The barista called out my order. I excused myself, grabbed it from the counter, and came back to my seat. I wrapped my hands around it, grateful for the warmth.
“I’m a lemon ginger tea, two sugars kind of gal.” I saluted him with the cup before taking a sip.
Ben’s eyes tracked the cup briefly. Not commenting. Just noting, the way he seemed to note everything—quietly, precisely, filing it somewhere behind that unreadable face.
“About the fence,” he said.
The shift was abrupt. His voice didn’t change, but his shoulders squared slightly—the posture of a man bracing himself to say something that didn’t come naturally.
“I shouldn’t have assumed it was your son. I had a gap in the fence, and I jumped to a conclusion.” A pause. The words seemed to cost him something, like each one had to be individually pried loose. “That wasn’t fair.”
I set down my tea. That was not what I’d expected.
“Thank you,” I said. “For saying that.”
I wondered if I should tell him there was more going on than William was telling, but I decided to just take the win.
A single nod, and I caught how his jaw unclenched—subtle, but there. This had not been easy for him. He’d done it anyway.
Plus, he looked tired around his eyes. Probably had nothing to do with that apology. I wondered what it did have to do with. His police work?
“Garrison!” The barista held up a large to-go cup. “Black coffee, large.”
Ben Garrison. The strong name suited him.
“I’ll let you get back to work,” he said.
“Yeah.” I gestured at the sketchbook. “Barley’s not going to draw himself.”
Something flickered at the corners of his eyes. He gave me a short nod, crossed the room to pick up his coffee, and headed for the door.
An older woman was coming in as he was going out. She had a canvas tote on each arm and a purse slipping off her shoulder, and she was trying to manage the heavy door with her elbow while everything she carried shifted and threatened to spill. One of the tote bags caught on the door handle.
Ben stepped back. Held the door wide with one hand, giving her room to untangle. She laughed, flustered, thanking him as she wrestled the bag free. He waited until she was clear, then took two of the bags from her arms before she could protest and carried them to the nearest table. The woman thanked him again. Ben nodded once and headed for the exit.
She called a thank-you after him. He lifted his hand without turning around and pushed through the door into the parking lot.
He hadn’t looked at me. Hadn’t checked to see if anyone noticed.
I sat with my cooling tea and my open sketchbook and turned that over for a while.
Then I picked up my pencil and went back to Barley. The porch. The forward lean. I softened the angle of his head—just slightly, just enough—so his gaze was tilted up toward the boy walking away. Not watching him leave. Watching him go be brave.
Something clicked. The line I’d been chasing for days settled into place under my pencil, and for the first time, the drawing felt like the story it was supposed to tell.
Chapter 7
Kayla
William was at the fence again.
That afternoon, I stood at the kitchen window with a glass of water, watching him through the glass. He’d been home from school for an hour—snack eaten, homework done. He’d gone straight for the backyard the moment I’d said he could go play. Straight for the same spot he’d been gravitating toward lately.
He wasn’t touching the fence. He was standing a few feet back from it, weight on his toes, body angled toward the section where Ben had replaced the broken slat. Just standing there. Watching.
That same intense stillness that looked so wrong on a six-year-old boy who should have been running and making noise.
I set down my water.
