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“Mara is glad you agreed to come.” He shifts his weight, hands hooking into his jacket pockets. “Everyone is.”

“It’s strange,” I give him a tight smile. “The way things come back around.”

He pats my shoulder once. “I think we all knew it eventually would.”

His phone rings. He glances at the screen and sighs, already halfway gone. “I’m sorry. I’ve got⁠—”

“I know,” I cut him off, rolling my eyes.

Evan used to work at the tube launch, where people rented inner tubes to float down the river, when it was still running, back when Casey’s dad was alive. After he died, the launch closed. Casey’s mom followed not long after, which everyone called a broken heart because it was easier than saying the town kept taking things from her until she had nothing left to live for.

At one point the two of them owned half of Stillwater, or at least the parts that mattered—businesses that employed people, places that gave the town a reason to exist. And Stillwater was only part of it. A handful of their companies had grown well beyond the town limits, with locations scattered across the country and names people recognized without ever knowing they started here.

Some of the local businesses vanished completely after they were gone. Others survived by being passed along, kept running by friends and neighbors who weren’t ready to watch the town disappear too.

What remains now is less. Fewer places to work. Fewer reasons for people to stay.

Evan is one of the handful of people around my age who did. He’s a detective now, too—Mara’s partner, actually.

“We should—” he starts, but doesn’t finish. He’s already walking away.

“We will,” I say, keeping my voice kind. “We’ll catch up while I’m here. Mara too. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other plenty.” I wince at the way my accent slips when I’m around people from home.

He nods and jogs toward his car, phone already pressed to his ear, his posture straightening with purpose. Before he reaches for the door handle, he pauses, glancing back at the building he just exited as if expecting to see someone watching from a second-story window.

His expression tightens as he nods toward the precinct. “The Chief’s been breathing down our necks all day about the remains. He’s terrified the state is going to swoop in and make us look incompetent, so he’s trying to keep everything—and everyone—under a microscope.” He offers a weary, tight-lipped smile. “Try not to give him any ammunition, okay? He’s been looking for an excuse to shut this down since the tow truck hit the lot.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, already barking into his phone as he pulls away from the curb.

I stand there a moment longer than necessary, watching him go, my thoughts drifting back to what life looked like before—when we were all just kids and Casey was still alive.

So much has changed.

I head toward the crosswalk that leads to the restaurant, my pace slightly uneven now, my thoughts louder than the street around me.

I’m thinking about how some people seem to stay exactly who they are despite everything. Evan. Mara. I’m also thinking about how exhausting that must be.

It’s not like me to lose awareness of my surroundings. But this place has a way of throwing me off balance.

That’s why I don’t see the truck barreling down the street, not slowing down as it approaches the crosswalk despite the blinking yellow lights that signal pedestrians have the right of way.

Not until a hand grabs my arm and pulls me back, the force sufficient to strain my shoulder ligaments to their absolute threshold.

I stumble. Catch myself. Try to breathe. Look up.

He’s tall. Sandy blond hair, messy. He looks younger than me, but maybe it’s just the glasses. He stands with a loose confidence, someone who never has to think about what to do with his hands. His eyes move over me once, quick and efficient, confirming I’m uninjured before jerking his hand away.

My stomach summersaults. “Thanks,” I manage.

He nods once. That’s it.

As he walks away, it hits me that I have no idea who he is, which is unsettling in a town where I know literally everyone. I know their parents, their siblings, cousins from out of town, the ones who moved away and came crawling back.

Not knowing him means he’s from out of town, which immediately places him at the top of the mental list of people I didn’t want to run into, second only to my mother.

Casket Case.

The realization comes with a strange relief: he doesn’t know who I am. That means no questions, no expectations, no casual probing. I can pass as anonymous to him a little while longer.