Dusty, forgotten. Nobody's thought about it in years. Rosie looks torn apart, caught between what she wants to believe and what's in her hand. I have to call this in, she says finally, voice breaking. I'm sorry.
I understand, Josie says. And somehow, impossibly, she seems to mean it. From the corner booth, Dorothy sets down her tea, hands trembling slightly. "This is wrong, " she says, loud enough for the room to hear. "Plain wrong.
That girl has done nothing but kindness since she walked in this door. " The elderly man with the cane nods firmly beside his wife. "Rosie, you know this girl better than $200 would suggest. " "I know, Rosie" says, voice thick. "I know, but I have rules to follow.
" "Rules written by people who never worry about rent, " the old man mutters. A few other regulars murmur agreement, quiet but present. A ripple through the room. It isn't much. It won't stop what's coming next.
But Josie hears it, every word. And something in her chest eases slightly. Not everyone in this room is looking away today. That matters more than any of them will ever know. Sheriff Boyd Larkin arrives 15 minutes later, hat in hand, apologetic before he even speaks.
He's known Rosie for 20 years. Known most of this town even longer. He's also known the Whitmore family for just as long. Knows exactly how much weight that name carries in this county. On the drive over, he told himself this was probably nothing, a mixup, a misunderstanding that would sort itself out quietly.
But sitting outside the diner a moment before walking in, doubt crept in anyway. He'd taken this job to help people back when he was younger. Some years that felt easier to remember than others. Lately, it felt like every hard call somehow bent back toward the Whitmores. He didn't like what that pattern said about him.
He tried not to look at it too closely. His own father had been a mill worker, laid off once when he was young. Whitmore money had kept half this county fed through leaner years than this one. Larkin knew that debt personally the way most people in Marlo Creek did. It made saying no to that family harder than it should have been.
He wasn't proud of that. He also wasn't sure how to change it yet. Rosie, I'm sorry to do this here, he says, glancing around the crowded diner. I know, she says. I don't know what else to do.
Larkin turns to Josie, apologetic but firm. Miss Mallister, I need you to come with me just for questioning. Nothing's decided yet. Josie unties her apron slowly, sets it on the counter without a word. Can I ask you something first?
She says, looking at him steadily. Go ahead. Has anyone actually seen me touch that register today? Besides finding cash in my pocket, Larkin hesitates. Not that anyone's told me.
Then I'd ask you to keep an open mind, Josie says. That's all. Something about her calm unsettles him more than tears would have. Grant watches from the booth, arms still crossed, feeling like he's won. He doesn't notice Ryan staring down at the table, jaw tight, saying nothing.
He doesn't notice Frank Doyle still on his stool, not touching his coffee, watching everything with the sharp eyes of a man who used to do this job. As Larkin leads Josie toward the door, the diner bell chimes behind them. Someone else is walking in. The woman who steps through the door looks exactly like Josie. Same height, same eyes, same quiet, dangerous calm.
For one long second, the whole diner seems to freeze in place. She's wearing a deputy's uniform. County badge catching the light on her chest. Her eyes find Josie first cuffed hands. Sheriff at her side.
Then they move slow and deliberate across the room. Landing on Grant, then Chase, then Dean, then Ryan, then Cole. Five faces. She studies each one like she's memorizing them for later. Sheriff, she says, voice even.
I'm going to need you to hold on a moment. Larkin blinks. "I'm Deputy Addie Mallister, county office, next district over. " She holds up her badge. That's my sister.
You're walking out of here in cuffs. The diner goes utterly silent. Even the coffee pot seems to stop hissing. Grant recovers first, smug despite himself. Family reunion.
How touching. Addie turns to look at him. Really look at him. The kind of look that makes grown men want to sit down quietly. You must be Grant Whitmore, she says.
I've heard a lot about you. All good things, I hope, Grant says, grinning at his friends. Not one word of it, Addie says. She steps further into the room, slow, unhurried, every eye on her now. I don't know exactly what happened here today.
Not yet. But I know my sister, and I know when something's been staged. Grant's smile falters just barely. That's a big accusation. It's not an accusation, Addie says.
It's a warning. She looks at each of the five young men in turn one more time. Then she says the words that will echo through this town for years. Drop my sister or get five coffins ready. Nobody laughs this time.
For one full moment, nobody in the diner moves. Sheriff Larkin clears his throat uncomfortable. Deputy, that's a serious thing to say. It's meant to be, Addie says, not backing down an inch. Grant stands up from the booth trying to reclaim the room.
Are you threatening us in front of a sheriff? I don't make threats, Addie says calmly. I make promises I intend to keep. And that promise has five names attached to it right now. Frank Doyle finally speaks, rising slowly from his stool.
Deputy Mallister, he says carefully. Did you say Mallister? Addie turns to him, something flickering behind her composed expression. "That's right. " Frank's face goes pale like he's seeing a ghost standing in front of him.