By midmorning, Vince knew people were talking.
He felt it before he heard it-small changes in posture when he walked past, conversations tapering off instead of stopping outright. In the city, attention sharpened when you entered a room. Here, it softened, like people were careful not to bruise you with it.
At the station, Mercer didn't look up right away when Vince stepped into his office. He finished writing something, capped his pen, and only then leaned back.
"You were at the clinic yesterday," Mercer said.
It wasn't a question.
"Yes," Vince replied. "Briefly."
Mercer nodded once. "People noticed."
Vince kept his voice even. "People notice everything here."
"They do," Mercer agreed. "Which is why they tend to draw conclusions."
"What kind of conclusions?"
Mercer exhaled through his nose. Not annoyed. Measuring. "That you're digging where there's no hole."
"I was asking about injuries," Vince said. "That's part of my job."
"Was," Mercer corrected gently. "Before county asked us to slow things down."
Vince watched him carefully. Mercer wasn't threatening him. He was repositioning him.
"I didn't ask for files," Vince said.
"I know," Mercer said. "But people don't always hear the details. They hear *interest*."
There it was.
Interest implied intent. Intent implied disruption.
Mercer stood and moved to the window, looking out at the street like it might answer for him. "Marilyn Raines came by earlier."
Vince's jaw tightened. "About her brother?"
"About you," Mercer said. "She's worried you're… stirring things."
"I asked a clinic worker a few questions."
"And now Marilyn's asking why a detective is looking into old injuries," Mercer said. "People connect dots whether they belong together or not."
Vince thought of Claire, of her careful answers, of how neutral the visit had felt at the time. The mistake wasn't what he'd asked.
It was where he'd asked it.
"I didn't give her a name," Vince said.
"You didn't have to," Mercer replied. "You're the only new thing in this town."
Later, Vince drove without a destination in mind. He let the road carry him, past the school, past the bakery, toward the residential streets where houses sat close enough to overhear one another.
That's when he saw her.
She was jogging, same as before~steady pace, head down, arms pumping like she was chasing something just out of reach. She slowed when she noticed his car, then stopped altogether.
Vince pulled over without thinking.
She didn't run this time.
Up close, she looked younger than he'd expected. Tired, but not fragile. Her eyes flicked to his badge, then back to his face.
"You're the detective," she said.
"Yes."
She wiped sweat from her brow. "You've been busy."
That phrasing again.
"People keep saying that," Vince replied.
"They don't like it," she said, bluntly. "You asking questions."
"I don't ask to upset people."
She laughed once, short and humorless. "Nobody ever does."
Vince studied her now-not just what she said, but how she stood. The tension wasn't fear. It was anticipation. Like someone waiting for something they'd already accepted.
"You were running the night I arrived," he said.
"And?" she asked.
"And you ran when you saw me."
She shrugged. "I don't like surprises."
"You didn't look surprised," Vince said. "You looked… decided."
Her jaw tightened. "You're reading into things."
"Maybe," he said. "But people who want to be forgotten don't usually keep the same route."
That landed.
Her eyes dropped to the road. "You should be careful," she said. "Greyford doesn't like it when people pull threads."
"What happens?"
"They fray," she replied. "And then someone has to fix them."
Before Vince could respond, she took off again~not fleeing, just leaving. Her stride didn't break.
Back at the station, Marilyn Raines was waiting.
She stood stiffly near the front desk, hands clasped tight, eyes sharp. When she saw Vince, she stepped forward.
"You went to the clinic," she said.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I'm trying to understand what happened to your brother."
"No, you're not," she said. "You're trying to understand what happened *before* him."
Vince held her gaze. "If I don't, I can't help him."
Her voice dropped. "Help him stay gone."
That stopped him.
"What do you mean?"
She shook her head. "You don't see it, do you? You're making people nervous. When people get nervous, they make choices."
"Like what?"
"Like deciding you're the problem," she said.
Mercer appeared then, positioning himself between them without force.
"That's enough," he said quietly.
Marilyn's eyes flicked to him, then back to Vince. "I called you last night because I thought you were different," she said. "But you're still a detective."
She left without another word.
That evening, Vince sat at his kitchen table with his notebook open. He replayed the day carefully, the way he always did. Not the facts~the reactions.
The clinic visit had traveled faster than it should have. The running woman hadn't denied anything, but she hadn't accused him either. Marilyn's fear wasn't about her brother being found.
It was about something being *reopened*.
Vince wrote one line, then crossed it out. Wrote another.
*Clinic inquiry triggered response.*
He paused, then added:
*Unintentional signal sent.*
That was the mistake.
Not asking questions.
Letting the town see where he was looking.
Outside, a car passed slowly. Too slowly.
Vince closed the notebook.
Greyford wasn't pushing back yet. It was adjusting.
And for the first time since he arrived, Vince felt it clearly-not hostility, not anger, but something far more dangerous.
The town was deciding how to deal with him.
And he had just given it a reason.