Page 29 of He Sees You
A talisman, maybe.
Or evidence, if I ever decide to be sensible about this.
The drive into town takes fifteen minutes on roads that are more ice than asphalt.
Downtown—if you can call three blocks of shops "downtown"—hasn't changed since I left for college.
Murphy's General Store, the Book Nook, Stella's Café, and a handful of other businesses clinging to life even though we have a Walmart two towns over.
I park in front of Stella's, desperate for coffee that doesn't come from Dad's ancient Mr. Coffee machine that should’ve been replaced ten years ago.
The bell above the door announces my arrival, and every head in the place turns.
Small towns have their own form of surveillance, more effective than any camera system.
"Celeste Sterling!" Stella herself emerges from behind the counter, arms wide for a hug I can't avoid. "Heard you were home. Your father must be thrilled."
"He's something," I say, extracting myself from her embrace that smells like cinnamon and gossip.
"Terrible business with those poor women," she continues, lowering her voice to a theatrical whisper. "Your father must be beside himself. Working all hours, I hear."
"He's handling it."
"Well, you just be careful. Pretty girl like you, all alone in that house while he's working—" She trails off suggestively, clearly fishing for information about whether I'm actually alone.
The café is exactly as I remember—mismatched chairs, local art on the walls, a wood-burning stove in the corner that makes everything too warm.
And in the back corner, reading a book, sits someone who definitely wasn't here when I left.
He's... not what I expected.
When Dad said "hermit," I pictured someone grizzled, unkempt, possibly muttering to themselves.
This man looks like he stepped out of a different story entirely.
Dark hair that's a bit too long but intentionally so.
Strong jaw, clean shaven.
Wearing a black sweater that probably costs more than most people here make in a week.
He's completely absorbed in his book—Meditationsby Marcus Aurelius, I notice.
"That's the Lockwood boy," Stella whispers, following my gaze. "Well, not a boy anymore, I suppose. Keeps to himself mostly, but comes in every Tuesday for coffee. Orders it black, reads for exactly one hour, then leaves. Like clockwork."
Lockwood. This is Cain. Juliette's brother.
As if sensing my attention, he looks up.
His eyes are pale grey, like winter sky before snow.
They hold mine for a moment that stretches too long, and something passes between us—recognition, though we've never met.
He nods, just slightly, then returns to his book.
I order my coffee—oat milk latte, which Stella makes with visible judgment—and debate my options.
I could leave, pretend I never saw him.
