Chapter 4 #2
“Good. Had a talk with Riss Hollenbeck and Tally Steinholt’s old man.
Hopefully, that set them straight.” Wade nodded, but as he turned to leave, a blue sedan drove past, and he frowned.
“Folks need to slow down on Main Street. Thirty miles per hour is the posted limit. Safety first.” The words were identical to what he’d just said—same inflection, same cadence.
I froze, coffee pot still in hand. Dutch didn’t seem to notice anything amiss.
“See you at the town meeting tomorrow,” Wade called, completely normal again. The door closed behind him.
Had I imagined it? The repetition, the blank expression that had briefly crossed his face?
For the next hour, I moved through my tasks mechanically, hyperaware of every customer who entered. Most seemed normal. Ada Morely, owner of the bar and grill, complained about rising egg prices. Orville Tanner bought his usual tobacco and newspaper.
But there were... moments.
Blips.
Florence Pickering came in for stamps, her gray bob severe as always, back ramrod straight. She handed me exact change with her typical efficiency.
“Lovely weather we’re having. Just right for this time of year,” she said, her thin lips pressed into what passed for a smile.
Standard small talk. Nothing unusual.
But twenty minutes later, Riss Hollenbeck—who was as different from Florence as fire from ice—swaggered in for her weekly lottery tickets. Platinum buzzcut, heavy eyeliner, arms covered in tattoos. She slapped her money on the counter.
“Lovely weather we’re having. Just right for this time of year,” she said.
The words were identical. The phrasing, the cadence. From a woman who normally communicated in sarcasm and creative profanity.
I nearly dropped her change. “Yes. Nice weather.”
Riss stared at me a beat too long, then left without another word. No wisecracks about her chances of winning. No gossip about who’d been fighting at the bar last night.
Through the window, I saw her meet Florence on the sidewalk.
They walked in perfect unison, steps synchronized, and I realized they were both dressed similarly.
Florence Pickering, who wore nothing but wool skirts and conservative blouses, was in khakis.
And Riss, who favored black leather and combat boots, looked like she’d stepped out of a catalog for middle-aged office workers.
I hadn’t noticed at first because Riss’s shirt was navy, almost black in the light of the store. But out on the sidewalk, in the sunlight…
It was blue.
Like the robes I’d had to wear in the Hope’s Embrace compound.
My hands shook so badly I had to grip the counter to steady myself. There had to be a perfectly reasonable explanation. This wasn’t a cult.
“You sick?” Dutch appeared beside me, concern etched in the deep lines around his eyes.
“No. Just... tired. I didn’t sleep well.” I forced a smile. “I’m going to clean up the pet supplies aisle. It’s a mess.”
From my position in aisle three, I could see through the front window to the building across the street that housed both the post office and bank.
Gus Wagner, the post master, stood on the steps, perfectly still.
Not smoking his pipe, not grumbling at passersby, not guarding his precious bulletin board.
Just standing, arms at his sides, gazing at nothing.
He hadn’t moved an inch in fifteen minutes.
Maybe he was waiting for someone.
Maybe he was daydreaming.
Maybe—
The bell jingled again, and three teenagers entered: Casey Ruper, Tally Steinholt, and Jett Hollenbeck.
The town’s notorious troublemakers. Casey usually slouched through the store, pocketing candy when he thought no one was looking.
Tally typically knocked things over “accidentally” while Jett distracted Dutch with questions.
They were a well-oiled machine of teenage mischief.
But today, Casey and Tally walked with their backs straight, eyes forward. Both were wearing blue shirts and khaki pants. Jett trailed a step behind, hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket, staring at them like they’d lost their minds.
“Good morning, Mr. Henderson. Good morning, Ms. Phillips,” Casey and Tally said in unison. “We require supplies for school. Number two pencils and composition books.”
Jett stopped dead. “The hell are you two doing?”
Casey blinked, turned to him. “We require supplies for school.”
“Yeah, I heard you the first time.” Jett looked at me, then Dutch, his confusion obvious. “They’ve been like this all morning. Talking weird. Walking weird. Tally hasn’t looked at her phone once.”
Dutch’s bushy eyebrows shot up. He moved closer to the counter, studying Casey and Tally. “You feeling okay, Casey? Not smoking anything you shouldn’t be?”
Casey’s face remained blank. “We require supplies for school. Number two pencils and composition books.”
“See?” Jett gestured at his friends. “It’s freaking me out. They showed up at my house dressed like accountants. Since when does Casey tuck in his shirt?”
Dutch pulled packages of pencils and composition books from behind the counter, watching Casey and Tally carefully. They stood motionless, waiting. “On the house,” he said. “You kids in some kind of trouble?”
“Thank you for your assistance. Learning is important.” Both spoke simultaneously.
“Okay, seriously, what the fuck?” Jett grabbed Casey’s shoulder. “Are you pranking me? Because it’s not funny anymore.”
Casey didn’t respond, just took his supplies. Tally did the same. They turned and walked out in the same measured stride they’d entered with.
Jett didn’t follow. “They’re on something, right? Should I call someone?”
“When did they start acting like this?” I asked.
“This morning. Casey texted me to meet at his place, but when I got there...” He shook his head. “I don’t know. He was just off. And then Tally showed up the same way, and they wanted to come here for fucking school supplies. We were planning to skip and smoke weed today.”
Dutch and I exchanged a glance.
“Keep an eye on them,” Dutch said. “And if they get worse, you come find me. Understand?”
Jett started to follow his friends, but hesitated at the door. “Mom was weird this morning, too.”
Riss.
“I know,” I told him. “I saw her. Just… be careful, okay? If you feel like you’re in danger, come right back here, and we’ll figure it out.”
Jett nodded and, still frowning, trailed his friends.
Dutch watched them go, then locked the door and flipped the “Back in 10 Minutes” sign.
“What the hell is going on in this town?” His eyes were sharp, suspicious. “Because I just saw Casey Ruper—who tried to steal my truck last month—talking like he’s in some kind of trance. And they’re not the only ones. Half the customers today have been off.”
I swallowed hard. “I don’t know. But Beth Morris was the same way this morning. Perfect clothes, perfect hair. Speaking like...”
“A damn robot,” Dutch finished, peering out the window at Gus, still standing motionless across the street. “Something’s happening. Started yesterday, I think. Subtle at first.”
The stranger at the motel.
This couldn’t be a coincidence.
“I need to check something,” I said, decision made. “Can you cover for me during lunch? There’s someone I need to talk to.”
The Stop Over Motel sat at the edge of town, at the intersection with the state highway, where the only stoplight blinked yellow most of the time.
Its faded red sign was missing three letters so that it read “STO VER MO EL.” I’d been inside exactly once, six months ago, when Trent had checked us in for a single night before finding the rental house.
Back then, Carol Ruper had talked my ear off while cooing over Sophia, offering unsolicited advice about everything from local schools to the best laundry detergent for well water.
Now, I stood across the street, watching the office through the bare branches of a half-dead elm tree. I had to confirm that the mysterious “John Smith” was nobody to fear. That six months in hiding had simply made me paranoid.
But what if it isn’t paranoia? What if he’s found us?
I’d spent two years with Langston, learning his patterns, his methods.
He would send someone ahead to scout—someone trained, careful, armed.
Someone who would ask about local law enforcement and use an obviously fake name.
Who would watch and wait before Langston himself arrived to reclaim what he considered his property: me and Sophia.
Or maybe it wasn’t Langston at all. Maybe it was something to do with whatever was happening to the townspeople.
Either way, I needed answers.
I crossed the street, pulse hammering in my throat.
The gravel parking lot crunched under my boots too loudly, announcing my approach to anyone listening.
The office door was propped open with a brick, its little bell tinkling in the breeze.
Carol sat behind the counter, staring at her ancient computer screen.
“Hi, Carol,” I said, forcing a smile. “How are you today?”
She turned to face me, and my heart sank. The woman who usually erupted in a fountain of words at the slightest provocation now stared blankly, her normally expressive face completely still.
“Hello, Evie. I am well. How may I assist you today?” Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun, and she wore—of course—a blue top with khaki pants.
My mouth was suddenly so dry, it took several tries to speak. “I-I was wondering about that guest you mentioned yesterday. What room is he in? I think he might be someone I used to know.”
Carol didn’t blink. Didn’t tilt her head curiously or lean forward for gossip. “Mr. John Smith is in room seven. He was gone all night and came back at 7:04 AM.”
So specific. So precise. So unlike Carol, who typically rounded times to the nearest hour and embellished every detail.
“Oh.” I shifted position, trying to see past her to the registration book. “Did he say where he was last night?”
“Mr. Smith did not disclose his nightly activities, and I did not ask.”
My skin crawled. Whatever was happening to Beth, to the teens, to Gus and Riss and Florence—it had happened to Carol, too.
“Well, thank you for your help.” I backed toward the door. “I should get back to work.”
“Punctuality is important,” Carol agreed, turning back to her computer with the same blank expression.
Instead of leaving, I circled behind the office, keeping to the shadows between buildings. My heart thundered against my ribs as I crept along the backside of the motel. I reached room seven from the rear and peeked in the windows. The blackout curtains were pulled tight across the glass.
Dammit.
I sucked in a fortifying breath and edged around the corner of the building.
Fear clawed up my throat, but beneath it rose anger.
I was tired of running, tired of looking over my shoulder, tired of wondering when Langston would find us.
If this was his scout, his advance man, I wanted to see him face to face. Know what we were dealing with.
And if it was something to do with the town's strange behavior? Well, I needed answers before I picked up Sophia from school.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I marched directly to the door of room seven and knocked three times.
Silence.
I counted my heartbeats. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty.
Movement inside. A floorboard creaked. But no one answered.
My hand was halfway up to knock again when I heard the chain slide free. Cold sweat prickled at my temples. The lock clicked.
The door swung inward.
A hand clamped over my mouth before I could scream. Another fist grabbed my coat and yanked me forward so hard my shoulder wrenched. My boot scraped the doorframe as I clawed at the hand on my face, but he was already dragging me backward into the dark room.