Somewhere behind her, a car engine idles low, parked at the far end of the street, lights off. Josie doesn't turn around right away. She slows her pace, just slightly, uses a dark storefront window to check what's behind her. A dark sedan, windows tinted, engine running, no one getting out. She keeps walking, steady, unhurried, like she's done this before.
At the motel door, she pauses once, glances down the street. The sedan is gone. She lets out a slow breath, unlocks her door, steps inside. She takes the notebook out from under her pillow, adds a single line beneath the last one. Someone is watching.
As expected, she closes the notebook, turns off the light, lies still in the dark, badge resting against her chest. The days that follow settle into something like a rhythm. Josie learns the shape of Marlo Creek carefully. The way she's learned every town before it. She learns the gas station closes early on Sundays.
That the church on Third Street holds a potluck every other Wednesday. Half the diner's regulars show up there, too. She learns Rosie keeps a coffee can behind the register for the volunteer fire department. Nobody has to be asked twice. She learns the kindness in a town like this runs deep, just as deep as the silence does.
Most people are carrying both at once, whether they mean to or not. Grant and his friends come in most days. Sometimes rowdy, sometimes quiet, the volume of their cruelty, depending on how their week has gone. On Sunday, her one day off, Josie doesn't sleep in. She walks to the small public library two blocks from the motel.
It's barely bigger than Rosie's dining room. Warm. Anyway, an older librarian named Constance nods her in without a word. Josie finds a table by the window, opens her notebook, not to write about the town this time. Not yet.
She writes a letter instead. One she won't mail today. Dear Addie, it starts simple. Plain. Made it here safe.
Town smaller than the last one. People are kinder than I expected. Some of them anyway. I think about dad more here than I have in a while. I think I understand now why he never gave up on people.
Even the ones who made it hard to be understood. I hope you're staying safe, too. Wherever you are right now, I'll write again soon. Love you always. She folds the letter carefully, tucks it into the back of the notebook.
A stack of others sits there already, never sent, never quite finished. Someday she'll hand them over in person instead. That thought is the only thing that gets her through some nights. Before she leaves, she stops at the small memorial garden outside, a quiet corner with a bench and a few rose bushes. She doesn't know anyone buried in this town.
Doesn't need to. She just sits for a while, lets the quiet do its work. Grief doesn't ask permission before it visits. It just arrives. She's learned to let it sit beside her instead of fighting it.