Vince spent most of the morning driving.
Not patrolling - driving. Past places he had already seen, down roads that looped back into each other if you followed them long enough. Greyford had a way of doing that. You could swear you were moving forward, but eventually you passed the same mailbox, the same split rail fence, the same patch of weeds bending toward the road.
He told himself it was useful. Getting a feel for the town. Understanding distance, timing, blind spots.
Mostly, it kept him from sitting still.
By late morning he was back near the school. He hadn't planned on it. The car slowed on its own, muscle memory rather than intention. The building sat quiet, the parking lot empty except for a maintenance truck parked crooked near the side entrance.
Caleb was there.
Vince recognized the way he leaned against the wall before he recognized the face. Arms loose. Weight shifted onto one heel. A posture that said watching without looking like it.
"You're circling again," Caleb said without turning fully.
Vince stopped beside him. "Town's small."
"Doesn't mean people like being watched twice."
"I wasn't watching," Vince said. "I was passing."
Caleb snorted softly. Not amused. Not angry either. Something in between. "You city guys say that like it matters."
They stood there a moment, neither speaking. The quiet pressed in the way it always did around the school - heavy, expectant.
"You talk to Marilyn again?" Caleb asked.
"Yesterday."
"And?"
"She remembers more than most."
"That's not always a gift."
Vince glanced at him. "You're defensive."
Caleb shrugged. "I'm practical."
"About Tommy?"
Caleb's jaw tightened. Not much. Just enough.
"I already told you what I know," he said. "Kid stopped showing up. Town moved on."
"People don't just move on," Vince said.
"In Greyford," Caleb replied, "they do."
That was the difference. In the city, things rotted loudly. Here, they dried out quietly.
Vince didn't push. He noted instead how Caleb's eyes kept drifting toward the tree line behind the school, like he expected something to step out of it. Or had once.
"Still fixing up the west wing?" Vince asked.
Caleb nodded. "Always something breaking. Pipes. Locks. Doors that won't stay shut."
"Doors usually don't fix themselves."
Caleb looked at him then. A real look. "Neither do towns."
Vince left without another question. It felt like the right wrong choice.
He drove back toward the square, stopping at the diner without much thought. The waitress remembered him this time. Poured coffee without asking.
"People nervous," she said quietly, setting the mug down. "You being around again."
"Again?"
She hesitated. "Just saying."
Two booths over, someone laughed too loud. Another voice followed, lower.
"…should've stayed buried."
Vince turned, but the sound dissolved into clinking plates and conversation about weather.
Outside, the afternoon had warmed. He walked instead of driving, passing the bakery. Mrs. Hill was inside, moving trays with practiced care.
She looked up and smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.
"You're restless today," Rose Hill said.
"Is it that obvious?"
"To people who watch ovens," she replied. "Yes."
He didn't smile.
"You hear anything new?" Vince asked.
She shook her head. "Same old things. Just louder in people's heads."
"Evan Hale."
The name settled badly again. Rose Hill didn't respond right away.
"You ask that name like it owes you something," she said finally.
"Does it?"
She slid a loaf into a bag and handed it over. "Some debts don't want collecting."
By evening, Vince was home, loaf untouched on the counter. He opened his notebook, stared at the page, and closed it again.
Outside, a car slowed near the house. Didn't stop. Just slowed.
He watched it pass, heart steady, instincts restless.
The day had been full of movement. Conversations. Familiar faces.
Nothing had changed.
And that, he was beginning to understand, was the point.