Nico raises a finger without looking like he planned it.
Petro shrugs and nods. “My sister’s in a place like that,” he says. “You learn the clock. Folks shop before dawn or at noon. Nobody does late runs for bread. People lock less and watch more. Cars sit the same way on the street for years. If a van shows and the driver doesn’t nod to the hardware guy, he isn’t local.”
Nico adds, “They trust names. They tip with coins and remember the age of your first dog. They park where the sheriff can see ’em. They go to church that’s on Tuesday nights for bingo and on Sunday for mass. Kids ride bikes on the same stretch every summer. If you change the rhythm, they notice.”
Petro leans on the van and points. “Windows tell you things. Curtains that stay closed mean someone keeps to herself. A curtain opened at dawn and closed at dusk is a watch. Mailboxes get checked at the same minute. Trash collection’s sacred—if someone drags a mattress to the curb midday, people talk. A stranger bringing a generator at two in the morning isn’t doing community service.”
Nico smiles without humor. “Shovels. Everybody keeps a shovel by the porch. If a stranger asks for one, he isn’t solving snow for himself.”
I let the list sit between us, the names, the habits, the small shifts that matter. “Good,” I say. “Anything outside this is suspect.”
Nico takes the clipboard and writes a short list. He does not write names. He writes traits. A woman spotted with a gray coat too thin. City boots in slush. No hat in a town that loves hats. Gas station coffee untouched. Two passes by the square without stopping.
“This is the morning round, Chief,” he says, pride bright in his eyes.
“Good work,” I tell him. I nod once, and that is enough.
“You will hold at the grocer’s lot,” I tell him. “You will move when I move. If I sayhouse, you stage by the alley. If I sayriver, you stage by the benches. If I saychurch, you get men inside the hall as volunteers. You will not spook the town.”
Petro taps the motel mark. “Rooms booked?”
“Check the ledger,” I start, then stop. I do not want that word. “Check the register. Look for cash and no luggage. If anyone asked about a room with a view of the square, I want the plate. Speak to the owner like you are selling eggs.”
He grins. “I can sell eggs.”
I hand Nico a small packet. “Backgrounds. The woman in the gray coat from the bakery. The guy in a black coat who tailed me near the post office. Lean build, eyes everywhere. Run the plates from the feed I sent. If they are local, leave them. I want whoever does not belong.”
Nico slides the packet into his jacket. “The sheriff?”
“We stay outside his line until he crosses ours,” I answer. “If he asks, you are delivering to the school and the bakery and the church because the pageant needs extra cocoa. If he pushes, you are cousins to Mrs. Hart. If he presses, you call me, and I will make him feel respected.”
Petro scratches his jaw. “Benedetti’s interest here is certain?”
“Certain enough for me to be here,” I say. “They took a loss in Milan. They want a handle. They believe she is one.”
“Does she know?” Nico asks.
“She knows the name,” I answer. “She does not know the shape yet.”
He gives me a look that carries the next question. I raise the pencil again.
“Street cams,” I continue. “There are none that work. That is good. It puts eyes back in heads where they belong. You will post at the diner counter for one hour every morning and one hour every afternoon. Buy nails at the hardware store you do not need so they remember you for something ordinary. You will put your face in this town’s memory under something ordinary.”
“And if someone asks about our routes?” Petro says.
“You hate the bridge on County Road 6,” I tell him. “It eats your tire budget. You complain about the chain grocer three towns over. You prefer cash, but your boss forces you to use the app.”
He laughs that sounds like a bark. “I’ll be unbearable.”
“Good,” I say. “Now the other side. Anyone who asks about Lila Hart gets a name. You tell me if they ask about schedules, upstairs windows, school pickup, or the pageant.”
They both sober. Nico nods once.
I feel the bakery inside my chest again. The heat. The bell. The exact second the tray tilted and the cookies skated and she looked at me like she felt the day shift. Fear moved in her, but not fear of me. She looked past my shoulder and saw the shape of what follows men like me. She held her ground anyway. The last time I saw her without a room watching, she laughed into my mouth and fell asleep on my chest as if the world could hold.
“Boss,” Petro says. He pulls a thin black folder from behind the driver’s seat. “Brooklyn address. Last six months.” He points to a photo. “The super talked too much. One of our people caught two good angles.”
I am only hearing half of him. I take the folder and rest it on the map. The first photo is her profile at the kitchen counter. Hair pulled up, head bent, a bowl under her hand. The second is her with a tray, light catching on sugar. The third is the doorway with a silhouette I know is hers. I turn the page.
