Snow falls steadily around us, softening the edges of Briar Cove beneath glowing streetlights. Parents continue loading children into SUVs nearby, but the energy around us shifts almost instantly. People notice tension about the way dogs notice storms, especially in small towns.
Jillie presses closer against my side, mittened hand still wrapped tightly around mine.
That matters more than anything Darren is saying.
He notices it too, and because he’s exactly the kind of man I already suspect he is, his eyes sharpen with ugly satisfaction.
“There it is,” he says lightly. “That protective family-man thing everyone online loves.”
I keep my voice even. “You should head home, Darren.”
He laughs once. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”
No. But I do get to decide whether Jillie must hear another adult make her mother feel small. Sadie shifts beside me, shoulders tense enough to snap.
“Darren,” she says quietly, “this isn’t the place.”
“You’re right,” he agrees. “A school parking lot probably isn’t ideal for whatever publicity stunt this is.”
Jillie stiffens. I feel it immediately. That tiny little change in posture. Children hear everything. Even the things adults think they’re hiding.
I crouch slightly so my body blocks more of Darren from her view. “Jillie,” I say calmly, “didn’t you say Miss Angie gave everybody candy canes?”
Her attention flickers uncertainly toward me.
“Yes.”
“What color did you get?”
“Red and green.”
“Strong choice.”
“She said green tastes weird.”
“She’s correct.”
Jillie starts explaining candy cane politics in great detail.
Good. Keep her talking. Keep her distracted. Keep her from hearing the tension sharpening underneath the conversation.
Across from me, Darren watches the interaction with narrowed eyes.
Then he smiles. It’s not a nice smile.
“Wow,” he says. “You really commit to the role.”
I stand slowly again.
Still calm.
Still controlled.
Inside, though?
Not calm at all.
Because men like Darren mistake quietness for weakness. They think if you aren’t yelling, you aren’t dangerous.
