“It’s still sore after all these years, you know,” Charlotte stated with a wry smile.
Hadley could still hear the sound of her fist connecting with Charlotte’s jaw at their senior prom. The satisfying crack of her knuckles, the surprised gasps, and the following cheers that erupted hadn’t been sought after. Hadley’s actions had merely been involuntary.
“I never did apologize for that right hook.”
“Don't.” Charlotte waved away the unspoken apology with a flick of her manicured fingers. “I deserved it. The things I said to you that night after you won prom queen over me...well, they were cruel. What can I say? Teenage jealousy at its finest.”
“I wasn't even on the ballot for prom queen,” Hadley reminded her, not knowing why she still had the urge to justify her reaction. “There was nothing for you to be jealous about.”
“Seriously?” Charlotte tilted her head, genuine surprise crossing her features. “You didn't know that Reed added your name to the list at the last minute? He convinced half the football team to vote for you.”
“No, he never said a word.”
“Well, he was determined that you would win that crown,” Charlotte said, her eyes reflecting a distant memory. “I never had someone so devoted to me the way he was to you, Hadley. So, I guess it’s me who owes you the apology.”
Hadley swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat. She’d known that she had friends who cared about her back then, but she had been determined to start fresh somewhere else.
To not be the daughter of two alcoholics.
To not be the sister of a murderer.
“Leave it to Reed to draw the biggest crowd at his funeral, though,” Charlotte said as her eyes filled with tears. She averted her gaze to the ceiling while blinking them away. “I've never seen one so large in Whistlerun. Everyone, and I mean everyone, came to pay their respects.”
Elijah had said something similar the other day. The perspective had bothered Hadley then, and Charlotte’s words bothered her now. She thought back to the funeral, to the faces of those gathered around the gravesite.
Not everyone had been at the funeral.
One notable absence suddenly gained significance in her mind.
“Charlotte, do you know Ty Hobbs?”
“Of course. That poor boy has been through so much in his life. Losing his mother during childbirth, raised by a strict father who passed away last year in a farming accident. Yet he never allows anyone to feel sorry for him.” Charlotte frowned, as if thesame thought that occurred to Hadley occurred to her. “That’s odd. I don’t recall him being at the funeral.”
“Charlotte, I need to go,” Hadley exclaimed as she brushed past her on the way to the door. “Do me a favor, though. Lock up when you’re done upstairs.”
“Of course. And Hadley?” Charlotte waited for Hadley to stop. “It really is good seeing you, even under these circumstances. I’m sorry that I wasn’t nicer to you back then.”
Hadley nodded, uncertain of what kind of response Charlotte was looking for. They hadn't really been friends, not because they were part of different social groups—Whistlerun was too small for that—but because unseen boundaries had been established around cafeteria tables and at weekend bonfires, where invitations sometimes weren’t mentioned around some others.
“No worries, Charlotte. We both could have been nicer,” Hadley conceded, recalling a time or two when she didn’t have very nice things to say, either. “And please, don’t forget to lock up.”
Hadley exited the station, surprised to find that she’d fallen into the old habit of trusting others. Hadn’t she given that very same lecture to Elijah twice since she’d been in town?
Trusting one’s neighbor was instinctual around these parts, and maybe that was why Ty’s friends had been so understanding of his absence last Thursday. But she couldn’t help but wonder…what would have caused such a well-mannered young man to miss the funeral of the town’s beloved police chief?
26
Hadley Dawkins
October 2025
Monday – 10:07am
The Hobbs farm had a rutted dirt lane with loose gravel and several potholes that needed to be avoided. Various weathered fence posts leaned at odd angles, but the front lawn of a two-story farmhouse whose white paint had surrendered to the elements years ago was immaculate. Time moved differently in places like this, warped by isolation and neglect, yet loved fiercely by their owners.
Hadley gripped the steering wheel tighter when the front right tire dipped into another hole, jostling her against the seat belt. She had managed to avoid most of them, for which she was sure the suspension on her vehicle was grateful.
She finally pulled up behind a beat-up Ford pickup with a rusted tailgate and patches of primer that had never been painted over. Like everything else on the property except the front lawn, the truck had seen better days.
