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Chapter 1 - Priest

The first time I see her, she's tearing into a man twice her size without raising her voice above conversational volume.

I'm standing three customers back in the express lane at Millhaven's only supermarket, holding a basket with coffee, eggs, and the industrial-sized container of oatmeal Phoenix requested this morning.

The man at the register, mid-fifties, red-faced, expensive jacket, is waving a coupon like it's a legal document while informing the cashier that he doesn't care what her "little machine" says, the discount should apply.

The cashier doesn't flinch.

"Sir," she says, her tone pleasant and utterly immovable, "this coupon expired three weeks ago. I can't override that. If you'd like to speak with a manager—"

"I don't want to speak with anyone. I want you to do your job."

She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "I am doing my job. That's why I can't accept an expired coupon."

"This is ridiculous!"

"What's ridiculous," she interrupts smoothly, "is you holding up this line to argue about thirty-five cents when there are six people waiting behind you. You can pay full price, or you can leave the item. Your choice."

The man sputters. The woman behind him, elderly, leaning heavily on her cart, lets out a quiet snort of approval.

I watch the cashier scan the next item without waiting for his decision. Watch her fingers move across the register keys, watch the way she's already dismissed him even while he's still standing there trying to find another angle of attack.

He pays. Full price. Leaves muttering about finding a different store, which we all know is an empty threat since there isn't one.

The line moves forward.

When I reach the register, she's already scanning my items before I've fully set the basket down. Dark curly hair pinned back from her face, gray eyes sharp and assessing, a name tag that reads **PAIGE** in slightly crooked letters like she wrote it herself.

"Rough morning?" I ask.

She glances up briefly. "That wasn't rough. That was Tuesday."

Her voice is dry. She scans the oatmeal, and I catch the edge of something dark along her forearm as her sleeve rides up. A shadow that doesn't match the fluorescent lighting.

She notices me noticing. Tugs the sleeve down without breaking rhythm.

"Forty-three fifty," she says.

I hand her two twenties and a ten. Our fingers don't touch during the exchange. She's careful about that, I realize. Drops the change into my palm from an inch above.

"Have a good day," she tells me, already looking past me to the next customer.

I take my bags and leave.

Tell myself the bruising was probably nothing. A bump against a doorframe, a clumsy moment, any one of a thousand innocent explanations.

Tell myself I'm reading into things because of Elaine. Because I see her in every woman who flinches, and in every shadowed mark. Tell myself I'm not going to do this again: make assumptions, build narratives, let old guilt shape present observation.

By the time I'm back at the clubhouse unloading groceries, I've almost convinced myself.

Three days later, Phoenix sends me back to the supermarket for supplies we don't actually need yet.

"We're low on coffee," he says, which is a lie. I restocked it seventy-two hours ago.

Ranger, leaning against the kitchen counter, doesn't look up from his phone. "We have three unopened bags."

"Then we're low on something else," Phoenix says. "Take the truck. Get whatever looks useful."