Erica pressed her free hand against the table. “I’m not presenting anything. I’m researching.”
“In a small town, Ms Hayes, the distinction can blur.”
She swallowed.
“We’re very proud of Rock Cove and the surrounding villages,” he went on. “We work hard to preserve its character. Its stability. When narratives arise suggesting corruption or … impropriety among respected families, people take notice.”
“I haven’t named anyone.”
“Not yet.”
The words were soft. Not accusatory. But silence stretched between them.
“I’m simply advising caution,” he said. “You have a platform. A following. Speculation travels quickly in the wrong hands.”
“I haven’t posted anything.”
“But you could.”
There it was.
He shifted his tone slightly – still calm, but firmer. “It would be unfortunate if misunderstandings were amplified. Particularly by someone who is … relatively new to the community.”
The simple statement hit with unexpected force.
“I live here,” she said quietly.
“Yes. Though some might say temporarily.”
The words rang in her ears like a closing door.
“We value continuity,” he continued. “People who understand the town’s rhythms. Its loyalties.”
“And I don’t?”
“I don’t know that you’ve been here long enough to.”
The cottage ticked and creaked around her.
He let the silence sit. He was good at that.
“I did look into you,” he added mildly. “Given the attention surrounding your arrival. And always, public figures,” he said, “invite scrutiny. I’m sure you understand that.”
She said nothing.
“Your blog. The burnout. The hospitalisation. It must have been difficult.”
Heat flooded her face.
“I mention it only because,” he continued smoothly, “Rock Cove values stability. We’re cautious about external narratives that may be driven by … personal resonance.”
“You think this is about me.”
“I think,” he replied, “that sometimes unresolved matters colour how we interpret the past.”
She felt suddenly exposed, as if the walls had thinned.
“There’s also,” he added almost idly, “the matter of family history.”