Of course, he had. Beckett wasn’t the type to draw attention to himself or his troubles. He’d endure this silently too, just as he’d endured fifteen years in prison for a crime he hadn’t actually committed.
“Who else knows about his past?” she asked.
“Most of the town, I suppose. It’s not exactly a secret in a place this small. Not the details, but the fact he’s been in prison. But most folks have come around. They’ve seen how he is with your dad, how he teaches those woodworking classes at the community center, and how he’s always the first to volunteer when someone needs help.”
She thought about Beckett shoveling snow before dawn, the careful way he tracked her father’s medication, and his quiet presence that somehow made the house feel more like home than it had in years.
“This isn’t right.” Anger swelled inside her.
“No, it’s not. But the best thing we can do is ignore it. Don’t give whoever wrote this the satisfaction.”
She wasn’t so sure. Part of her wanted to march up to Walter Dobbs and confront him. But another part of her, the part that had spent the last two weeks observing Beckett, knew that wasn’t what he would want.
“I should get back. Dad and Beckett will be home soon.”
Annie hesitated, then asked, “Are you going to tell him?”
“I don’t know.” She carefully folded the note and slipped it into her pocket. “Maybe he doesn’t need to know.”
But as she walked home through the snow, she couldn’t shake the sick feeling in her stomach. Not just anger at whoever had written the note, but something else. Something that felt uncomfortably like guilt.
Because hadn’t she done the same thing when she first arrived? Judged Beckett based on his past, on the single fact that he’d been in prison? She’d been suspicious and standoffish, quick to question his place in her father’s home.
The realization made her steps falter. She’d been no better than whoever wrote that note.
When she reached the house, she found her father and Beckett already back. Stan was napping in his recliner, and Beckett was in the kitchen preparing lunch.
“How was the appointment?” she asked, hanging her coat by the door.
“Good. Dr. Miller says his blood pressure is improving.” Beckett glanced up from the cutting board where he was slicing vegetables for a salad. “How was Annie’s?”
“Fine. We got everything ready for the reading night.” She hesitated, the folded note heavy in her pocket. “The cafe looks great.”
He nodded, returning his attention to the vegetables. There was something in his posture, a tension that hadn’t been there during their walk the other day.
“Is everything okay?” she asked.
“Sure.” But he didn’t meet her eyes.
Her heart sank. He already knew. Somehow, he already knew about the note.
“Beckett...”
“Your dad should eat soon,” he said, still not looking at her. “The appointment tired him out.”
She watched as he efficiently assembled sandwiches and salad, his movements precise and controlled. Too controlled. Like someone working very hard to appear normal.
“I saw the note,” she blurted out. “At Annie’s. On the bulletin board.”
His hands stilled for just a moment before resuming their work. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. It’s cruel and unfair.”
He shrugged, a small, tight movement. “It happens.”
“It shouldn’t.”
“No,” he agreed quietly. “But it does.”
