Chapter 2 – Riley
I don't like surprises. Not since Afghanistan. Not since coming home to find everything changed. And this woman sitting in my truck cab right now? Definitely a surprise.
Lucy Mitchell. Even her name sounds soft.
She sits with her hands folded in her lap, staring out the window like she's memorizing every tree we pass.
I keep my eyes on the road, but I'm aware of her—the way she smells like vanilla and something citrusy, how she keeps tucking her dark hair behind her ear when it falls forward.
"So..." she starts, clearly uncomfortable with the silence. "Have you lived in Cedar Falls long?"
Small talk. Great.
"Born here," I answer, keeping it brief. No need to mention leaving at eighteen and only returning when my father was safely in the ground.
"Oh! That's nice. So you know everyone, then?"
I grunt in response. Yeah, I know everyone, and everyone knows me—or thinks they do. The Carter boy who came back all wrong from the war. The surly mechanic who keeps to himself. The man whose brother won't even look him in the eye at the grocery store.
"I've never lived in a small town before," she continues, either missing or ignoring my obvious disinterest. "It seems... peaceful."
I can't help the short laugh that escapes me. "Seems that way."
She turns to look at me fully now, and I feel her gaze piercing through my soul. It makes the skin on the back of my neck prickle.
"Not peaceful?" she asks.
"Small towns have long memories," I say, immediately regretting offering even this much. Something about her wide brown eyes makes me want to explain myself, and that's dangerous territory.
We're approaching town now, Main Street with its old-fashioned lampposts already lit as dusk settles.
Cedar Falls tries hard to maintain its picturesque appearance—hanging flower baskets in summer, twinkling lights in winter, and now, banners celebrating the town's 150th anniversary strung across the street. Like dressing up a corpse.
The town's not dying, exactly. The lumber mill still employs a fair number, and tourism keeps the rest afloat. But it's stuck in time, clinging to traditions and grudges with equal fervor.
Lucy's pressing her face closer to the window now, taking it all in. "It's so charming," she says, sounding genuinely delighted. "Look at that bookstore! And is that a real soda fountain?"
I follow her gaze to Monroe's, where I used to get chocolate malts after school. Before everything went to hell. "Yeah. Been there since the fifties."
"I've only seen places like this in movies," she says, and there's something wistful in her voice that makes me glance at her.
In the soft glow of the streetlights, I notice things I missed before. The dark circles under her eyes. The tension in her shoulders. The way she holds herself, like she's expecting a blow. She's running from something—or someone. I recognize the signs because I've seen them in the mirror.
"You said you're renting a cottage?" I ask, surprising myself. I don't usually care about my customers' living situations.
She blinks, equally surprised by my sudden interest. "Yes. I haven't seen it in person yet, just pictures online. The owner—Mrs. Abernathy?—was supposed to meet me there with the keys at six."
I know the place. Small blue cottage set back from the road, overgrown garden. And I definitely know Edith Abernathy, the nosiest widow in town.
“Yeah. I know her.” I slow as we approach my shop, a converted gas station at the edge of the commercial district.
The 'Carter's Auto Shop' sign glows neon blue against the darkening sky. I pull into the lot and park, then kill the engine. I can hear Lucy's soft breathing beside me in the sudden silence. It makes the cab seem smaller somehow.
"I guess I'll really have to get a motel room then," she says, more to herself than to me. She sounds resigned and tired.
Something tugs at me—a feeling I don't particularly welcome. Sympathy, maybe. Or recognition. I remember what it was like, coming back to Cedar Falls three years ago, a stranger in my hometown.
"I know where she keeps the spare," I hear myself saying. "For the cottage."
Lucy's head snaps toward me, hope brightening her face. It transforms her completely—softens the tension around her mouth, brings a spark to her eyes. Something uncomfortable stirs in my chest.
"Really? You'd show me?"
I shrug, already regretting the offer. "Need to drop your car first. Then I can take you there."
Her smile is immediate and genuine, crinkling the corners of her eyes. "Thank you. Seriously, that would be amazing."
I nod curtly and exit the truck before I can say anything else stupid. The cool evening air clears my head as I move to the back to lower her car. Focus on the job, Carter. That's all this is.
But as I work the hydraulic lift, I can't help glancing through the rear window of her Corolla.
The backseat and trunk are packed—boxes labeled in neat handwriting, clothes in vacuum-sealed bags, a small collection of framed photos wrapped carefully in bubble wrap.
Her whole life, compressed and categorized.
I recognize the effort it takes to pack like that. The deliberation. This wasn't an impulsive move. She planned her escape.
By the time I've got her car detached and parked in the bay, Lucy has exited the truck and is hovering nearby, clutching her overnight bag.
She looks smaller outside the cab, barely reaching my shoulder.
Her sweater is too big for her, sleeves pulled down over her hands like she's cold despite the mild evening.
"I'll need to look at it more thoroughly tomorrow," I tell her, locking up the shop. "But if it is the alternator, I might not have the part for your model. Might need to order it."
Her face falls again, and I notice how expressive she is—every thought and emotion playing across her features like a movie. "How long would that take?"
"Two, three days if I expedite it."
She bites her lower lip, clearly calculating costs in her head. "Okay," she says finally. "I'll figure it out."
There's determination in her voice that wasn't there before. Resilience. It reminds me of the younger mechanics I trained in the Army—the ones who came in soft but developed calluses fast.
"Come on," I say, heading back to my truck. "I'll take you to your cottage."
She follows without hesitation, which strikes me as either very trusting or very naive. Doesn't she know better than to get in vehicles with strange men in strange towns? Especially men who look like me?
I'm aware of how I appear to others. The military cut my hair still adheres to. The scar that bisects my left eyebrow. The perpetual scowl that someone once said makes me look like I'm plotting murder. People in town give me a wide berth, and I prefer it that way.
But Lucy slides back into the passenger seat without apparent concern, buckling her seatbelt and offering me another small smile.
"I really appreciate this," she says as I start the engine. "I was starting to think this whole move was a cosmic mistake."
I pull back onto Main Street, heading toward the residential area. "What brought you to Cedar Falls anyway?" I ask, then immediately wonder why I care.
She's quiet for a moment, staring out at the passing storefronts. "My father grew up here," she finally says. "He never talked about it much, but after he died last year, I found some of his old journals. He wrote about unfinished business in Cedar Falls."
I glance at her, curious despite myself. "What kind of business?"
"That's the thing—I don't know. It was just that one cryptic line." She shrugs, looking embarrassed. "Honestly, I probably read too much into it. But I needed a change, and it felt like... I don't know, a sign or something."
Her voice trails off, and I don't push. I understand having unfinished business with this town better than most.
We turn onto another road, leaving the glow of downtown behind. The houses here are older, set back from the street on larger lots. Many have been in the same families for generations.
"That's the Hendersons'," I say, nodding toward a large Victorian as we pass. "Their son Dave runs the hardware store now. And that's the old Wilson place. Mrs. Wilson teaches piano lessons."
I'm not sure why I'm giving her this impromptu tour. Maybe because she's looking at everything with such undisguised interest. Or maybe because, for once, I'm talking to someone who doesn't already know all the stories, all the history.
"There," I say, slowing as we approach a small cottage set back from the road. "That's Mrs. Abernathy's rental."
The cottage is just as I remember it—blue clapboard with white trim, a sagging front porch with a porch swing, wildflowers growing along the front walk. It's been vacant since the last tenant got together with a firefighter and moved to his place.
I park in the gravel driveway and kill the engine. Lucy is leaning forward, peering through the windshield at her new home.
"It's perfect," she breathes, and I can hear genuine pleasure in her voice. "It looks just like the pictures."
I don't comment that the pictures probably didn't show the peeling paint on the porch railings or the missing shutter on the upstairs window. If she wants to see it as perfect, who am I to argue?
We get out, and I lead her to the back of the house, where I know Edith keeps a spare key hidden on a fake rock beside the back steps. Sure enough, it's still there.
"Mrs. Abernathy isn't big on security," I explain, handing her the key. "Most people around here aren't."
"Thank you," she says again, clutching the key like it's precious. "For everything. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't answered the phone."
I shrug, uncomfortable with her gratitude. "Just doing my job."
She smiles like she doesn't quite believe me, and for some reason, that makes me even more uncomfortable.
"I'll unlock it for you," I say gruffly, taking the key back and heading up the steps. "Make sure everything's working before I go."
The back door opens into a small kitchen that smells faintly of lemon cleaning products. I flip on the light switch, relieved when the overhead fixture illuminates. At least the electricity's on.
Lucy follows me inside, her footsteps light on the worn linoleum. "Oh," she says softly, looking around. "It's lovely."
The kitchen is outdated—yellow countertops from the seventies, an ancient gas stove—but it's clean and spacious enough. Through a doorway, I can see a small living room with a stone fireplace.
"Furnace is in the basement," I tell her, moving through the kitchen. "Thermostat's here. Pilot light for the water heater sometimes goes out when it storms."
She follows me as I do a quick check of the major systems. The furnace rumbles to life when I adjust the thermostat, and the faucets in the kitchen and bathroom run clear after a moment of rusty water.
"Looks like everything's working," I say, heading back to the kitchen. "Mrs. Abernathy will probably stop by tomorrow with paperwork and a proper set of keys."
Lucy is standing in the middle of the living room, turning slowly to take it all in. There's something vulnerable about her in this moment—a woman surrounded by empty rooms that aren't yet home.
"It's bigger than I expected," she says. "The listing said one bedroom, but there seem to be two upstairs."
"The smaller one was probably counted as an office." I check my watch. Nearly seven. "You need help bringing in your things?"
The offer surprises me as much as it seems to surprise her. I don't usually go out of my way for customers, especially not after hours.
"Oh, I just have this for now," she says, lifting her overnight bag. "Until my car's fixed."
Right. Her car. The reason we're here in the first place. How could I forget?
"I'll call you tomorrow once I've had a chance to look at it more closely," I say, moving toward the door. "Shop opens at eight."
She nods, following me to the back door. "I'll come by in the morning, if that's okay? I should probably get a rental car if mine's going to be out of commission for a few days."
"Nearest rental place is in Oakridge, twenty miles east," I tell her. "But Lou at the diner might know someone who could lend you something. Town's good about helping newcomers." Sometimes, anyway. When those newcomers aren't named Carter.
"Thanks for the tip." She hesitates, then adds, "And really, thank you for going above and beyond tonight. I know you didn't have to."
There's something in her eyes—a warmth, a directness—that makes me look away. I'm not used to being looked at like that, like I've done something special just by doing the bare minimum of human decency.
"No problem," I mutter, stepping outside. The evening air is cooling rapidly now, carrying the scent of pine and distant woodsmoke. "Lock up behind me. This town's safe, but still."
She nods, one hand on the door. "Goodnight, Riley."
I nod once in acknowledgment, then turn and head back to my truck. As I start the engine, I glance back at the cottage. Lucy stands in the doorway, illuminated from behind, watching me leave. She raises a hand in farewell, and after a moment's hesitation, I return the gesture.
Driving away, I tell myself I'm just doing my job. That's all this is. A broken-down car, a stranded customer. I've handled dozens of similar situations without giving them a second thought.
But as I turn back onto Main Street, I find myself wondering what Lucy Mitchell will make of Cedar Falls—and what Cedar Falls will make of her. This town has a way of either embracing you completely or rejecting you like a transplanted organ.
I wonder which it will be for her. And why, exactly, do I care?