The hardware store that somehow survived every economic shift of the last 50 years. Greystone Falls had all of it. The main street was called inevitably main street. Two blocks of storefronts clean enough with American flags hung between the street lamps. A barber shop, a pharmacy, a bank that had the word first in its name, the way banks always did in towns like this.
And across from the barber shop just waking up, lights flickering on inside, a diner dots placed, the sign was handpainted, the kind of sign that tells you the owner made it themselves. Ray parked the Harley in front of it. Turned off the engine. The quiet rushed in the way it always did when you killed a motorcycle. Sudden, almost startling, like the world had been holding its breath.
He sat there for a moment, just sat. His phone buzzed in his jacket pocket. He pulled it out. Unknown number. Tennessee area code, but not local.
Nashville, maybe. He looked at it for 4 seconds. Then he turned the screen down and slid it back into his pocket. Not now. Whatever it was, not now.
The pickup pulled in beside him. The engine cut. Ray heard the passenger door open, heard the familiar shuffle of Mia getting her bearings after a long sleep. She came around the front of the truck, hair still half tangled from leaning against the window. She had her mother's eyes.
He'd never quite gotten used to that. Seeing Linda's eyes in this teenage face, blinking at him in the early morning light, she looked at the town, took it in slowly. The way she always assessed new places, quiet, methodical, like she was making a list she'd consult later. It's smaller than Memphis, she said. Most things are, she looked at the diner, then at the barber shop, then at the water tower, where a painted hawk spread its wings above the words Greystone Falls Hawks.
Hawks, she said. Apparently, she was quiet for a moment. Then, cheerleaders for the hawks? I'd guess so. She nodded slowly, processing, Ray watched her.
He wanted to say something useful, something a father was supposed to say when he moved his daughter to her fifth town in 6 years. What he said was, "You hungry? " Mia looked at him. One side of her mouth lifted. "Always," she said. Side dots place.
The smell was coffee and bacon grease and something baking biscuits maybe or cornbread. The kind of smell that doesn't apologize for itself. Four people were already seated. A couple of older men at the counter, not talking to each other, but comfortable in the silence. A woman in a postal uniform reading her phone.
A man in work boots with mud on them, staring at his eggs like they'd said something offensive. The woman behind the counter was somewhere in her mid60s. Big framed glasses, gray hair swept up in a practical bun, an apron with a faded rooster on it. She moved between the coffee station and the counter with the ease of someone who had done this particular sequence of movements 10,000 times. She looked up when Ray and Mia came in.
Didn't miss a beat. Didn't stare at the leather jacket. Just said, "Two of you? Two of us? " Ray said, "Corner booths got the best light in the morning. Take it if you want, they took it. " Ray ordered black coffee and eggs over easy.
Mia ordered orange juice and a short stack with extra butter, the way she'd ordered pancakes since she was 9 years old. The woman Ry assumed she was Dot because the apron had the same rooster as the sign out front. Brought the drinks herself, set them down with practiced efficiency. Then she looked at Rey, not with alarm, not with suspicion, just looked. You're the one opening up the Callaway garage, she said.