Vince didn't go to the station that morning.
He drove past it once, slowed, then kept going. Mercer hadn't called again. That meant either the folder was already circulating, or someone had decided it shouldn't.
Neither option made him eager to check in.
He stopped at a gas station on the edge of town, the kind with a single pump that clicked louder than it should. While the tank filled, he watched the clerk through the window. The man pretended to straighten a rack of maps that hadn't been touched in years.
Vince paid in cash. The clerk counted it twice.
"School still closed?" Vince asked, casual.
"For kids," the man said. "Building's not dead."
"Nothing ever is," Vince said.
The clerk smiled too quickly. "Things get fixed."
Vince drove on.
By noon, word had shifted. Not spread - shifted. You could feel it in the way people paused before speaking, like they were checking for alignment.
At the diner, the coffee came slower. No comment this time. Just the cup, set down harder than necessary.
"You hear?" someone said behind him.
"Hear what?"
"That the paperwork was wrong."
Vince didn't turn.
"Wrong how?" the other voice asked.
"Dates. Someone mixed them up. Happens."
"Mixed by who?"
A chair scraped. The voices dropped.
Vince drank the coffee. It tasted burnt today.
Outside, Rose Hill was locking the bakery door though it wasn't closing time yet. She looked relieved to see him, then caught herself.
"They're saying the records don't mean what people thought," she said.
"Who's they?"
She adjusted the key in the lock. "People who don't like mistakes lingering."
"Mistakes tend to," Vince said.
She nodded. "So do rumors."
He watched her carefully. "Which is this?"
She met his eyes. "Depends who's correcting it."
That answer sat heavier than any denial.
In the afternoon, Vince went back to the school.
The west wing door was open.
Not wide. Just enough to notice if you were already looking.
Inside, the air smelled of old paint and something metallic. He didn't step past the threshold. He didn't need to. The light was on.
Someone wanted the space acknowledged.
Behind him, footsteps stopped short.
"You shouldn't be here," a woman said.
Vince turned.
She stood stiffly, keys looped around one finger. Not panicked. Prepared. He recognized her face but not from one place.
"I wasn't inside," Vince said.
"You were thinking about it."
"People do that," he said.
She swallowed. "The maintenance logs — they've been clarified."
"Clarified by who?"
"By someone who knows how these things work."
Vince waited.
"They weren't wrong," she said finally. "They were… misread."
"That happens too," Vince said.
Her jaw tightened. "You're making it sound worse than it is."
"I haven't said anything."
"That's the problem."
They stood there, the open door between them like an accusation no one wanted to name.
"You here about Tommy?" she asked.
"I'm here about people," Vince said.
She looked away first.
By the time Vince got home, the light was fading. He found the folder on the table exactly where he'd left it.
Someone had added a sticky note.
*Corrected copy enclosed.*
Inside were the same records. Neater. Dates aligned. Gaps smoothed over.
The mess had been cleaned.
Vince sat down and didn't open his notebook.
Outside, a car slowed.
This time, it stayed.