“Thanks, Sam.” Reed accepted the draft beer without pretense, deliberately taking a long drink to fortify himself against the upcoming conversation. He understood exactly what topic Sam wanted to cover. “Yes, it’s true. Hadley is in town to consult on the Claymont case. State Police sent her in to help quiet the media circus before the festival.”
Sam had been born and raised in Whistlerun. He’d even gone to high school with Mason Dawkins, the two of them captains of the football team in their senior year. Standing at four inches over six feet, he was still built like an offensive lineman.
“And how are you handling that?” Sam inquired, his tone carefully neutral despite the weighted question. “Can't be easy, her showing up after all this time.”
Sam hadn't been merely asking if the rumors were true—he was digging deeper, tapping into twelve-year-old wounds that had scarred over long ago.
“It's just business, Sam.” Reed couldn’t wait for the alcohol to kick in. “I’m engaged to an amazing woman, finally got the funding to fix the station, and things are quiet around townif one doesn’t include the media. Hadley coming back changes nothing.”
Sam’s gaze drifted toward the entrance. His low whistle of warning evaporated some of Reed’s hope for a quiet evening.
“Incoming,” Sam murmured, switching his focus to the back corner booth. “You should know that Frank Esten's been nursing the same whiskey for over an hour. Hasn't said a word to anyone.”
Reed had initially thought Sam’s warning was in reference to Mayor Warren Caldwell. He never imagined that Hadley would venture into the local watering hole. As for Frank Esten, he’d claimed the corner booth as his own years ago.
The high school principal had never recovered from his daughter's disappearance, channeling his grief into a bitter rage that occasionally boiled over into a verbal argument with another drunk. The parents around town gave him leeway, figuring he would retire sooner rather than later. They’d been saying the same thing for years.
Sam had already made his way out from behind the bar. He was dressed in his usual red and black plaid shirt with his sleeves rolled to the elbows. He held those arms wide open to greet Hadley.
"If it isn't little Miss Hadley Dawkins," Sam called out with a genuine smile. He had never blamed her for what happened to Mason, though Reed suspected Sam blamed himself. “All grown up and beautiful as ever.”
“I see you haven’t lost your charm,” Hadley replied with a laugh. She stepped into his bear hug. “It’s good to see you, Sam.”
The bartender lifted Hadley high enough that her boots dangled at least a foot off the ground. Reed noticed that while she welcomed the embrace, she swept her gaze across the tables and booths. It was apparent that she spotted Frank Esten almost immediately, though if the sight of him troubled her, she gave nooutward sign other than lingering her gaze on him longer than two seconds.
Sam finally set Hadley down so she was standing on her own. He shook his head and straightened his shirt.
“I can’t believe you’re really here.” Sam’s expression softened before he launched into some dangerous territory. “I was really sorry to hear about your mama, Hadley. That was a tough break.”
Reed leaned an elbow against the bar as he observed the way the warmth in Hadley's eyes dimmed instantly at the mention of her mother.
“That's what a life of drinking will get you, Sam,” Hadley replied with a tone that carried an edge sharp enough to cut glass. “Cirrhosis doesn't discriminate between cheap vodka and expensive whiskey.”
Sam's smile tightened slightly as he swallowed whatever response had initially formed. Hadley had no idea that Sam had his own battles with the bottle. And while he kept his demons at bay while standing behind the bar, now wasn’t the right time to enlighten her.
“Can I get you a drink?” Sam asked, changing the subject as he made his way back behind the counter. “Beer? Cocktail?”
“No, thanks,” Hadley responded as she followed his path, stopping just shy of Reed. He didn’t need to point out that the patrons hadn’t returned to their drinks and discussions. Her unexpected entrance still had them mesmerized, and she was doing her best to brush off the coiled tension. “I need a clear head to drive home. Reed, I spotted your truck in the parking lot, and I thought you’d want an update.”
“Admit it,” Reed murmured with a smirk to lighten the mood. “You wanted to make a grand entrance.”
There was no missing the meaningful glances exchanged between patrons, the subtle shifts in posture as the localsleaned closer to share whispered observations. Her presence had disturbed something fundamental in Whistlerun's carefully maintained equilibrium. By morning, every household within the town’s limits would be dissecting this moment over breakfast, their interpretations growing more elaborate with each retelling.
“Honestly, I thought it was best to get it over with,” Hadley muttered with resignation. She didn't take a seat, suggesting she had no intention of staying. “Plus, I thought you should know that I have some old journals of Sarah Cox. She kept diaries of her daily life, and I’m hoping there is something in there on the specific dates that we talked about yesterday.”
“Swing by the station first thing in the morning,” Reed suggested after mentally cataloging the two meetings on his schedule tomorrow. “I don’t have to be at the high school until ten o’clock.”
Reed kept to himself that the reason Frank had asked him to speak with a group of high school students volunteering their time at the festival was to warn them that they shouldn’t go off alone. One of the repeated questions at today’s press conference was why he and the mayor didn’t suggest moving the Cane County Festival to another town. He’d been able to skirt the subject, explaining it wasn’t in his job description to plan community events. He then directed their question to the mayor.
There was definitely a confrontation in Reed’s immediate future over such a decision, but it wouldn’t be this evening. Warren Caldwell’s decision to lie low right now might be in his best interest.
“I’ll read through them tonight.” Hadley wasn’t being dismissive, but he hadn’t even known that Sarah Cox kept such journals. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised that Hadley had gotten Martin to hand over such private thoughts of his deceased wife.“I’m meeting with Amelia Claymont tomorrow morning. I've also scheduled interviews with Richie McCarthy and the rest of Missy's friends.”
“What time are you meeting Amelia? I can meet you at her residence.”
“That won't be necessary.”
“Hadley—”
