“What’s that?”
“Ordinary.”
The word hits me in the sternum. It’s exactly what sounds like a gift I tried to wrap around my child. Ordinary is the thing that makes some men itch. It’s also the life I made on purpose.
I glance at the churchyard. I glance past the small park where metal benches catch the cold and the lamps wear glass shades etched with roses. None of it belongs to the kind of story we’re in.
“Do you understand what ordinary means?” I ask him. “It’s exactly why I want you off my steps, and my son’s. Do you understand?”
He holds my gaze. “I do,” he says quietly. “I’ll honor those steps.”
The words land softer than they should, and that’s what catches. I turn because if I stand there any longer, I’ll say something I can’t take back. I head for the crosswalk. A truck passes, tires throwing brown slush in a lazy arc. I wait for it to clear and step into the street.
The black SUV slides into the far lane. It swerves too close, then jerks off the curb with a shriek of tires. I stumble back into a bush, heart hammering against my ribs. The driver wears a cap low over his eyes and a coat that isn’t local. He checks the mirrors once, and his gaze lingers on my face—no smile, no frown, just notice. Then the car glides on, taillights dull against the snow.
14
MATTEO
Streetlamps blink awake as the day folds into dusk. The sky has that steel-to-ink slide that belongs to small towns in deep winter, and exhaust hangs low over Main like smoke from a slow fire. Lila turns from me with her chin set and her coat pulled close, and for a second, I watch the exact angle of her shoulders because it says she is afraid and will not be moved by it. She steps on the crosswalk.
The black SUV cuts into the far lane like it owns the road. The driver lets it drift too close, clips the curb, and sprays slush. Lila stumbles back into a half-dead bush that somehow still holds its leaves. I move before I think—boots hitting ice, coat open, breath burning. The world shrinks to her shape. She catches herself, hand pressed to her ribs, jaw locked. Then she keys the bakery door, steps inside, and turns the lock in one sharp motion, anger and control in the same breath.
The SUV glides past like a shark beneath dark water. The driver checks his mirror the way a man checks his conscience, quick and careful, and decides there is nothing to see. He lets his gazecatch mine for a fraction, then yields to a delivery van and floats toward the square.
I pull my phone from my pocket. “Nico. South end of Main. Now.” My voice stays low and tight.
“On you.” The line goes dead. Three minutes, and a white van slides up,North Country Producestenciled on the door. Nico is at the wheel. Petro slips out before I move. I climb in, front seat, ducking under the sideboard. Petro shifts to the back, and the van arcs into traffic in one smooth line.
“Black SUV,” I say through my teeth. “Tinted. Paper tag. Dirty plate. Driver in a cap. We follow.”
You do not get to touch her,I tell the inside of my mouth. Not her. Not the boy. We lose the SUV, but I will not wait for its next move.
This town has one artery and a dozen capillaries, and the man in that car does not understand how Wrenleigh moves. And I know where he will go.
Sodium lamps give the street a waxy shine, and windows turn gold one by one. The cold makes sharp sounds. Before long, I catch the SUV as it eases past the cemetery behind the church. It noses toward the square, flashes late, and slides right onto Riverside Road. Nico takes the corner cleanly, two cars back.
“Keep two cars between,” I instruct. “Lights normal. Do not sit on a bumper. If he stops, roll past and take a number.”
Nico nods, jaw set. He blends with the evening line that is unforgiving of mistakes. We slide past the old school, windows dark and steps dusted with snow, and the movie theater on Main with its tired marquee, bulbs glowing in three stubborn colorsagainst the cold. The SUV taps its brake at the feed store, then continues, as if the driver thought of something and decided later. He turns left at a street that has a proper name on a green sign, though it is called Mill by everyone.
“Mill Road,” I murmur. “Single-lane bridge in four. He will slow or he will spook.”
“He slows,” Nico confirms. We close the gap to three car lengths and no closer. A late bus from practice rattles across the bridge toward town. We hold back until its last red light clears the plank span. The water under us looks like hammered tin in failing light. The wood thumps under our tires in a rhythm that comes fromwoods and trucks in winter. Nico keeps his hands loose. I count the seconds between brake taps.
On the far side of the bridge, fields open in deep, dark squares that will be corn when the world warms. The road bends around a line of pines. The SUV takes the bend with competence. A mile ahead, the water tower lifts out of the trees with a rusted belt around its middle that begs for polish.
“County Road Six in two,” I say. “Spur to the state road in three after that. The motel sits on the right before the merge.”
“You think he goes that far?” Nico asks.
“He is not visiting a cousin,” I answer. “He needs a room that looks at the town without being in it.”
We fall in behind an empty car hauler coming off County Six, likely deadheading back to the state yard. The driver sees us in his mirror and decides to play. He slows until the gears groan, then drifts left, then right, keeping us boxed. When Nico sounds the horn, the man only smiles, wide and lewd, and lets the rigsway across both lanes like a slow dance. At last, he gives a narrow pass, more invitation than mercy.
“Cut him,” I say. “Farm road on the right.”
We take the turn before the next curve, a dirt road that cuts across the back lots. Locals use it when the bridge backs up. The van jolts through frozen ruts, past a barn with a roof like a cap pulled low, past a mailbox that leans toward the ditch, past two teenagers on a four-wheeler who watch us go and do not wave. The shortcut spills onto pavement again, one mile ahead of where the hauler would have let us by.
