“Car trouble,” I lied, tying my apron. “Had to walk Sophia to school.”
Dutch grunted, eyeing me over his reading glasses. “Coffee’s cold. Make a fresh pot.”
I nearly sagged with relief at his grumpy command. Dutch Henderson, cantankerous as ever, was wonderfully, reassuringly normal. The knot in my chest loosened just enough to breathe.
“Dutch, have you noticed anything...unusual around town today?” I asked, as I measured coffee grounds into the ancient percolator.
He snorted. “Besides you being late? Nope.” He continued shelving beans without looking up. “Though when Carol Ruper stopped in, she seemed different. Less gossipy. Almost polite.” He frowned, as if only just realizing how odd that was.
The bell jangled, and Sheriff Wade Parker stepped inside, hat in hand. He nodded at Dutch, then me, before heading straight to the coffee. I poured him a cup from the freshly brewed pot.
“Thanks, Evie.” His smile was normal, his eyes clear and alert. “Mornin’, Dutch. Got those fishing lures I ordered?”
Dutch gestured toward the counter where a small package waited. As Wade paid, he glanced out the window at a passing car.
“Folks need to slow down on Main Street. Thirty miles per hour is the posted limit. Safety first.” He tipped his hat and left, mug in hand.
Nothing strange there. But then the bell rang again, and Wade poked his head back in. “Forgot to ask—those kids giving you any more trouble?”
“Not since last week,” Dutch answered.
“Good. Had a talk with Riss Hollenbeck and Tally Steinholt’s old man. Hopefully, that set them straight.” Wade nodded, but as he turned to leave, a blue sedan drove past, and he frowned. “Folks need to slow down on Main Street. Thirty miles per hour is the posted limit. Safety first.” The words were identical to what he’d just said—same inflection, same cadence.
I froze, coffee pot still in hand. Dutch didn’t seem to notice anything amiss.
“See you at the town meeting tomorrow,” Wade called, completely normal again. The door closed behind him.
Had I imagined it? The repetition, the blank expression that had briefly crossed his face?
For the next hour, I moved through my tasks mechanically, hyperaware of every customer who entered. Most seemed normal. Ada Morely, owner of the bar and grill, complained about rising egg prices. Orville Tanner bought his usual tobacco and newspaper.
But there were... moments.
Blips.
Florence Pickering came in for stamps, her gray bob severe as always, back ramrod straight. She handed me exact change with her typical efficiency.
“Lovely weather we’re having. Just right for this time of year,” she said, her thin lips pressed into what passed for a smile.
Standard small talk. Nothing unusual.
But twenty minutes later, Riss Hollenbeck—who was as different from Florence as fire from ice—swaggered in for her weekly lottery tickets. Platinum buzzcut, heavy eyeliner, arms covered in tattoos. She slapped her money on the counter.
“Lovely weather we’re having. Just right for this time of year,” she said.
The words were identical. The phrasing, the cadence. From a woman who normally communicated in sarcasm and creative profanity.
I nearly dropped her change. “Yes. Nice weather.”
Riss stared at me a beat too long, then left without another word. No wisecracks about her chances of winning. No gossip about who’d been fighting at the bar last night.
Through the window, I saw her meet Florence on the sidewalk. They walked in perfect unison, steps synchronized, and I realized they were both dressed similarly. Florence Pickering, who wore nothing but wool skirts and conservative blouses, was in khakis. And Riss, who favored black leather and combat boots, looked like she’d stepped out of a catalog for middle-aged office workers.
I hadn’t noticed at first because Riss’s shirt was navy, almost black in the light of the store. But out on the sidewalk, in the sunlight…
It was blue.
Like the robes I’d had to wear in the Hope’s Embrace compound.
