Chapter 15
ELLIE
The diner's morning rush provides perfect cover—enough ambient noise to mask a conversation, but not so much that I have to strain to hear.
I slide into the corner booth where Margaret Finch has been holding court for the past twenty minutes, regaling anyone within earshot about her grandson's soccer achievements.
Her husband, Harold Finch, was a volunteer firefighter and later a part-time EMT. He responded to at least one of the “accidents” in the forest years ago — officially logged, unofficially never discussed at home. Harold died ten years earlier of a stroke, taking whatever he knew with him.
But that doesn’t mean he didn’t share it with Margaret.
"Mind if I join you? The counter's packed." I gesture vaguely toward the front, where exactly three people sit with plenty of space between them.
"Course, honey. Always room for one more." Margaret's face lights up with the kind of genuine warmth that makes me feel guilty for what I'm about to do. "You settling in okay? Town treating you right?"
"Everyone's been wonderful. Almost suspiciously wonderful, actually." I laugh, testing the waters with self-deprecating humor. "Back in New York, strangers cross the street to avoid eye contact. Here, people wave at me from their porches."
"Well, we're not complicated folk. See someone new, we say hello. See someone in need, we help. That's just how it's always been."
The waitress refills Margaret's coffee without being asked—the kind of practiced intimacy that comes from decades of routine. I order tea and a muffin I don't want, buying myself time.
"It's refreshing, honestly. Though I have to admit, I'm a bit of a history buff. Love hearing about how places got to be the way they are." I tear open a sugar packet, keeping my movements casual. "Must be nice living somewhere with such deep roots."
"Oh, families here go back generations. My Harold's people were some of the first to settle this area. Course, not everyone who came through decided to stay."
“I’ve watched this town grow up,” Margaret continues, not quite looking at me now. “Worked at the school for forty-two years. You learn a lot that way. Who belongs where. Who doesn’t.”
“That sounds… educational,” I say lightly.
She smiles. “It was. Especially when kids stopped coming back after summer. Transfers that never quite made sense. Families that moved without forwarding addresses.”
Her spoon taps once against the mug. “Most folks don’t notice patterns unless they’re paid to.”
The way she says paid makes my stomach tighten.
Something else in her tone shifts too—not quite warning, but not quite neutral either.
"Really? I'd think a place this beautiful would be hard to leave."
"Beautiful, yes. But not always easy." Margaret stirs her coffee with deliberate precision. "Some folks, they come looking for something specific. Adventure, maybe. Or trouble. And when they don't find what they're after..."
She lets the sentence drift, but her eyes stay on my face, measuring my reaction.
"They move on?"
"Most do. The smart ones, anyway." Her smile returns, but it feels different now—still warm, but bounded. "Course, some folks just aren't cut out for small-town life. All that quiet can make a person... restless."
The word hangs between us like a polite threat wrapped in grandmotherly concern.
Margaret reaches over and pats my hand, the gesture gentle and practiced.
“You seem like a nice girl,” she says. “Smart. Capable. The kind who lands on her feet.”
“I like to think so.”
“Then you’ll know when to stop asking questions that don’t have answers.”
Her grip tightens for half a second before she lets go.
“Moonhaven takes care of its own,” she adds softly. “The trick is deciding who counts.”
The silence hangs heavily between us, filled with the weight of everything Caleb Hart isn’t saying.
I've seen this choreography before—the careful stepping around truth, the collective decision to look away. It's the same dance every newsroom knows, every community perfects when protecting itself becomes more important than protecting individuals.
"Right." I shift my weight, feeling the familiar settling of pieces into place. "This is where you tell me I'm imagining things. Where you suggest I might be more comfortable somewhere else. Somewhere safer."
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, but he doesn't deny it.
"And this is where I'm supposed to nod and agree that maybe I've gotten in over my head. That maybe I should stick to stories that don't make people uncomfortable."
The pattern is so predictable it's almost comforting. At least I know the steps.
"Because that's how this works, isn't it? Everyone agrees not to ask certain questions. Everyone agrees that some stones are better left unturned. And if someone from outside shows up asking the wrong things, well—they just need to be managed until they lose interest."
I click off my flashlight, plunging us into the dim wash of moonlight filtering through the canopy. The darkness feels less threatening than the careful concern in his eyes.
"The thing is, Sheriff, I've built a career on being the person who doesn't lose interest. Who doesn't take the hint."
Even as I say it, something tugs at the edge of my resolve—the memory of how he moved when that thing was tracking me, the way his presence had felt like shelter rather than coincidence.
The irritating truth that despite everything, some part of me wants to trust the steadiness in his voice, the careful way he holds himself like he's protecting something fragile.
I push the thought away with practiced efficiency. Attraction is just another variable to control, another potential weakness to guard against. I've learned that lesson thoroughly enough.
"So thank you for the rescue. And thank you for confirming that I'm asking the right questions."
I turn toward the path, then pause without looking back.
"But don't mistake me for someone who needs protecting. I've been taking care of myself longer than you've been sheriff."
The words taste sharper than I intended, but they create the distance I need. Whatever this is—whatever he knows, whatever he's hiding—I'll figure it out without accepting his managed version of safety.
Some stones are worth turning over, even when everyone else has agreed to walk around them.
My back to him, my flashlight cuts through the darkness as I navigate back toward the street and civilization. The adrenaline from our confrontation keeps my legs steady, but I can feel his presence behind me—not following, exactly, but watching. Always watching.
To the point where he was here blocking the trailhead just at the moment you were going to take another stroll through the woods.
Margaret’s voice echoes in my head as I start my walk back to the inn.
Moonhaven takes care of its own.
I’d assumed she meant people looking out for each other. Now I’m not so sure.
Care can mean protection.
Or it can mean supervision.
"This conversation isn't over," I call back without turning around.
"Yes, it is."
His voice carries that same infuriating finality, but I'm done letting him have the last word. I've spent too many years shrinking away from conflict, from attention, from the space I'm entitled to occupy.
The walk back to town feels longer in the dark, every shadow a potential threat. But anger is a surprisingly effective antidote to fear. By the time I reach my room, I'm already mentally drafting the story outline, planning my next moves.
I unlock the door and step inside, muscle memory guiding me to the light switch. The warm glow of the table lamp illuminates my makeshift workspace—laptop open on the small table by the window, research notes scattered across the surface, empty coffee cup marking a ring on the wood.
Something's wrong.
I freeze in the doorway, my eyes scanning the familiar chaos.
Everything looks exactly as I left it, which is precisely the problem.
My notes aren't scattered—they're arranged.
The legal pad that was askew now sits perfectly parallel to the table's edge.
The pen I'd tossed carelessly beside my laptop rests at a precise ninety-degree angle.
"No." The word escapes as barely a whisper.
I approach the table like it might explode. The coffee cup has been moved three inches to the right, away from the water ring it created. Someone cleaned up after me. Someone who wanted me to know they'd been here but didn't want to appear threatening.
My hands shake as I rifle through the papers. Nothing's missing—that would be too obvious. Instead, everything's been subtly reorganized. The timeline I'd sketched is now in chronological order rather than the scattered mess I'd left. The list of missing persons has been alphabetized.
I grab my laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard to check the browser history.
There—between my research on local land records and missing person databases—a single entry I didn't make. A search for my own name.
Not just my name. My byline. My recent articles. The body-positivity panel that started this whole nightmare.
Someone knows exactly who I am and why I'm here. They've been in my space, touching my things, reading my work. And they've done it all with the kind of careful precision that screams professional.
"Son of a…"
I spin toward the window, half-expecting to see a face peering back at me. The glass reflects only my own pale features, but the curtains hang differently than I remember. Straighter.
As if someone adjusted them for a better view.