7. Kristin
KRISTIN
The canvas stared back at me like it was judging me.
It was a blank, suffocating field of white .
. . again. Beneath it, faint shadows of earlier attempts peeked through, bruises of color I had tried to smother with another coat of paint.
Nothing I put down looked like what lived in my head.
I knew what it was missing. Not color or detail.
It needed a way out, and I couldn’t find one.
I lifted my brush, hesitating. My hand shook ever so slightly, and I dropped the brush back into the jar of murky rinse water, the clatter punctuating my defeat.
Henry slept against my chest, his tiny breaths warm on my skin, and his head lolling to the side. He felt like an extension of me.
My gaze returned to the canvas. “Why can’t I paint anymore?” I whispered to the empty room.
The answer came in the form of my phone buzzing on the table. I picked it up before the vibration could startle my baby. patrick displayed across the screen.
“Hey,” I answered.
“Hailey’s sick.” His voice was tight with no time for pleasantries.
I could hear the chaos of high school in the background—a mix of bells, chatter, and locker doors clanging.
“What kind of sick?” She’d been “sick” a lot at her previous school, and I was hoping things weren’t going back to the way they were.
“The nurse said she was feeling nauseous. I can bring her home, but I’ll have to get someone to cover the first thirty-five minutes of my next period and—”
“No,” I cut in. “It’s fine. I can get her.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” I looked down at Henry’s soft, flushed cheek. “It’ll be nice to get out of this house.”
Patrick exhaled, relieved. “Thank you. I owe you.”
“You owe me about thirty uninterrupted hours of sleep,” I teased.
“Deal,” he said. “Drive safe, okay?”
“I will.”
We hung up, and I gathered Henry’s diaper bag, my purse, and my composure.
The winter air slapped my cheeks the second I stepped outside, and I sucked in a breath so harsh it almost cleared my head .
. . almost. I wished the garage door were working so the car could be parked in warmth, instead of out in the freezing tundra.
But the handyman Patrick hired said he was waiting on a part to arrive.
I buckled Henry into his car seat, double- and triple-checking the straps like I always did because postpartum paranoia felt carved into my bones.
Then I slid into the driver’s seat, my fingers still stiff from the cold.
I cupped my hands and breathed heavily into them, trying to warm them up faster than the air in the car could.
As I drove down Balagan Road, my stomach dropped. The man stood at his mailbox again—but this time, he was alone. His posture was unchanged as he watched me approach.
Just keep waving, Patrick had said.
So I did. I lifted my hand and forced a smile. The man didn’t wave back. He didn’t smile. He just stared.
Once I was past him, I lowered my hand and let my smile falter. Habit made me glance in the rearview mirror. The little mirror clipped to the back seat reflected Henry’s tiny sleeping face. His cheeks were rosy with warmth, and his lips pursed in a dream. At least one of us felt safe here.
Halfway to the school, I stopped at the town’s only traffic light.
It swayed over the empty intersection, while I waited for it to remember to turn green.
The gas station convenience store sat hunched on the corner.
It was Tillington’s lone business. A man at the pump paused mid-squeeze and stared at me like I’d interrupted him.
Another knelt by the air pump, hand frozen on the valve.
Even the clerk behind the window had stopped scanning items, her eyes locked on my SUV.
The light shone bright green, and I eased my foot onto the gas.
Without warning, everything turned sideways.
A white truck had barreled through the intersection, blowing its red light, and crashed into the front passenger side of my SUV.
The force slammed me into the door, pain shooting up my shoulder.
“Henry—”
I whipped my head toward the back seat so fast something snapped in my neck. The mirror showed my baby still asleep, his tiny chest rising, completely unaware that anything had happened. Thank God. Thank God.
I shoved my door open and stumbled out, adrenaline roaring through my veins. The man from the truck was already marching toward me, face twisted as if I had ruined his afternoon.
“Lady, what were you thinking?” he yelled.
I nearly lost it. “What was I . . . are you kidding me! you ran a red light! i have a baby in the car, for christ’s sake!”
“Well, then maybe you oughta drive like a person with a baby in the car.”
I blinked at him, stunned, my anger immediately replaced with shocked disbelief. “Are you out of your mind?”
Before he could answer, the man who was pumping gas approached. “Ma’am, I’m sorry to intrude, but I watched the whole thing, and . . . you’re the one who ran the red light,” he said.
My jaw dropped. “What are you talking about? My light was green. He ran it. He hit me!”
The driver folded his arms, smug. “Told ya, lady.”
I walked around my vehicle to inspect the damage. My passenger door was caved inward. But the dent wasn’t catastrophic. It was drivable—wounded, but not totaled, like me.
The sheriff arrived minutes later with his lights flashing but no siren. I wasn’t sure if anyone had even called him. He just appeared, a tired-looking man in his fifties who carried himself like he had already made up his mind about everything.
“Afternoon, folks,” he said, adjusting his belt. “Everybody in one piece?”
I stepped forward, relief and fury tangling in my throat. “Sheriff, I had a green light, and this man”—I pointed a finger at the other driver—“ran right through a red light and—”
He held up a hand, not to calm me but to indicate that’s enough now, sweetheart. Then he looked at the truck driver. “That how it happened, Rick?”
Of course he knew him.
Rick shook his head as if he were wounded by the accusation. “No, sir. She blew straight through, Sheriff Kohler. I’m lucky to be alive.”
The man who was pumping gas and the clerk both murmured in agreement. I hadn’t even noticed the clerk had stepped outside.
“No,” I said, heat rushing to my face. “That is not what happened. Don’t you have cameras on the traffic lights? You’ll see.”
The sheriff shrugged. “Closest traffic cam is in Johnsville.”
“What about the gas station? Security cameras for the pumps.”
The clerk shook his head. “Never needed any.”
Sheriff Kohler let out a low whistle, glancing at my car before looking back at me. “Illinois plates,” he said. “That explains it.”
The men around him laughed softly, easy, and automatic, like they were all in on it.
My voice cracked. “That doesn’t explain anything. They’re lying,” I said, pointing at them.
Sheriff Kohler clicked his tongue and gave me a patient, condescending smile. “Now, now, Miss . . . ?”
“Dalton. Mrs. Dalton,” I forced out.
“Mrs. Dalton, no need to go calling folks liars. Accidents happen.”
“I know that. I know accidents happen. But this isn’t my fault, he caused it!” I gestured to Rick.
Kohler ignored me. “Y’all exchange insurance info yet?”
Rick and I said no in unison.
“Well, let’s do that, then. Either of you need medical attention?”
We both shook our heads.
“Well,” he said, scratching his chin, “since neither of you are hurt, and insurance is gonna need a police report, onto the next order of business. Unfortunately, Mrs. Dalton, given that we have multiple witnesses who corroborate Rick’s version of the story, I’m going to have to write you a citation. ”
“A citation? For what?”
“Red-light violation. Reckless driving.”
“You’re joking?”
He pulled out his pad. “I don’t joke about the law, ma’am.”
I wanted to scream. Instead, tears stung my eyes—disbelief tears, you-have-got-to-be-fucking-kidding-me tears.
He scribbled lazily, tore off the slip, and handed it to me. “All the information on contesting the citation or how to pay it is on the back of the ticket. Have a good day, Mrs. Dalton.”
“You too,” I managed. My response was pure autopilot reflex. I couldn’t believe what had just happened and how the people here stuck together, defending one of their own, even though he was completely in the wrong.
As I walked to my SUV, I felt their eyes still on me. It was like they had already decided who I was—an outsider, someone not welcome. I climbed inside, shut the door, and locked it behind me. My hands trembled as I reached back and touched Henry’s leg.
“It’s okay, baby,” I whispered. “We’re okay.”
But the truth settled in my stomach like a stone.
We were not okay. Not here. Not in Tillington.