“How would I know?”
“You’re watching her with binoculars.”
“These are for checking fence lines.”
“The fence is right there. You can see it without binoculars. Hell, you could touch it without moving.”
“I’m checking distant fence lines.”
“In the direction of Callie’s truck?”
“Pure coincidence.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m an excellent liar. You just know me too well.”
Twenty minutes later, Wyatt gets a text from one of his buddies, Joe.
Joe: Callie Thompson’s in the storage room going through old files. Looks possessed. I’m scared.
“Why would she be—” I start, then stop. “The feud records.”
Every incident between our families for thirty years is documented somewhere. The church keeps copies because half the fights happened at church functions and the church insists on documentation for insurance purposes. The library has newspaper clippings because the librarian is a hoarder with organizational skills. The town hall has official complaints because bureaucracy feeds on paperwork. If Callie’s digging through history, she’s looking for something specific.
“We should go see what she’s doing,” Boone suggests.
“We should respect her privacy,” Wyatt says.
“We should definitely not respect her privacy,” I decide. “Come on.”
“This is stalking,” Wyatt points out as we pile into the truck.
“It’s not stalking, it’s... interest.”
“That’s the definition of stalking.”
“It’s romantic stalking. There’s a difference.”
“Is there though?”
We drive to the church because we’re mature adults who definitely don’t spy on ex-whatever-we-weres. The parking lot is empty except for Callie’s truck and the church secretary’s sedan, which means gossip will be spreading within the hour, possibly faster.
Through the basement window, we can see Callie surrounded by boxes and files, papers scattered everywhere. She’s got that manic energy people get when they’re about to crack a conspiracy. Or have a breakdown. With Callie, it could go either way.
“What’s she reading?” Boone whispers.
I squint through the dirty window. “Looks like the original chili competition records.”
“From thirty years ago?”
“The sacred texts,” Wyatt smirks. “The original sin of Cedar Ridge.”
We watch as she pulls out paper after paper, reading with increasing intensity. Her face goes through a journey of confusion, disbelief, shock, and then something that might be enlightenment. Or a breakdown.
Then she finds something that makes her stop entirely. She holds up what looks to be an old scorecard, stares at it, then starts laughing. Not happy laughing. The kind of laughing that happens when you realize the universe is playing a joke and you’re the punchline. “Is she okay?” Boone asks.
“She’s having a moment,” I say.
