Vince was still at his desk when the courthouse clock struck midnight.
The sound carried farther than it should have. Greyford was quiet enough that even time felt louder here. He paused with his pen hovering above the page, listening as the echo dissolved into nothing.
In the city, midnight meant noise-sirens bouncing between buildings, late trains groaning under fluorescent light, radios crackling with voices that never slept. Here, it felt like the town collectively held its breath once the hour turned.
He leaned back in the chair and rubbed at his eyes. The station was dark except for the lamp on his desk, its yellow light pooling over scattered notes. He hadn't meant to stay this late. He never did. But every time he tried to stop, another detail tugged at him.
Disappearances that weren't called disappearances. Reports filed and then quietly withdrawn. Names that surfaced once and then vanished from conversation like they'd never belonged to anyone real.
Evan Hale.
Vince hadn't written it in the main column yet. Just off to the side. Circled once, not twice.
He flipped back through his notebook. Dates. Times. Who reported what, and who didn't. A pattern was forming-not a clean one, not the kind you could map neatly~but something directional. Every unresolved incident bent away from confrontation. Away from consequence.
Toward silence.
He shut the notebook and stood, stretching the stiffness from his back. The building creaked faintly, wood settling as if even it wanted him gone for the night.
Outside, the streetlamp across from the station flickered. Once. Twice. Then steadied.
Vince frowned.
It wasn't the light itself. It was the timing. Too precise. He stepped to the window and looked out. The road was empty. No cars. No movement. Just the hum of electricity and the smell of damp pine drifting in through the cracked frame.
He told himself he was tired. That exhaustion had a way of turning nothing into something.
Still, he stayed where he was.
A shape moved near the edge of the lot~too quick to identify, gone before his mind could decide what it was. His hand went instinctively to the lamp switch. Light flooded the room.
Outside, nothing.
He exhaled slowly, annoyed at himself. City instincts didn't translate well here. In Greyford, quiet wasn't suspicious. It was normal.
He locked up and drove home a little after one.
The house waited for him like it always did-dark, orderly, unfamiliar. A rental meant to feel neutral, but neutrality had a way of amplifying unease when you spent enough nights alone in it.
He kicked off his shoes, poured a glass of water, and stood at the kitchen sink without drinking. The reflection in the window caught him off guard. For a moment, he didn't recognize the man staring back. Too still. Too alert.
In the city, late nights had weight. You earned them. Here, they felt imposed.
He was halfway down the hall when he heard it.
A sound-not loud, not sharp. Just the softest suggestion of movement outside. Gravel shifting, maybe. Or a footstep that didn't want to be one.
Vince froze.
He waited. Counted his breaths.
Nothing followed.
When he finally slept, it was shallow and fractured. He dreamed of traffic~horns blaring, lights strobing, voices shouting over one another. A memory surfaced uninvited: a rain-slick alley, red and blue lights washing over brick, a body covered too neatly with a tarp. He woke with his jaw clenched, heart hammering like he'd been running.
Morning came pale and cold.
The call came before he finished his coffee.
"Stone," Mercer said. No greeting. "We've got a situation."
"Where?"
"Raines place."
Vince felt the shift immediately. "Missing?"
Mercer hesitated. "Not officially."
By the time Vince arrived, half the street was already awake. Curtains twitched. Doors stood open just enough for watching. Tommy Raines' truck sat in the driveway, keys still on the hook inside, according to his sister.
Marilyn Raines stood on the porch with her arms folded tight across her chest. She didn't cry. Didn't raise her voice. She answered questions like she'd rehearsed them.
"Yes, he went out last night."
"No, he didn't say where."
"No, that wasn't unusual."
When Vince asked when she last saw him, her eyes flicked-just briefly-toward the tree line behind the house.
"After dark," she said. "Sometime after."
"Anyone else see him?"
"No."
Her denial came too fast.
Later, when Mercer stepped away to take a call, Vince tried again.
"You called me last night," he said quietly.
Marilyn stiffened. "I didn't say anything I shouldn't have."
"You told me people helped him."
She swallowed. "I meant-emotionally."
"That's not how it sounded."
She met his eyes then, and for the first time, something cracked through the composure. Not fear. Not guilt.
Resolve.
"You're not from here," she said. "You don't understand how things work."
"Help me understand," Vince said.
Her mouth tightened. "No."
By noon, the tone had shifted.
The report was downgraded. Tommy was labeled "voluntary absence." County advised patience. No search authorized. Just wait.
At the bakery, the mood was thick with whispers. Mrs. Hill handed Vince his coffee without asking.
"Hard morning," she said.
"You heard already."
She nodded. "Word travels."
"Funny how it always does," Vince said.
Her smile faltered, just slightly. "People worry when outsiders get upset."
"I'm not upset."
"You're persistent," she corrected gently. "That can make folks nervous."
On his way out, he heard it again. Two men near the door, voices low.
"Not like Evan," one murmured.
"Don't say that," the other snapped.
They saw Vince watching and fell silent.
That afternoon, a county truck blocked the road leading toward the old service trail. Same place Vince had been circling since week one. Same excuse. Maintenance.
Nothing looked disturbed.
That night, he found the note.
It was waiting on the kitchen table. No envelope. No handwriting he recognized.
*Some things don't need solving.*
He didn't sit down this time. He didn't breathe for a long moment.
In the city, pressure came from authority~ commanders, courts, public eyes. Here, it came wrapped in courtesy. In restraint. In people deciding, together, what should be allowed to surface.
Vince opened his notebook and wrote until his hand ached.
* Tommy Raines gone overnight
* Sister discourages search
* County intervention immediate
* Road access blocked again
* Evan Hale referenced - still avoided
At the bottom, he added one last line.
*They aren't hiding the truth.*
*They're protecting it.*
He closed the notebook and turned off the light.
Outside, Greyford slept peacefully.
And Vince understood, finally, why it didn't feel like peace at all.