Chapter 5 : The Listening Post
[SHERIFF ELIZABETH FORBES — Mystic Grill, 5:47 PM]
Liz watched the Donovan boy refill water glasses.
He moved efficiently—no wasted steps, no awkward fumbling. Most teenage servers treated the job like an inconvenience. Matt Donovan treated it like reconnaissance.
"—and I'm telling you, Richard, the Historical Society vault needs better security." Carol Lockwood's voice cut through Liz's observation. "Three break-in attempts this year."
"The vault has been fine for fifty years," Mayor Lockwood replied, not bothering to lower his voice. "A few drunk teenagers trying to win dares doesn't constitute a security crisis."
"What about the Gilbert watch?" Liz asked. "Jeremy's been acting out since Grayson and Miranda died. If he decides to take an interest in family heirlooms—"
"The watch is safe." Richard's tone brooked no argument. "John made sure of that before he left town."
John Gilbert. The absent brother who showed up for funerals and left behind conspiracy theories. Liz had never liked him, but she couldn't deny his commitment to certain... precautions.
The Donovan boy appeared at her elbow. "More tea, Sheriff?"
"Please."
He poured without spilling. His hands were steady. Bandaged, she noticed—left palm and something on his forearm, visible under his rolled sleeves.
"Hurt yourself?" she asked.
A brief pause. "Grabbed a broken glass wrong. Hazard of the job."
Smooth lie. Too smooth for a seventeen-year-old. But Liz had no reason to push—the Donovan kids had enough problems without the Sheriff adding paranoia to the list.
"You're a good kid, Matt. Staying out of trouble?"
Something flickered in his expression. There and gone, too fast to read.
"Trying my best, ma'am."
He moved away to check on another table. Carol resumed her monologue about the Historical Society. Richard grunted at appropriate intervals.
Liz kept watching.
The Donovan boy was careful. Attentive. He lingered near their table just long enough to catch fragments of conversation, but not so long as to seem obvious. When Richard mentioned vervain—a word they usually avoided in public—Matt didn't react visibly. Just topped off the breadsticks and moved on.
Either he was exactly what he appeared to be, or he was very, very good.
Liz made a mental note to pull his file. Just in case.
[MATT DONOVAN]
Vervain supply. Gilbert watch. Historical Society vault.
I filed the fragments away while pretending to count napkins. The Founding Families talked freely in front of servers—a blind spot born of privilege. Kelly Donovan's boy was invisible. Harmless.
Useful.
Mayor Lockwood had a temper that matched his son's—the werewolf gene expressing itself in aggression long before the curse activated. Carol Lockwood performed elegance like it was her job. And Sheriff Forbes...
Sheriff Forbes was watching me.
I'd felt her eyes tracking my movements for the past twenty minutes. Casual observation, professional instinct. She probably ran background checks on everyone who got within ten feet of her coffee cup.
Don't give her a reason to dig deeper.
The kitchen door swung open and Jamie, the night manager, waved me over.
"Table twelve needs their check. And grab a mop—someone spilled something in the back hallway."
"On it."
The mop closet was near the restrooms, which put me in earshot of the back tables. I grabbed supplies and moved slowly, ears open.
"—can't believe Elena's still coming here. Two months after..." Carol Lockwood, voice dripping with performative sympathy.
"The girl needs normalcy." Sheriff Forbes, quieter. "It's good for her to maintain routines."
"I suppose. Though if she starts dating again too soon, people will talk."
"Carol." Richard's voice, warning.
I mopped in slow circles, capturing every word.
Elena's grief was public property in Mystic Falls. Two months since Wickery Bridge. Two months since Grayson and Miranda Gilbert died in what everyone called a tragic accident.
I knew the truth: Stefan Salvatore had been there. He'd pulled Elena from the water, let her parents drown. Three months from now, he'd walk into her life and pretend they'd never met.
The information was useless without proof. And proof would mean exposing knowledge I couldn't explain.
File it away. Move on.
I finished mopping and returned to the floor. Table twelve got their check. Table seven ordered dessert. Table three left a forty percent tip because their kid had been annoying and they felt guilty.
At 7:15, Jeremy Gilbert walked in.
Alone. Hoodie up, headphones in, the universal teenager signal for leave me alone. He slid into a booth near the back and ordered a burger he barely touched.
I brought water without being asked. His eyes were red-rimmed, pupils slightly too wide. High on something, though he was functional enough to be in public.
He didn't acknowledge me. Just stared at his phone, texting.
I cleared a nearby table and caught fragments of his half-whispered phone call.
"—Vicki said tonight... yeah, the cemetery... I'll bring the stuff, she said she'd bring—"
His voice dropped too low to hear.
Cemetery. Tonight. Vicki.
My sister. My drug-using, self-destructive sister, meeting Elena Gilbert's drug-using, self-destructive brother at a cemetery after dark.
The Mystic Falls Cemetery, where vampires would start hunting in three months.
Not yet. Nothing supernatural yet. Just teenagers making bad choices.
But bad choices had a way of compounding. Vicki's addiction was the crack Damon Salvatore would eventually exploit. Jeremy's grief made him vulnerable. Their connection put both of them in proximity to the danger that was coming.
I needed to break that connection. Or at least redirect it.
The shift dragged on. I served tables, cleared plates, smiled at customers who didn't see me. At 8:45, Jamie announced last call for kitchen orders. At 9:00, I clocked out.
Jeremy was already gone. Vicki's number went straight to voicemail.
The cemetery was on my way home.
I found them behind the old church ruins.
The cemetery was quiet at this hour—just crickets and the distant sound of traffic from Main Street. The church had burned in the 1950s, leaving a skeleton of stone walls and a collapsed roof open to the stars.
Vicki and Jeremy sat on a fallen tombstone, passing a joint between them. Empty pill bottles lay scattered in the grass.
Vicki saw me first.
Her expression cycled through surprise, guilt, defiance—settling on the last like armor.
"What are you, my dad now?"
Jeremy scrambled to his feet. Too high to be aggressive, just confused. "Matt? What are—"
"Go home, Jeremy."
He blinked at me. "I wasn't—"
"Go. Home."
Something in my voice cut through the haze. Jeremy grabbed his backpack and stumbled toward the cemetery gates, throwing one apologetic glance at Vicki before disappearing into the dark.
My sister glared at me.
"That was rude."
"I don't care."
"You can't just—"
"I can." I moved closer, close enough to see the chemical glaze over her pupils. "I'm the one who'll find your body if you OD. I'm the one who'll identify you at the morgue. Do you understand that?"
Her defiance cracked.
"Matt—"
"I'm the one who'll have to call Mom and tell her. Except she won't answer, will she? She'll see the area code and she'll let it go to voicemail, and I'll have to leave a message explaining that her daughter is dead because no one was paying attention."
Vicki's face crumpled.
The anger drained out of me. What replaced it was older, heavier—the exhaustion of watching someone you loved destroy themselves inch by inch.
"I can't lose you too," I said.
She was crying now. Mascara running down her cheeks, shoulders shaking. I pulled her into a hug and let her sob against my shoulder.
We stayed like that for a long time.
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