Dot's eyes sharpened slightly. That's not Hargrove's son, she said. Garrett's mother married Harg Grove when Garrett was 9 years old. Garrett's father left before he started school. She paused.
Garrett took his mother's maiden name. Not Hargrove. What's the relationship like? Dot was quiet for a moment. I've watched that boy in here since he was small.
She said he comes in on Sunday mornings sometimes with his mother. When Harrove's not here, Garrett, he's a different person. Quieter. He actually listens when his mother talks. He holds the door for people.
She picked up the coffee pot, moved away down the counter, then she came back. When Harrove's here, she said, "Garrett performs. You can see it. He performs being a certain kind of person, the kind Harrove wants him to be, and he's good at it because he's been doing it since he was 9 years old. " She looked at Rey. "I'm not saying it excuses anything," she said.
"I'm saying it explains some things. What does Hargrove want with me? " Ry asked. Dot gave him a long level look. I don't know yet, she said, but I'll listen. And in a town this size, listening is the same thing as investigating.
Ray nodded. He believed her. That evening, Thursday, Ray drove past Greystone Falls High on his way home. Practice had just ended. Parking lot was clearing out.
He could see the football team coming off the back field. Big shapes moving in the fading light. He didn't stop, but he saw Garrett win come out of the athletic entrance. The boy stopped on the sidewalk looking at something on his phone. Something about the way he stood alone outside the noise of the team around him was different from the Garrett that Mia had described.
The posture was quieter, less armored. A car pulled up to the curb. A nice car. County plates. Garrett's posture changed.
Shoulders back, chin up. The performance reassembling itself. He got into the car. Ray drove home. He understood now a little better what he was dealing with.
Not a simple bully. Not a simple anything. A boy who had been built into a certain shape by a man with his own agenda. A shape designed to serve that agenda, which meant the real problem wasn't Garrett Win. The real problem was the man in the car.
Thursday practice came and went. Maya came home quiet in the way that meant she was processing, not in the way that meant she was hurt. Ry knew the difference. He'd spent 17 years learning the difference. She changed clothes, made herself a cup of tea, sat at the kitchen table with her hands around the cup.