Chapter Four:
The Shape of a Lie
Cal sat at his kitchen table, the wooden surface worn smooth in places, scarred in others. His coffee had gone cold, untouched in its ceramic mug. He didn’t mind. It wasn’t for drinking—it was a placeholder, something to hold so his hands didn’t curl into fists.
He stared through the square window above the sink. Beyond the pane, a pale morning light filtered through thin cloud cover. The sky was gray, bruised purple at the edges. Low fog clung to the trees and the tall field grass, softening the shapes of everything familiar.
The land outside looked hushed—paused in thought. The trees stood brittle and bare at the edge of the clearing, their last leaves spinning listlessly to the ground like forgotten coins. In the distance, the ridgeline pressed up against the horizon like a secret trying not to be seen.
The view hadn’t changed in years.
But something in him had.
The house creaked around him. Slow, deep groans from the beams overhead, the occasional shift of pipes contracting. He’d lived here long enough to know its rhythm, but this morning it felt like the place was holding its breath.
A file lay open in front of him. It smelled faintly of must and ash and old ink. Photographs from the fairgrounds fire—charred debris, scorched bleachers, a single sneaker left behind in the grass. The blackened shell of the equipment shed.
And notes. His own. Written years ago in a younger hand, steadier, certain. The graphite was faint now, softened by time, but the words still cut.
Unresolved. Suspicion remains. Ezra Jennings uncooperative.
He rubbed a finger over the page, then across his temple. There was a headache forming behind his left eye—a dull pressure that had nothing to do with sleep and everything to do with memory.
You should’ve stopped it.
That second note wasn’t just accusation—it was prophecy. A gut punch he hadn’t braced for.
He stood and stretched, his back popping in protest, then wandered to the window again. His house reflected in the pond below—perfect, still, whole.
But reflections are liars.
They smooth out the damage.
They cherish the quiet illusion.
And they always leave something out.
His eyes drifted to the willow tree near the water’s edge. The branches bowed like they were listening. At its base sat an old bench, half-swallowed by leaves. The wood was cracked, gray with weather. He hadn’t sat there in years.
Mona used to call it the “thinking spot.” She’d sit beside him, legs swinging, asking questions too big for her age. He used to fake the answers, but now he’d give anything to go back and hear the questions again.
He’d once told himself he’d cherish that spot forever. Now it felt like it belonged to someone else’s life.
Ezra Jennings sat on the narrow footbridge behind the boarding house, elbows on his knees, coat collar flipped up against the wind. His breath fogged the air in front of him, curling in small clouds before vanishing.
The wood beneath him was splintered and damp, still slick from the night’s rain. Below, the pond mirrored the sky—a flat pane of slate, rippled occasionally by the lazy drift of fallen leaves.
In his hand, he held the second note. Smaller than the first. The paper was soft, the kind that comes from a torn notebook page. The ink had bled a little, as if the writer’s hand had hesitated long enough to let the pen linger.
Why did you come back?
That was it. No name. No threat. Just the question.
But it hit harder than the warning.
He turned the note over in his fingers. The paper crinkled softly, dry and unforgiving. It felt heavier than it should have, like it had soaked up something from the town itself.
Ezra stared at the water. His reflection trembled with each small breeze—familiar, then gone. The face looking back wasn’t young anymore. But it was still searching.
He thought he’d come back for clarity. Maybe closure. But now he wasn’t sure if he was chasing something… or being pulled by it.
Ashwood had a way of holding on to things. Guilt. Rumors. Old names. And maybe—just maybe—it held on to something darker. Something no one had spoken aloud in years.
Behind him, a window creaked open. A curtain stirred.
Ezra didn’t turn around. He just pocketed the note and stood, brushing the damp from his jeans.
Whatever this was, it wasn’t just about him.
He could feel it now—like a splinter under skin.
Something was unfolding.
Something that never really ended.
Keep Following the Trail
Ashwood County doesn’t forget. Neither should you.
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Some lies rot. Others bloom. Don’t stop digging.
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