick and unspoken engulfs our silence.The scent of cinnamon and fresh coffee blurs with her perfume—clean, subtle, nothing like the spikey edges she tries to project.
“No.It’s more than that, more than just the kids… the town loves you.You’re a hero, but I get the impression it has nothing to do with your racing.”
Her finger traces a figure eight on the tabletop, then she glances up, nibbling on her bottom lip.
“Go on.”I shift uncomfortably, somewhat warmed by her observation, even though I know otherwise.
“You’re so modest.”Now, she’s sarcastic as she laughs.“Like I didn’t already say enough, your ego can do without the praise.”
Smiling, I press a hand into my chest.“Praise?I’m not seeking anything.You started this…”
“Fair.”She nods.“What I’m trying to say is, you’re admired and truly liked for who you are, and something tells me it’s always been this way.You’re a good person, Maddox Hartley.”
My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth—I couldn’t speak even if I had something to say.
She’s studying me again, recalculating every assumption she came in with, as if this conclusion she’s come to shocks her.
What the hell did she think of me before coming to Winslow Grove?
She taps the red record button.“Okay, just so I have it straight, take me through the timeline, from when you were discovered until now.”
I furrow my brow.“Can’t you cross-check that with your research?”