Chapter 4 - Claire
I don't believe him.
I want to. God, I want to believe that this man, this sheriff with his kind blue eyes and his gentle way with my son, is exactly what he appears to be. Someone who helps because he can. Someone who expects nothing in return.
But five years with Derek taught me better than that.
Everyone wants something. Everyone has an angle. The question is just what they're hiding, and how long it takes before they show their true face.
Sarah hands Jackson his muffin and chocolate milk with a grandmother's smile, and I watch my son's face light up like Christmas morning.
It's such a small thing: a muffin, some milk, but we've been living on gas station sandwiches and whatever I could afford from convenience stores for days.
This is the first semblance of real food he's had since we left.
"What do you say, Jackson?" I prompt.
"Thank you!" He beams at Sarah, then holds up Rex. "Rex says thank you too!"
Sarah laughs, that warm sound that older women make when they're genuinely delighted by a child. "You're very welcome, sweetheart. And Rex too, of course."
I pay for our order, counting out the bills. Thirty-two dollars for the motel room last night. Now six-fifty for breakfast. That leaves me with three thousand, one hundred and seventy-nine dollars and fifty cents. Every purchase makes my chest tight, watching my safety net shrink.
But Jackson needs to eat. That's non-negotiable.
Tom insists on paying for his own coffee, waving off my attempt to cover it. "I'm a regular. Sarah gives me the friends and family rate."
"Friends and family rate is still paying," Sarah says firmly, taking his money. "You're not a charity case, Tom Harris."
There's affection in her teasing, the familiarity of people who've known each other for years. It makes me ache for something I can't name. Connection, maybe. Community. The kind of roots that take time to grow.
I had that once. Friends who knew my coffee order, parents who called just to say hello, a life that felt solid and real. Derek took all of it, piece by piece, until I was completely isolated and dependent on him for everything.
I won't let that happen again. I won't let anyone, not even this seemingly kind sheriff, have that kind of power over me.
We sit at one of the small tables by the window, Jackson swinging his legs and taking huge bites of his muffin. Chocolate smears across his cheek within seconds.
"Slow down, baby," I say, reaching over to wipe his face with a napkin. "No one's going to take it from you."
"But it's so good!" He looks at Tom with kind eyes. "This is the best muffin in the whole world!"
"Sarah's been making them for thirty years," Tom says. "She's got it down to a science."
Jackson takes another enormous bite, then pauses. "My daddy says dinosaurs aren't real."
The words hit me like a slap. I freeze, napkin halfway to his face.
Tom's expression doesn't change. "Is that right?"
"Yeah. He says they're myths and I should find a new interest." Jackson says it very matter-of-factly, repeating words he's clearly heard multiple times. "He says only babies like dinosaurs."
"Well, your daddy is wrong." Tom's voice is calm, certain. "Dinosaurs are absolutely real. They lived millions of years ago, and we know about them because scientists found their bones buried in the ground. Fossils, they're called."
Jackson's eyes go wide. "Really?"
"Really. In fact, there are museums full of dinosaur skeletons, real bones that you can go see. The Natural History Museum has a T-Rex that's three stories tall."
"Three stories!" Jackson looks at me. "Mommy, can we go see it?"
"Maybe someday, baby." My trembling voice sounds strange to my own ears.
I can feel Tom looking at me, but I don't meet his eyes. I'm too busy trying to control the rage building in my chest.
Derek told Jackson that dinosaurs weren't real.
Told my four-year-old son to find a new interest because this one was beneath him.
And I let him. I sat there and watched my son's face fall, watched him try to please his father by putting away his dinosaur books and his toy collection, and I did nothing.
Another failure to add to the list. Another way I didn't protect my child.
"Your daddy might not know much about dinosaurs," Tom continues, still talking to Jackson like this is a normal conversation. "But that's okay. Not everyone does. The important thing is that you keep learning about the things you love. That's what makes life interesting."
"Do you know a lot about dinosaurs?" Jackson asks.
"Some. Not as much as you, probably. But I know enough to tell you that they're real, and they're fascinating, and anyone who says different just doesn't understand science."
Jackson beams, chocolate-smeared and happy. "I like you."
"I like you too, buddy."
It's such a simple exchange. Such a small moment. But something in my chest cracks watching this man, this stranger, validate my son in a way Derek never did. In a way I should have done a lot more.
Tom catches my eye over Jackson's head. There's a question there, concern maybe, but he doesn't push. He doesn't ask about the daddy who isn't here, and who apparently thinks dinosaurs are myths.
I'm grateful for that. I'm not ready to explain. Not sure I'll ever be ready.
We finish our breakfast in relative quiet, Jackson too busy eating to talk, Tom sipping his coffee and watching the morning traffic through the window. I drink my coffee too fast, burning my tongue, needing something to do with my hands.
"So," Tom says eventually. "If you're up for it, I could walk you over to the library now. It's just a few blocks. Then we can head to Murphy's after. He should be opening up around now, and it'll be easier to talk before the lunch rush hits."
The offer is casual, practical even. But something about it makes my defenses spike.
"You don't have to do that," I say quickly. "You've already done so much. I'm sure you have work to do."
"Nothing that can't wait an hour." He takes a sip of his coffee, his expression easy. "Besides, Mrs. Walker can be a little overwhelming if you don't know her. Might help to have someone make introductions."
Jackson bounces in his seat. "Can we go now? Please?"
I look at my son's eager face, then back at Tom.
He's watching me with those steady blue eyes, patient, not pushing.
Just offering. This is how it starts, a voice in my head warns.
Small favors. Little kindnesses. Making yourself indispensable until you're everywhere, controlling everything, and I don't even notice until it's too late.
But another part of me, the part that's exhausted and scared and so desperately tired of doing everything alone, wants to say yes. Wants to accept the help. Wants to believe that maybe, just this once, someone is exactly who they appear to be.
"Okay," I hear myself say. "Thank you. That would be... helpful."
Tom's smile is small but genuine. "Good. Let's get going then."
The walk to the library takes less than five minutes. Jackson skips ahead, making Rex hop along the sidewalk, while Tom and I follow at a slower pace. He keeps a respectful distance between us, not crowding, not touching, just walking alongside.
Main Street is charming in the morning light: small shops with hand-painted signs, flower boxes on the windowsills, a genuine old-fashioned streetlamp every few yards. It looks like something out of a movie, the kind of small town that doesn't really exist anymore.
Except apparently it does exist. And I'm walking through it with a sheriff who seems determined to help me.
"How long have you lived here?" I ask, more to fill the silence than anything else.
"About four years. Moved here after I left the military."
"You were military?"
"Fifteen years. Army." He says it simply, like it's not a big deal, but I can see the weight of those years in the set of his shoulders, in the way his eyes constantly scan the street. "Wanted something quieter when I got out."
"Is Blackwater Falls quiet?"
"Quieter than where I was." He glances at me. "Most days, anyway. We have our moments."
I want to ask what kind of moments, but Jackson has stopped ahead, pointing at something in a shop window. Tom walks over to him, crouching down to see what caught his attention.
"That's a cool truck," he says. "You like trucks?"
"I like dinosaurs more," Jackson says seriously. "But trucks are okay."
"That's fair. Dinosaurs are definitely cooler."
They stand there for a moment, looking at the toy truck in the window, and something in my chest tightens. Derek never did this. Never crouched down to Jackson's level, never took interest in what he liked, never made him feel like his opinions mattered.
Derek thought Jackson was an inconvenience. A necessary piece for the image he wanted to project, successful man with a family, but not someone worth actually engaging with.
"Come on, baby," I call. "Let's get to the library."
The library is a small brick building tucked between a hardware store and a place advertising tax services. A hand-painted sign over the door reads BLACKWATER FALLS PUBLIC LIbrARY in cheerful yellow letters.
Tom holds the door open for us, and we step inside.
It smells like old books and coffee and air freshener, maybe, or potpourri. It's smaller than any library I've been to, maybe a third the size of the branch near Derek's penthouse, but it's clean and bright and welcoming.
A woman in her sixties sits at the front desk, reading glasses perched on her nose, focused on something on her computer screen. She looks up when we enter and smiles.
"Tom Harris! Twice in one week, this is a record." Then her eyes land on me and Jackson, and her smile widens. "And you've brought friends."
"Mrs. Walker, this is Claire Donovan and her son Jackson. They're new in town, need to get library cards."