Page 62 of In the Dark of the Past

Her lips quirked. “Of course he did.”

“If you’re not going to rest, you should go,” I said, suddenly feeling awkward. “Call Libby to get you. Be with your people.”

Her gaze softened, the edges of her exhaustion showing. “Aren’t you one of my people?” She blushed a little.

It hit harder than it should have. And I knew exactly why. I cleared my throat. “I’ll swing by after I finish with the DA.”

She nodded once and stood. “Okay.”

“River?”

“Yeah?” She turned back to me.

“We did something good today,” I said. “Don’t let the town’s bullshit steal that from you.”

Her eyes shone. “We’re not done yet, Sheriff.”

“No,” I agreed. “We’re not.”

Chapter Twenty

Finn

The Hollow Oak overflowed. Every stool, every booth, every wall leaned against by someone with a beer and a story hummed with the electric buzz of a town realizing the thing they’d whispered about in kitchens and on porches had been real all along.

Eleanor Jenkins hadn’t wandered off.

She hadn’t run away.

She’d been killed.

And the people who’d called her unstable, demanding, dramatic, who’d rolled their eyes when she showed up at town halls with printouts and highlighters, were now raising glasses in her honor like grief made them righteous.

Cade moved behind the bar with the kind of sharp, brittle purpose I recognized too well. It was anger barely air-locked beneath control. He saw me come in and jerked his chin, his version of I’m glad you’re alive.

Nivea stood on a barstool, using her phone as a makeshift spotlight while she filmed a breathless update for her paid subscribers. “—and I’m telling you, the Murder of the Month Club called this years ago. YEARS. AGO. We knew. We always knew⁠—”

Andra scribbled in her notebook at a booth, glasses sliding down her nose. “Human interest angle,” she muttered to herself, tapping her pen on her lips. “Institutional betrayal. Rural corruption. Justice delayed. Redemption arc? No, too cheesy.”

Libby had stationed herself by the dartboard with a pitcher of sangria she seemed to keep forgetting she was holding. Every time someone walked by, she blurted, “We told them. We told everyone. Benevolent my heart-shaped ass.”

The club was here in full—motley, brilliant, loud, hurting—processing grief the only way Maple Ridge ever did. Publicly and slightly drunk. But the one person I wanted to see wasn’t here. Where was River? If Libby was here, then they weren’t together.

I started to reach for my phone, but just as I did, River walked in, and the entire room shifted.

I sometimes got the feeling that people liked to pretend she wasn’t a Bennett anymore. That the shadow of her father’s scandal had faded when she left town. But now, with Eleanor’s truth freshly exhumed, and the Watchers’ rot cracking open, everyone seemed to remember everything all at once.

She stood just inside the doorway, shoulders squared, chin up. Her hair looked damp, and her eyes—wide, dark, and hollowed—swept the room like she was cataloging every expression. I wondered where she’d been and why she hadn’t beaten me here.

Cade set down the glass he was polishing and came around the bar. “The rest of the club is in the back room,” he said gruffly. “Autumn stole an entire charcuterie board from the book club’s weekly stash. Figured you’d all need it.”

River blinked, as if the kindness caught her off guard. “Thanks,” she said.

Cade nodded once. “And…hey.” He hesitated. “I’m glad you found her.”

River’s breath hitched, but she nodded and headed toward the back.

I followed, moving slower, the ache in my arm reminding me that I should be asleep or in a hospital bed, not spending time in a bar full of emotional live wires. But the moment I stepped into the back room, every conversation stuttered.