Anders shakes his head. “They’ll argue that Eric might bury it, being my boss.”
“Then it could have gone to Phil,” I say. “The point is that we agree posting anyone’s information is a direct violation of the terms of residency, and therefore I have the right to investigate.”
“You do,” Dalton says. “No question. As for who knows, though…” He looks at Anders.
“No, I haven’t got drunk and told anyone. Haven’t pillow-talked and told anyone. I drink to forget what happened, not share it. The only people I’ve talked to about it are you and Casey, and only after Casey figured it out.”
“Okay,” I say, uncapping my pen. “Eric and I know. Mick had a copy of the journal with Will’s page still in it. That’s how I found it.”
“Because Isabel found the journal after Mick’s death,” Dalton says. “If there’s any chance he knew it was Will, she might too.”
“She’ll be at the top of my interview list, which I’m sure she expects. I can’t see her telling anyone. That leaves Mathias.”
“Mathias?” Anders’s head jerks up. “I sure as hell never told him.”
“He has hinted that he knows both our secrets,” I say. “As for where he got them, I’d presume the council told him.”
“Shit,” Anders mutters. “Here I thought the leak was obviously that journal.”
I shake my head. “We destroyed both Mick’s copy and Eric’s.”
Dalton nods. “Yeah, finding out Mick got hold of it made me realize I shouldn’t be keeping notes.”
I lift my notebook. “Nothing in here either. Once we’ve figured out someone’s story, we destroy the evidence. No amount of safekeeping works in Rockton, where hiding something only tells people it’s important.”
“I’d underestimated that,” Dalton says.
“Mick was a cop. He was concerned. But, yes, it’s likely that the leak came from his notes. Or someone else got to your journal before you removed Will’s pages.” I lift a hand. “I know you kept it secure. Mick only got it because he had access to the station.”
“I wasn’t going to argue. I screwed up, and if that’s what caused this, then I’m sure as hell not going to duck the blame.”
I tap my pen. “Will was the last person left from your journal, right? As I recall, everyone else in it is gone.”
“Yeah, no one’s around from those days except Will.”
“Lucky me,” Anders mutters.
“While it’ll be cold comfort to you,” I say, “at least we don’t need to worry about other targets.” I snap my book shut. “Okay, that’s how we’ll handle the investigation. Now the question is how we’ll handle the revelation.”
“That’s up to Will,” Dalton says. “He should take some time.”
“No need,” Anders says. “I already know what I want to do.”
THREE
It’s morning. The announcement is scheduled for 8 A.M., which is the optimal time for a town meeting of any urgency. Most people won’t be at work yet, but they’re already up and can’t complain we held it too early, hoping for a small turnout. Not that I’ve ever done that …
I would gladly have tackled this with another 6 A.M. “free coffee and pastries” meeting. I suggested it last night but wasn’t surprised when Anders vetoed the idea. He’s not letting anyone accuse us of trying to bury this in a two-inch column on page six. It’s headline news, and we must treat it that way.
We posted notices last night. This morning, the militia do the rounds, employing the town crier method—they walk up to a building and shout the announcement, and whoever didn’t catch it can ask a neighbor.
I don’t join those rounds—I’d be stopped constantly for questions. Instead, I’m outside the bakery when Devon and Brian come by to open up. When I’d first landed in Rockton, they were relative newcomers themselves. They’d arrived a month apart and moved in together shortly after that. They’re still together—a rarity in Rockton relationships—and are due to head back south next month. Both have applied for extensions, and both still expect to get it. They won’t. No one does these days.
I haven’t told them that. I’m still arguing their case. Still hopeful that the council will reverse course, while knowing I’m reaching the point where hope is sliding into delusion.
When I see the guys walking into work, I brace for the inevitable question about their extension. Instead, Devon says, “Early town meeting?”
“Eight A.M.” I hold up a sign that says the bakery is closed until nine, but free coffee and pastries will be available at the meeting. “Yes?”
Devon smiles. “Stick it up, and we’ll switch to catering mode.”
“Lot of signs going up these days,” Brian says.
I must tense, because he grimaces. “Sorry. That sounded snarkier than I intended. We heard about the one last night.”
“I will refrain from asking whether it’s true,” Devon says as we walk through the bakery rear door. “Though I’m glad to be closed until post-meeting, so I don’t spend the next two hours telling everyone I don’t know any more than they do.”
Devon has a reputation as the best source of information in town. Some would call it gossip, but he draws a line between innocent chitchat and malicious rumor. It’s fine to say Jane was seen moving her stuff into John’s place. It’s not fine to say Jane is allegedly messing around with Jill while living with John.
“Will’s going to speak at the meeting,” I say. “My concern is who posted that sign.”
Brian pulls carafes from the shelf as Devon starts up the industrial coffee machine. The bakery has some of the few solar panels in town. Solar power may seem the obvious way to go, especially during long summer days, but the reflective surfaces interfere with the structural camouflage that hides us from passing planes. Minimal panels only, mostly for large-scale cooking operations like this one. They’ll start the coffee with the electric brewer and then switch to fire-heated water when demand subsides after the morning rush.
It’s only after they’ve gotten the stove and coffee maker started that Devon says, “I haven’t heard anything about who posted it yet, but I’m sure I will. I’ll pass it all on. I wouldn’t want anyone knowing why I’m here, either. It’s not that sort of thing, but it’s still no one’s business.”
Brian grunts his agreement as he sets out ingredients for baking. He’s the real baker, and I suspect that was his down-south job. Devon is the prep guy and barista. He sets about tending to the coffee and grabbing things for Brian as we talk.
I lean against the counter. “Something tells me ‘none of their business’ won’t apply in Will’s case. But we’ll work it out. I just want to talk to whoever did this, in case they know other stories.”
A little fear works in my favor here. I’m not going after the person who hurt my friend; I’m protecting the privacy of all.