By lunch, two other teachers passed by her doorway.
“Grace, you’re volunteering for recess duty too?”
“Oh—sure! Extra fresh air sounds great.”
“And bus duty after?”
“I don’t mind! Really.”
Grace Hart wasn’t like the rest of the Harts. Grace Hart was sunshine. Grace Hart was capable.
Grace Hart didn’t fall apart over men who didn’t want her.
Staying busy made it easier.
But when the final bus left and the last student hugged her waist before running to their parents, the quiet threatened to break her.
CHAPTER 8
Luke
Luke pushedinto the squad room determined to feel normal.
Normal was the goal.
Normal meant he wasn’t thinking about Grace Hart. Or the tiny, stupid ache in his chest every time he checked his silent phone.
Mercer was leaning back in his chair, boots up on the desk, laughing with Sullivan over a file spread between them.
“Another mailbox baseball on County Road,” Sullivan said, shaking his head. “Used to be you could solve half these petty crimes by checking which Hart kid was bored that week.”
Mercer snorted. “Swear to God, it’s almost harder to do police work now that they all scattered. Back in the day you could just shrug and go, ‘Yeah, probably a Hart,’ and call it good.”
They both laughed.
Luke sat down at his desk, tried to ignore them.
He’d heard these stories his whole life. Everyone had. Crystal Lake didn’t forget things—it passed them down like folklore.
You didn’t just represent yourself—you represented your badge, your family, your future.
Mercer tipped his chair back another inch. “Man, remember when Eli Hart hotwired half the cars on Miller Street? Kid thought he was some kind of Oceans Eleven.”
Sullivan laughed harder. “The dad was even worse. And the mom. Whole damn family tree’s a cautionary tale.”
Luke stared at a spot on the table.
Crystal Lake had long memories and short mercy. The Harts had given it reasons—real ones, not invented—and the town had taken those reasons and built a wall around the whole family. Luke had never thought to question it. It had always just been there, the way Main Street was there, the way the lake was there. Part of the landscape.
Sullivan kept going. “Surprised that girl turned out halfway decent with blood like that.”
A wrong perception stuck. Promotions stalled. Trust eroded. Doors quietly closed.
He’d worked too hard to pretend otherwise.
Luke injected anyway. “Grace is more than halfway decent.”
Sullivan shrugged, unbothered. “Sure. I guess. For a Hart.”
