Chapter 8 Small Town Whispers
Rumors Begin
Blackthorn was the kind of town where people noticed everything.
Eli had learned that much during his first few weeks.
People noticed who arrived late to work.
Who left early.
Who bought a new truck.
Who attended church.
Who skipped church.
Who was dating whom.
Who was fighting.
Who was struggling.
And apparently, people also noticed who spent a suspicious amount of time with Mason Voss.
The realization arrived gradually.
Small comments at first.
Lingering looks.
Questions disguised as casual conversation.
Nothing direct.
Nothing obvious.
Yet impossible to miss once Eli started paying attention.
It began on a Tuesday morning.
He was interviewing one of the older workers near the drying sheds when the man suddenly stopped answering questions and looked over Eli's shoulder.
"Mason got you working hard, huh?"
Eli glanced back.
The older man was walking across the yard carrying paperwork.
The comment seemed harmless.
Still, something about the smile accompanying it felt significant.
Before Eli could respond, the worker chuckled and returned to the interview.
The moment passed.
At least it seemed to.
By lunchtime, something similar happened again.
Then again the next day.
The comments varied.
The tone remained the same.
People were paying attention.
Far more attention than they should have been.
At first, Eli told himself he was imagining things.
After all, he and Mason spent time together because of the project.
That was normal.
Expected.
Mason was his guide.
His primary source of information.
His supervisor while on-site.
Of course people saw them together.
The problem was that the explanations stopped feeling convincing.
Especially after the events at the youth center.
Especially after the storm.
Especially after the conversations that seemed increasingly personal.
The truth was simple.
Eli actively sought out Mason now.
And Mason didn't seem entirely opposed to being found.
That reality became difficult to ignore.
By Thursday afternoon, even Eli's interviews reflected the change.
One worker smirked halfway through a conversation.
"So when are you writing Mason's biography?"
Eli nearly dropped his pen.
"What?"
The man laughed.
"You spend more time following him around than you do anybody else."
Heat crept into Eli's cheeks.
"He's helping with the project."
"Sure."
The answer carried enough skepticism to make Eli groan internally.
The worker wasn't being cruel.
If anything, he seemed amused.
That somehow made it worse.
Because amusement suggested confidence.
Confidence suggested people were talking.
And if people were talking, rumors weren't far behind.
The realization lingered throughout the afternoon.
Unfortunately, evidence continued appearing.
When Eli entered the diner that evening for dinner, two older women glanced toward him from a nearby booth.
Then immediately toward Mason.
Who happened to be sitting across the room eating alone.
The women exchanged looks.
Then smiles.
Then whispers.
Eli almost laughed.
Almost.
Because the situation should have been ridiculous.
Instead, it felt oddly unsettling.
Small towns were different.
Information traveled fast.
Opinions traveled faster.
The following morning confirmed his suspicions.
The day began normally enough.
Eli spent several hours interviewing workers and documenting kiln operations.
The weather remained pleasant.
Production schedules remained on track.
Everything seemed ordinary.
Until lunch.
The break area behind the administration building offered one of the few shaded spots on the property.
Several workers gathered there daily.
Some ate.
Some talked.
Others simply escaped the heat for a few minutes.
Eli arrived carrying a sandwich and bottle of water.
Most tables were occupied.
Only one remained partially empty.
Unfortunately, it happened to sit close to a group of workers deep in conversation.
Eli settled into his seat.
Opened his notebook.
Tried to focus on organizing interview notes.
Then he heard Mason's name.
Instantly.
His attention sharpened.
Not intentionally.
The reaction happened automatically.
"He's spending a lot of time with that Bennett kid."
One worker shrugged.
"Part of the project."
"Maybe."
The response carried enough doubt to make Eli glance up.
The men hadn't noticed him.
Or perhaps they assumed he wasn't paying attention.
Either way, the conversation continued.
"You seen them lately?"
"Hard not to."
A few laughs followed.
Another worker leaned back in his chair.
"I've never seen Mason talk this much."
That earned more laughter.
Even Eli smiled slightly.
The observation wasn't entirely wrong.
The problem was what came next.
"Maybe the kid's growing on him."
"Or maybe Mason likes having somebody look at him like he's a hero."
The amusement in the speaker's voice disappeared quickly.
A different tone replaced it.
One Eli immediately disliked.
"Mason's always been good at pretending."
The comment drew silence.
Then another voice joined in.
"Doesn't change where he came from."
Eli frowned.
"What does that mean?" someone asked.
The answer arrived immediately.
"Come on."
The worker scoffed.
"We all know his history."
The knot forming in Eli's stomach tightened.
"Mason gets treated like a saint now, but people forget what he used to be."
Several others shifted uncomfortably.
Nobody argued.
Nobody agreed.
The silence felt worse.
Because it suggested familiarity.
History.
Stories Eli hadn't heard.
The conversation continued.
"Makes you wonder how long the act lasts."
A short laugh followed.
"Guy spends enough years screwing up, eventually people stop believing he's changed."
Something inside Eli snapped.
Not dramatically.
Not loudly.
Just enough.
Because whatever mistakes Mason made years ago had absolutely nothing to do with the man he knew now.
The man volunteering weekends at the youth center.
The man checking on workers during dangerous shifts.
The man carrying the weight of old grief while still finding ways to help others.
That man deserved better than casual judgment over lunch.
Eli stared down at his notebook.
Trying to stay calm.
Trying to remain objective.
The researcher in him understood that communities remembered history.
The person who cared about Mason felt something very different.
Anger.
Pure and immediate.
The comments continued.
Each one landing harder than the last.
Nothing openly vicious.
Nothing cruel enough to start a fight.
Just small cuts.
Small assumptions.
Small reminders that some people refused to let Mason move beyond his past.
The unfairness of it burned.
Because none of those workers had seen Mason with the teenagers at the youth center.
None of them had heard him talk about Liam.
None of them knew the man Eli had come to know.
They only knew the version they'd already decided to believe.
Eventually Eli stood.
His chair scraped against the concrete.
Several heads turned.
The workers immediately noticed him.
A few expressions shifted toward embarrassment.
Others toward surprise.
Clearly they hadn't realized he was listening.
Good.
Maybe they should have.
Without saying a word, Eli gathered his notebook and walked away.
His appetite completely gone.
His hands clenched tightly around the papers he carried.
For the rest of the afternoon, the conversation echoed in his head.
Not because he believed any of it.
Because he hated how easily people dismissed someone trying to become better.
The more he thought about it, the angrier he became.
And by the time the workday ended, Eli realized something important.
He cared about Mason far more than he'd been willing to admit.
Because hearing strangers insult him felt strangely personal.
Like they weren't attacking a supervisor from the brickworks.
Like they were attacking someone who mattered.
Someone worth defending.
Someone worth fighting for.
And that realization scared him almost as much as it excited him.
Defending Brick
Mason spent most of Friday afternoon trying to ignore the strange tension hanging over the yard.
Something felt different.
Not wrong exactly.
Just off.
Workers seemed unusually quiet whenever he approached. Conversations stopped a little too quickly. A few people avoided eye contact altogether.
The behavior immediately put him on alert.
Years of working at Blackthorn had taught him how to read a room.
And right now, the room was acting guilty.
By the time the final shipment left the property, Mason was certain something had happened.
The question was what.
He found his answer while reviewing inventory reports inside the maintenance office.
Jake Turner appeared in the doorway carrying a clipboard.
The younger man lingered there for several seconds.
Never a good sign.
People who had normal things to say usually just said them.
"What?"
Jake scratched the back of his neck.
"Nothing."
Mason stared.
Jake sighed.
"Fine."
That sounded promising.
"What happened?"
The younger worker stepped inside.
"Before you get mad, it wasn't me."
That narrowed the possibilities considerably.
Mason set down his paperwork.
"Jake."
"Some of the guys were talking during lunch."
Of course they were.
Small-town gossip was practically a competitive sport.
Mason waited.
"They were talking about you."
No surprise there either.
People had been talking about him for years.
Sometimes positively.
Sometimes not.
He'd learned long ago that trying to control opinions was a waste of energy.
"So?"
Jake hesitated.
Apparently building suspense for dramatic effect.
"Apparently Eli heard them."
Something in Mason's chest tightened.
Just slightly.
"What happened?"
The younger worker leaned against the doorframe.
"Nothing at first."
That wasn't reassuring.
"Then somebody started running their mouth."
Mason already disliked where this story was going.
Jake continued.
"Talking about your past."
A familiar irritation surfaced.