Page 31

I don’t approach immediately. Instead, I sit in the truck, my eyes fixed on the house, cataloging every detail. The faded curtains drawn across the windows. The rusted mailbox hanging askew. The faint trace of smoke curling from the chimney, a sign that someone is home.

I take a deep breath, steadying myself. I can’t rush this. I’ve come too far to let impatience ruin everything.

My disguise is simple but effective. A neat blouse and slacks stiff with new-store creases, a clipboard tucked under my arm, and a business card identifying me as a traveling health consultant. The card is a forgery, but a convincing one, complete with a logo and a number that forwards to a voicemail I’ve carefully curated.

When I finally step out of the truck, the cold nips at my cheeks, sharp and biting, but I force a smile anyway, a carefully crafted mask to hide the storm churning just beneath my skin.

The walk to the door feels longer than it should, each step deliberate, each breath measured, like I have to remind myself how to keep moving forward.

I raise my hand and knock three times, the sound cracking through the still afternoon, loud and jarring against the quiet.

The door creaks open just a sliver, and there he is. Kerr.

His face has softened with age, lines settling in where sharpness once ruled, but I’d know those eyes anywhere. They’re the same cold, assessing eyes that looked down on me all those years ago, shining with old authority and the smug gleam of entitlement.

“Can I help you?” he asks, his tone wary but polite.

I return his gaze evenly, my smile unwavering. “Good afternoon, Mr. Kerr. My name is Eleanor Marks. I’m with Mountain Health Services.” I flash the card, holding it just long enough for him to glance at it. “We’re conducting wellness visits for residents in the area who have a history of working in the local mine. Free health assessments, basic screenings, that sort of thing. Would you have a moment?”

He hesitates, fingers curling tighter around the edge of the door. “I didn’t work in the mines.”

“You didn’t?” My voice rises a few octaves. I flip through my paperwork, acting like I’m trying to find the answers that I know aren’t here. It was a longshot that he went to work the mines. Most men who aren’t formally educated around here end up at the mines. “I’m not sure where I saw your information then.” I stop looking through the file and rest it in front of me. I’ve got one more shot. “Well, since I’m here and the state is paying me, why don’t we pretend that you did work in the mines.”

For a heartbeat, I think he’s going to shut me out, but then, with a small grunt, he steps aside, waving me in.

Inside, the house is dim and cramped, shadows pooling in the corners. The air hangs thick with the stale scent of old coffee. Somewhere, a TV chatters softly, a daytime talk show, its canned laughter filling the silence like a ghost trying too hard to feel alive.

“Have a seat,” Kerr says, motioning stiffly toward a battered armchair near the cold fireplace. He stays on his feet, arms crossed tight over his chest, eyes sharp and unblinking as they rake over me.

“Thanks,” I murmur as I sink into the sagging chair, pulling out my notepad and flipping it open, pen loosely balanced between my fingers.

“So,” I begin casually, keeping my tone light, “these visits are just a check-in. Nothing formal. We just want to see how you’re doing, you know, physically, mentally, and make sure you’re getting whatever care you need.”

“If I worked in the mine?” He lifts a brow.

He’s studying me and it’s making me nervous. I clear my throat. “Yes.”

Kerr snorts, a low, dismissive sound, his arms tightening stubbornly across his chest. “I’m fine. Don’t need any handouts.”

“Of course,” I reply with a small nod, the corners of my mouth tugging into a polite smile. “But it never hurts to have a second opinion. May I ask how you’re feeling overall? Any aches, pains, trouble sleeping?”

He shakes his head and grunts, rolling one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

As he talks, my eyes wander, a slow, deliberate drift around the room. I take in the cluttered shelves, the stack of unopened mail, the faint scuff marks near the door. I let every detail sink in, cataloging quietly, all while keeping my face calm, engaged, as if every ounce of my attention is on his words. A stack of newspapers on the coffee table, a mug half-filled with cold coffee, a bookshelf crammed with old volumes, knickknacks, and pictures. But it’s the photograph on the mantel that catches my attention.

It’s a group photo, grainy, faded, but unmistakable. My father stands in the center, flanked by Kerr and another man I don’t recognize. They’re younger, their faces lit with easy smiles, their arms slung casually around each other’s shoulders.

“Is that your family?” I ask, nodding toward the photo.

Kerr glances at it briefly, his expression tightening. “Old friends. From a long time ago.”

“Must be nice to have such close connections,” I say, my tone light. “Do you keep in touch?”

He stiffens, his gaze sharpening. “Why are you really here?”

The question hangs in the air, thick with suspicion. My heart pounds, but I keep my expression calm, my voice steady.

“As I said,” I reply, closing the notepad, “I’m here to check on your health. But if this isn’t a good time…”