"You could have told me the plan wasn't going smoothly, " Addie says. It was going exactly the way these things always go. Slow. Slow. Almost got you arrested today.
I had it handled. Josie repeats. Softer this time. Addie sigh, leaning her head back against the car door. I got assigned to this district 3 weeks ago, she says.
I've been building a file on Whitmore construction the whole time. Fraud complaints, land disputes, a few things that don't add up. I know. Josie says that's part of why I came here first. I wanted to see them up close before you showed up with a badge.
See if the rumors match the people. And Addie asks, "They're worse than the rumors, " Josie says quietly. "And better in small ways, too. Not everyone here is like Grant. Some of them are just scared.
" Addie nods slowly, watching the diner lights glow through the window. "Dad used to say that. " She says, "Fear and cruelty aren't always the same thing. Sometimes fear just looks like cruelty from the outside. " Josie is quiet for a moment.
Do you think Frank really knew him? I think we're about to find out, Addie says. Come on, let's go talk to him properly. They find Frank sitting alone on a bench outside, hands folded in his lap. He looks up as they approach, older somehow than he did an hour ago.
I owe you both an explanation, he says. A long overdue one. We'd like to hear it, Addie says, sitting down beside him. Josie sits on his other side, quiet, waiting. Frank is silent for a moment, gathering himself.
Your father was the best sheriff this county ever had. He starts fair, honest. Never once took a shortcut, even when it cost him. About 9 years ago, he started asking questions about a Whitmore project. Land records that didn't match up.
Permits signed off too fast. He never got to finish that investigation. I remember the night before it happened, Frank adds quietly. He came by my house late. Said he'd found something in the county records.
Wouldn't tell me exactly what. Said he wanted to be sure first. Said he'd show me in the morning over coffee like always. That morning never came. The accident, Josie says quietly.
That's what we were always told. That's what the file says. Frank agrees. I never believed it. Not fully.
The the skid marks were wrong. The timing was wrong. Too many things didn't fit. But the case closed within a month and I was young. I had a family, a badge.
I wasn't ready to lose. I told myself it wasn't my place to push. His voice cracks slightly on the last few words. I've carried that decision for 9 years, he says. It never got lighter.
Addie reaches over and rests a hand on his arm. You were scared, she says. That doesn't make you a bad man. It makes me a man who chose safety over your father, Frank says. That's a hard thing to forgive myself for.
Josie speaks up, gentle but firm. He wouldn't have wanted you carrying this alone. He believed in second chances. He told me that more than once. Maybe this is yours, she says.
Help us finish what he started. Frank looks at both of them for a long moment, eyes wet. I'd like that, he says. More than you know. That evening, the three of them sit together at Frank's kitchen table.
Old case files spread out between coffee cups and a half-eaten pie. Frank walks them through what he remembers piece by piece, careful and thorough. Your father kept his own notes, he says. Separate from the official file. Where?
Addie asks, leaning forward. He never told me. Exactly. Said it was safer that way for all of us. A man like Walter didn't trust paper he didn't control himself.
Josie pulls out her own notebook, flipping to a page near the back. He used to write things in shorthand, she says. Half code, half habit. I found pages like that in a box after he passed. Never understood them.
She slides the notebook across the table. Frank studies the handwriting. Something shifting behind his eyes. I know this shorthand, he says slowly. He taught it to me once years ago for notes we didn't want showing up in official reports.
Together, the three of them start working through the old pages slow and careful. Names, numbers, a location marked only by a small drawn star. It's well past midnight before they stop. Eyes tired, coffee gone cold. But something has shifted in the room.
A door cracked open after 9 years. Tomorrow, Addie says, closing the notebook gently. We find this location. Tomorrow, Josie agrees. Frank walks them to the door steadier than he's felt in years.
Your father would be proud of both of you, he says. I hope you know that. We're starting to, Josie says. Thanks to you. Word of what happened at the diner spreads through Marlo Creek by nightfall.
By morning, it's the only thing anyone in town wants to talk about. Some people whisper about the Mallister sisters with quiet excitement, almost hope. Others, especially those who depend on Whitmore Construction for work, stay carefully silent. Fear and gratitude, living in the same house, just like Rosie always said. Chase hears about the deputies warning from three different people before noon.
Each version bigger than the last. Guns, lawsuits, federal agents on the way. He laughs it off with his co-workers loud easy the way he always does alone in his truck that evening. He doesn't feel like laughing at all. He thinks about the folded bills about Grant's hands slipping into that apron.
About how easy it had felt in the moment and how heavy it feels now. He doesn't call Grant. He doesn't call anyone. He just drives around for a while longer than he needs to before heading home. At the Whitmore estate, Everett Whitmore hears the story before lunch.
He does not raise his voice. He rarely does. He simply calls his son into the study and closes the door. "You planted evidence, " he says flatly. "In front of witnesses.