Night settled over Greyford without ceremony. The streetlights came on one by one, uneven in timing, as if someone had stopped caring whether they lined up properly. Vince waited until the diner lights dimmed and the square thinned out before stepping back outside.
He walked without hurry. The town liked slow movement. Anything rushed stood out.
Near the unused lot, the tire marks were clearer in the artificial light. Not fresh, not ancient. Repeated. Someone had driven in, turned carefully, then left the same way more than once. Vince crouched, touched the dirt, then brushed his fingers clean against his jacket. No photographs. No notes. Just memory.
A county vehicle rolled by at the far end of the street and slowed. Caleb sat behind the wheel, window down.
"Late," Caleb said.
"Early morning," Vince replied.
Caleb nodded toward the lot. "Ground survey flagged runoff issues here last year. Soil's unstable."
"Explains the tracks?"
"Explains why people avoid it," Caleb said. "Tracks don't explain themselves."
The car moved on, tires humming softly before fading into silence.
Vince circled the block. At the bakery, Mrs. Hill stood inside with the lights still on, rearranging shelves that had already been straightened earlier. She noticed him through the glass and stepped outside.
"You patrol every night?" she asked.
"Only when something feels unfinished."
She glanced down the street. "Lady Running used to walk this late. Said the quiet helped her think."
"Used to?"
Mrs. Hill shrugged. "People stopped asking questions. She stopped answering them."
"About what?"
"About who belonged where," Mrs. Hill said, then turned back inside as if she had said nothing at all.
At the clinic, one window still glowed. Claire stood near the desk, coat on, reviewing a clipboard she had already signed. She looked up when Vince passed, surprised, then thoughtful. Their eyes met briefly through the glass.
She hesitated, stepped outside.
"You should be resting," she said.
"So should you."
She smiled, small and careful. "Some nights don't allow it."
She did not ask what he was doing. He did not explain. The understanding between them sat quietly, not pressing, not demanding. When she stepped back inside, Vince felt the absence more than the presence.
The post office door creaked open farther down the street. A single package lay inside the night drop, small, wrapped in brown paper. Vince retrieved it, checking the label under the light.
No return address. Only his name, written carefully.
Inside his rental, he set the package on the table and opened it slowly. A folded receipt. Fuel charges from three weeks ago. A route number scribbled along the edge. The handwriting was uneven, rushed.
Tommy Raines.
Vince exhaled once and folded the paper back into the package. Not evidence yet. Just a signal.
A sound outside pulled his attention back. Footsteps. One set. Then gone. He moved to the window but saw only the streetlight flickering.
He stepped back out.
Near the square, a figure stood briefly at the edge of the fountain, then moved away before Vince could get a clear look. The posture was wrong. Too deliberate. Too aware of space.
By the time Vince reached the spot, it was empty.
Harold's garage light finally came on across town, long after it should have. Vince noted the delay. Another pattern forming.
He sat on the bench, letting the night settle around him. Wind moved through the trees. Somewhere, a door closed. Somewhere else, an engine started and stopped without going anywhere.
Lady Running. Daniel. Tommy. Routes. Quiet inspections. Careful glances.
Greyford was not hiding its secrets well. It was simply counting on patience to outlast curiosity.
Vince stood, pocketed the receipt, and headed back toward the house. The night followed him closely, as if listening.
And for the first time since arriving, he felt certain of one thing.
Someone in this town knew exactly what had been taken.
And they were waiting to see if he would notice.