The clinic sat just far enough from the center of town that it felt intentional, as if Greyford had decided long ago that illness and injury should happen slightly out of sight. Vince parked in the gravel lot and cut the engine, listening to the low tick as it cooled. A wind moved through the maples beside the building, carrying the faint smell of antiseptic through an open window.
Inside, the waiting room was small and orderly in a tired way. Chairs that didn't quite match. A table stacked with magazines no one bothered to replace anymore. A man sat near the window with a boy whose knee was wrapped in gauze, the white already darkening at the edges.
Behind the desk, a woman was sorting files.
She looked up when Vince approached, her expression neutral but attentive-no forced smile, no suspicion either. Just acknowledgment.
"Morning," she said.
"Morning," Vince replied. "I'm looking to ask a few questions."
She nodded once, setting the files aside. "About a patient?"
"About patterns," he said. Then, after a beat, "If that's something you can talk about."
She studied him briefly, not his face exactly but the way he stood~too still, too aware of his surroundings. Her eyes flicked to his badge, then back.
"That depends," she said. "What kind of patterns?"
"People coming in after hours. Injuries that don't get reported elsewhere." He paused. "Six or seven years back."
There it was. The invisible line.
"I can't give you records without county approval," she said evenly. "You probably know that."
"I do."
She gestured toward the chairs. "You can sit. I'll finish with this first."
Vince took a seat near the wall. From there, he could see the desk, the hallway leading deeper into the clinic, and the man with the boy. The woman moved efficiently, quietly~everything about her suggested routine rather than personality. If she noticed him watching, she didn't acknowledge it.
When the man stood to leave, she came around the desk and crouched to the boy's level, speaking softly. The boy laughed, despite himself. Vince noted it absently, the way he noted most things: filed, not felt.
She returned to the desk and picked up a clipboard.
"Name?" she asked.
"Stone. Vincent."
Her pen paused. "Detective."
"Yes."
"I'm **Claire**," she said, writing anyway. "I handle intake. Mostly mornings."
"Busy mornings?"
She gave a small shrug. "Greyford doesn't get emergencies often. But when it does, everyone knows."
"Before they get here?"
"Usually."
She handed the clipboard back. "Like I said, I can't give you files. But I can tell you this: people around here don't come in unless they think they have to. If someone's hurt and doesn't show up, it's because they don't want it written down."
"That's useful," Vince said.
"It's just how it is," she replied.
He glanced toward the hallway. "You ever notice gaps? Times when something should have come through and didn't?"
Her answer came without hesitation. "Yes."
"And?"
"And I don't assume why," she said. "That's not my job."
He nodded. Fair enough.
There was a pause-not awkward, just unoccupied.
"You're not from here," she said.
"No."
She tilted her head slightly. "City."
"Yes."
"That explains the hours," she said. "You look like someone who doesn't stop when the day does."
It wasn't said unkindly. Vince felt the familiar instinct to deflect.
"Habit," he said.
"Habits last longer than reasons," she replied, then seemed to realize she'd said more than she meant to. "Sorry. That wasn't-"
"It's fine," Vince said. "People tell me that a lot."
She leaned back against the counter, folding her arms~not defensively, just comfortably. "Greyford runs on routine. Anything outside it stands out."
"Like questions."
"Yes," she said. "Like questions."
He hesitated, then said, "My wife used to work in a clinic."
The words surprised him as soon as they left his mouth.
Claire's expression softened, but only slightly. "Used to?"
"She passed," he said. He didn't elaborate. He didn't need to.
"I'm sorry," she said, simply.
He nodded once. "Thank you."
Another patient arrived, interrupting whatever might have followed. Claire excused herself and went back to work without fuss.
Vince stood. He hadn't gotten what he came for~ not directly~but something about the visit felt necessary anyway.
At the door, he turned back.
"If something unusual came through here," he said, "something people didn't want remembered… would you notice?"
"Yes," she said.
"And would you tell me?"
She considered him carefully this time. "I'd need to understand why you were asking."
That was the closest thing to an answer he'd gotten all day.
Outside, the sky had dulled to a flat gray. Vince paused on the steps, scanning the lot out of habit. Nothing moved. Nothing felt out of place.
As he walked to his car, he caught his reflection in the clinic window. He looked tired. Older than he'd felt when he arrived in Greyford.
He thought briefly-only briefly-about coming back here for reasons that weren't investigative. The thought didn't linger. He let it go.
There were lines he didn't cross. Even alone. Especially alone.
He drove away, the clinic shrinking in the rearview mirror until it blended back into the town's quiet geometry.
Greyford remained calm. Observant. Balanced.
And Vince felt, dimly, that the town had just added him to its ledger-not as a threat, not as a confidant, but as something to be watched carefully from now on.