The clinic smelled faintly of antiseptic and old paper. Vince noticed it every time he stepped inside. It was not unpleasant, just persistent, like the town itself.
Claire stood near the counter, sorting files that did not need sorting. He could tell by the way she moved slowly, deliberately, as if giving herself something to do while waiting. She glanced up when she heard his steps, then gave a small nod.
"You're early," she said.
"Didn't sleep much," Vince replied.
She accepted that without comment. People in Greyford were good at that. Accepting things without pushing.
A man sat near the wall, holding his wrist, staring at the floor. Another woman filled out a form she had already completed once. Claire moved between them with practiced ease, checking names, adjusting chairs, speaking softly. This was her place. Not the diner, not the street. Here.
When there was a pause, she leaned lightly against the counter.
"People have been asking about you," she said.
Vince raised an eyebrow. "Asking what?"
"If you're staying." She hesitated. "If things are going to change."
"Are they worried?"
"Some." She shrugged. "Some are just curious."
Curiosity was rarely harmless in Greyford.
He thanked her and stepped back outside. The morning had settled into a dull warmth. The square was quiet but not empty. Caleb stood near the county truck, clipboard tucked under his arm, scanning a patch of ground near the curb. He looked more like someone checking drainage than anything official.
"You find what you're looking for?" Vince asked.
Caleb didn't look up right away. "Depends what you think I'm looking for."
"Let's say patterns."
That earned a brief glance. "Patterns don't belong to one department."
"They belong to someone."
Caleb's mouth tightened slightly. "Town's old. Things overlap."
"People too."
Caleb finally faced him. "You keep pulling at threads, detective, you might find they're tied to things you don't want unraveled."
"Or things someone else doesn't."
Caleb didn't answer. He marked something on the clipboard and moved on.
Vince walked toward the bakery. Mrs. Hill was behind the counter, hands dusted with flour, eyes sharp despite her smile.
"You look tired," she said.
"Everyone keeps telling me that."
"Then maybe it's true." She wrapped bread without asking if he wanted it. "Town's been restless."
"Any reason?"
She paused, then shrugged. "Old things stir when they think they've been forgotten."
He paid and stepped aside as a woman entered, speaking in a hushed voice about deliveries. Vince caught a phrase as he passed.
"…that trucker boy. Still nothing."
Tommy Raines. Always spoken like a loose end people hoped would knot itself.
Outside, Marilyn stood across the street, watching the bakery door. She noticed Vince and crossed over, calm, composed, hands tucked into her jacket pockets.
"You find anything?" she asked.
"Depends what you're hoping for."
She shook her head. "I stopped hoping a while ago."
"People say your brother knew things."
"People say a lot." Her gaze flicked toward the street. "Tommy paid attention. That's not the same as knowing."
"It can be."
She studied him for a moment. "Be careful. He disappeared because he didn't know when to stop asking."
Then she walked away, unhurried, as if she hadn't just said anything worth remembering.
By late afternoon, Vince sat on the bench near the fountain. Water moved in slow circles, never overflowing, never stopping. He watched people pass. Mrs. Hill locking her door. Caleb loading equipment. Harold driving by, eyes forward, hands steady on the wheel.
Nothing obvious. Nothing loud.
Claire passed on her way home from the clinic. She slowed when she saw him.
"You okay?" she asked.
"I think so."
She nodded. "If you need anything."
"I know."
She lingered a second longer, then left. Vince watched her go, feeling the pull of connection and the weight of restraint at the same time.
Greyford did not push back. It absorbed. Redirected. Quietly reminded him that nothing here surfaced without permission.
And yet, beneath the calm, something was shifting. Not rushing. Not panicking.
Waiting.