Except apparently it does exist. And I'm walking through it with a sheriff who seems determined to help me.
"How long have you lived here?" I ask, more to fill the silence than anything else.
"About four years. Moved here after I left the military."
"You were military?"
"Fifteen years. Army." He says it simply, like it's not a big deal, but I can see the weight of those years in the set of his shoulders, in the way his eyes constantly scan the street. "Wanted something quieter when I got out."
"Is Blackwater Falls quiet?"
"Quieter than where I was." He glances at me. "Most days, anyway. We have our moments."
I want to ask what kind of moments, but Jackson has stopped ahead, pointing at something in a shop window. Tom walks over to him, crouching down to see what caught his attention.
"That's a cool truck," he says. "You like trucks?"
"I like dinosaurs more," Jackson says seriously. "But trucks are okay."
"That's fair. Dinosaurs are definitely cooler."
They stand there for a moment, looking at the toy truck in the window, and something in my chest tightens. Derek never did this. Never crouched down to Jackson's level, never took interest in what he liked, never made him feel like his opinions mattered.
Derek thought Jackson was an inconvenience. A necessary piece for the image he wanted to project, successful man with a family, but not someone worth actually engaging with.
"Come on, baby," I call. "Let's get to the library."
The library is a small brick building tucked between a hardware store and a place advertising tax services. A hand-painted sign over the door reads BLACKWATER FALLS PUBLIC LIBRARY in cheerful yellow letters.
Tom holds the door open for us, and we step inside.
It smells like old books and coffee and air freshener, maybe, or potpourri. It's smaller than any library I've been to, maybe a third the size of the branch near Derek's penthouse, but it's clean and bright and welcoming.
A woman in her sixties sits at the front desk, reading glasses perched on her nose, focused on something on her computer screen. She looks up when we enter and smiles.
"Tom Harris! Twice in one week, this is a record." Then her eyes land on me and Jackson, and her smile widens. "And you've brought friends."
"Mrs. Walker, this is Claire Donovan and her son Jackson. They're new in town, need to get library cards."
"Wonderful!" Mrs. Walker stands up, coming around the desk. She's short and pleasantly round, wearing a cardigan despite the warm morning, with silver hair cut in a practical bob. "I'm Dorothy Walker. I run this place. And you must be Jackson."
Jackson nods shyly, suddenly uncertain now that he's face to face with a new person.
"Jackson really likes dinosaurs," Tom says, his voice easy. "I told him you had the best dinosaur collection in the county."
"Did you now?" Mrs. Walker's eyes twinkle. "Well, I don't know about the whole county, but we do have some excellent books. Would you like to see them?"
Jackson looks up at me, asking permission without words. I nod, and he takes a tentative step toward Mrs. Walker.
"Let's get your mama set up with the paperwork first," she says. "Then we'll go exploring. Tom, make yourself useful and show her what forms she needs."
Tom leads me to the desk while Mrs. Walker entertains Jackson with questions about his favorite dinosaurs. He pulls out two simple forms—one for me, one for Jackson.
"Just name, address, and phone number," he explains. "The motel address should work fine."
I hesitate, pen hovering over the paper. "What if someone looks me up? Can people search the library database?"
"No. Library records are confidential. Mrs. Walker takes that seriously. She fought the town council three years ago when they wanted access to checkout records for some investigation. She won. Your information is safe here."
