By the time evening settled in, Vince knew he was being measured.
Not followed. Not watched in any obvious way. Just… placed. As if the town had decided where he belonged tonight and had quietly adjusted around that decision.
He didn't drive. The car stayed parked where he'd left it that morning. He walked instead, hands in his jacket pockets, steps unhurried. Greyford felt different on foot at this hour. Not quieter ~ more deliberate.
Lights were on where they usually weren't. Off where they usually were.
The diner windows glowed, but the sign was dark. The bakery was closed, though he could smell bread cooling somewhere inside. The clinic lights were still on, one room only. That caught his attention. He slowed, then kept going.
He didn't want to be obvious about noticing.
At the edge of the square, he stopped.
Nothing dramatic. No reason anyone watching would think twice about it. He stood there long enough to look like a man deciding where to go next. Long enough for the town to adjust again.
That was when he heard the sound.
Metal, lightly struck. Not dropped. Tapped.
It came from the alley behind the diner.
Vince waited. Counted his breath. Let the sound repeat itself. It didn't. Whatever had made it had already moved on.
He crossed the street slowly.
The alley smelled like old grease and wet cardboard. Nothing out of place at first glance. Then he saw it ~ a chair pulled slightly away from the wall. Not overturned. Not abandoned in a hurry. Just… repositioned.
Someone had sat there. Recently.
He crouched, touched the concrete near the legs. Still warm from the day. No scuff marks that suggested panic. Whoever had been here had time. Had intention.
He stood and turned.
Harold was across the street, near the garage, pretending to lock up.
The pretending was subtle. The kind of thing only another person who spent time watching people would notice. Harold wasn't done. He was waiting.
Vince crossed back without hurrying.
"You don't usually close this early," Vince said.
Harold shrugged. "Didn't feel like staying late."
"That's new."
"People change."
Harold finished with the lock and leaned back against the door. He didn't look at Vince when he spoke next.
"You ever get the sense," he said, "that a place knows when it's being tested?"
Vince studied his face. The grease under his nails. The lines around his eyes. This wasn't a warning. It wasn't a confession either.
"It's not the place," Vince said. "It's the people."
Harold nodded once. That was all. He pushed off the door and walked down the side street, not looking back.
Vince stayed where he was.
That mattered.
The sound of footsteps crossed the square behind him. Calm. Even. No rush. Vince didn't turn until they were close.
Chief Robert Mercer stopped beside him, hands clasped behind his back. He faced the square, not Vince.
"You're making folks uneasy," Robert said.
"I'm not doing much," Vince replied.
"That's usually when it's worst."
They stood together, looking at the same empty space.
"This town doesn't do well with pressure," Robert continued. "We prefer… balance."
"And when balance costs someone?" Vince asked.
Robert's jaw tightened. Just enough.
"Then we carry it," he said. "Same as anywhere else."
Vince glanced at him. "Do you?"
Robert didn't answer. After a moment, he stepped away, boots echoing lightly as he crossed toward town hall.
Vince felt it then ~ not triumph, not progress, but resistance. The kind that came when a system had decided to hold its shape a little longer.
He turned back toward the alley.
The chair was gone.
Not moved deeper in. Gone.
That unsettled him more than if it had been left behind.
He walked the longer way home, past the school.
The west wing lights were on.
That was wrong.
He slowed, staying across the street. Watched. Counted the windows. One room lit. No movement inside. Just light.
A figure stepped out from the side entrance.
Caleb.
He didn't startle when he saw Vince. Didn't look guilty either. He adjusted his jacket, glanced back at the door, then crossed the street.
"Didn't know you worked nights," Vince said.
"I don't," Caleb replied. "Not officially."
"What's in there?"
Caleb considered him for a moment. "Old things. Things nobody wants to sort through."
"Locks seemed fine before."
"They were."
Vince waited. Caleb didn't elaborate.
"You expecting someone?" Vince asked.
"No," Caleb said. Then, after a beat, "But I wouldn't be surprised."
That was the closest thing to honesty Vince had heard all day.
Caleb walked away without another word.
The light in the west wing went out.
When Vince finally reached the clinic, the single lit room was dark. Claire stepped out just as he passed, locking the door behind her.
She looked tired. Not worried. Not alert. Just… worn.
"You're still walking," she said.
"So are you."
She nodded. "People don't sleep well lately."
"Neither do I."
She hesitated, keys still in her hand. "Greyford isn't dangerous," she said carefully. "It's just… crowded. Emotionally."
"Does that make it easier?" Vince asked.
"No," she said. "It makes it complicated."
She didn't offer more. She didn't need to.
They parted without ceremony.
At the rental house, Vince sat at the table and opened his notebook.
He didn't write.
Instead, he laid out what he knew ~ not facts, but pressures.
Someone had sat in the alley long enough to wait.
Someone had wanted him to notice the chair.
Someone had removed it once they were sure he had.
The school light wasn't for him. It was for someone else.
Harold wasn't afraid. Robert wasn't ignorant. Caleb wasn't surprised.
And none of them were lying outright.
That was the problem.
He closed the notebook.
Outside, a car passed slowly. Didn't stop. Didn't need to.
Vince leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling.
Volume two hadn't ended with answers. It had ended with something heavier.
Understanding.
Not of what happened.
But of what Greyford was willing to carry.
And what it expected him to do once he knew.
End Of Vol.2