” Meg says a little defensive. “I didn’t think you’d mind. ” Rosie pulls her into a hug before Meg can say anything else. “I don’t mind, ” she says. “I don’t know how to thank you.
” “You don’t have to, ” Meg says, muffled against her shoulder. “This town’s worth fighting for. Even the parts of it that scare me. ” Rosie holds on to her a moment longer than she means to. Some debts, she thinks, you never quite finish repaying.
You just try every day to be worth them. Ryan Foster finds himself avoiding Grant’s calls for the first time in years. He drives past the diner twice one evening, engine idling, never going in. Something in him wants to say what he saw. Something in him is terrified, too.
He knows what happens to people in this town who cross the Whitmores. He’s watched it happen before to people who used to be his friends. On the third night, Grant finds him anyway, waiting outside his apartment. “You’ve been quiet, ” Grant says, leaning against Ryan’s truck. “Been busy, ” Ryan says, not meeting his eyes.
“That deputy come talk to you yet? ” “No, good. Keep it that way. ” Grant’s voice stays light, almost friendly. “You saw me by that register?
” “I know you did. ” Ryan’s jaw tightens. “I didn’t see anything. ” “That’s the right answer, ” Grant says, smiling now. My dad’s got a job opening for position.
Good pay. Real easy to get for the right people. Real easy to lose, too. For people who talk too much, he claps Ryan on the shoulder, friendly as ever, walking off into the dark. Ryan stands there a long time after the truck pulls away.
Fists clenched, chest tight, saying nothing to the empty street. He thinks about his sister again, thinks about what their father used to say. A man who watches wrong happen and stays silent is halfway to doing it himself. He doesn’t sleep much that night. On Wednesday afternoon, Josie stops by the small library on her way home.
Constance looks up from the front desk, recognizing her instantly. You’re the one from the diner, she says. Word travels fast in this town. I was hoping you might help me with something, Josie says. Old newspapers.
Anything from around 9 years back. Constance studies her for a moment, then nods slowly, understanding more than she says. Follow me. We keep the old archives in the back room. She leads Josie past shelves of donated paperbacks to a small locked door.
Inside boxes of yellowed newspapers organized by year, dust thick on the lids. Your father, Constance says quietly. Not really a question. Josie looks up surprised. You knew him?
