Two weeks was not very long to unravel 15 years of silence. But two weeks was exactly the kind of window she'd learned to work inside of back when delays cost more than time. At 6:58 a black sedan pulled up outside the diner. A woman stepped out tailored coat silver hair pinned back neatly. The kind of posture that comes from decades of walking into rooms where people expected her to lead.
Mayor Margaret Allison. Vivian gave it two more minutes before she crossed the street. The diner was empty except for Dorothy who was refilling the sugar dispensers behind the counter and the mayor seated in the back booth with two cups of coffee already poured. Officer Heartwell. The mayor said gesturing to the seat across from her.
Thank you for coming. Vivian slid into the booth. You said this was private. It is the mayor said. Dorothy already knows more than most people in this town.
She's not the one I'm worried about. Vivian glanced toward the counter. Dorothy didn't look up but her hands had gone still on the sugar dispenser for just a moment the way a person's hands go still when they're listening harder than they're letting on. I'll get straight to it Mayor Allison said folding her hands on the table. Three months ago my office received an anonymous complaint about the police department.
Evidence tampering, selective enforcement, a pattern of certain cases disappearing before they ever reached a courtroom. What kind of cases? Cases involving people with money, the mayor said. Cases involving people with the wrong last name being asked the wrong questions at the wrong time. And one case, 15 years old, that I have never been able to get a straight answer about, no matter how many times I've asked.
Vivian's chest tightened, though her face stayed even. My father's case, she said quietly. The mayor studied her for a long moment. I wondered how long it would take you to say that out loud. You knew who I was before I ever walked into that department, Vivian said.
It wasn't a question. I knew your name the moment your application landed on my desk, the mayor admitted. I could have told you everything that first day. I chose not to. Why?
Because a woman who walks in already certain of the answer stops looking for new ones, the mayor said. I needed someone inside that building who would look at everything fresh. Someone the old guard wouldn't think to watch too closely. At least not right away. Vivian sat with that for a moment, turning her coffee cup slowly on the table.
So, what exactly are you asking me to do? Keep doing exactly what you've been doing, the mayor said. Uh, watch, listen, write things down. I can't hand you a badge that says internal affairs, not yet, not without tipping off exactly the people we need to catch off guard, but anything you find, anything at all, you bring straight to me. Not to Chief Higgins, not to anyone in that bullpen, straight to me.
You don't trust Higgins. The mayor's expression flickered something tired and complicated passing behind her eyes. I trust that Walter Higgins is a good man who has spent 15 years being afraid of something, she said. That's not the same as trusting him to fix it before he retires. Vivian nodded slowly.
How much time do I have? Less than you'd like, the mayor said. There's a ceremony in less than 2 weeks. A public announcement, cameras, the whole town watching. Whatever's rotten in that department, I need it exposed before that day or dealt with quietly enough that it doesn't blow up in everyone's face during it.
What ceremony? The mayor's mouth curved just slightly, the first real hint of warmth Vivian had seen from her all morning. One thing at a time, Officer Hartwell, she said. Trust me. You'll understand everything exactly the moment you need to.
She stood, buttoned her coat, and left a few bills on the table for the coffee. Be careful in there, she added pausing at the booth. The man you're dealing with isn't just cruel for sport. Cruel men usually have a reason for being cruel. Find his reason and you'll find whatever this town has been hiding.
She walked out before Vivian could ask anything else, the bell above the door ringing behind her. Dorothy came over a moment later, setting down a fresh slice of pie without being asked. She's not wrong, you know. Dorothy said, her voice low. About Dawson having a reason.
Vivian looked up sharply. You know something. Dorothy glanced toward the window, toward the empty street outside, then back at Vivian, her face suddenly older than it had looked a moment before. I know more than I've said, she admitted. But some things, once you say them out loud, you can't take back.
I need to be sure you're ready to hear it before I hand it to you. I've been ready for 15 years, Vivian said. Dorothy studied her for a long moment then reached out and squeezed her hand once gentle but firm. Give me a few more days, she said. Not because I doubt you, because some truths deserve to be told properly, not rushed over pie at 7:00 in the morning.
Vivian didn't push. She had learned patience in places that made patience a matter of life and death. A few more days was nothing. She left the diner with more questions than she'd walked in with. And for the first time since arriving in Ashford Creek, she felt something besides caution.
She felt close. That afternoon, back at the station, she found Sam Whitfield in the small break room nursing his coffee alone the way he usually did during the quiet hour before shift change. You look like a woman carrying something heavy, he said, not looking up from his cup. Just tired tired, Vivian said. Though they both knew that wasn't the whole truth.