Page 58 of In the Dark of the Past

His whole body flinched. That was answer enough. I gave him a beat. When he didn’t volunteer more, I nudged.

“Tell me about Eleanor, Darren.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, but I saw tears leak out anyway. “I saw her at the high school sometimes. Talking to the kids about civic engagement or whatever. She wasn’t…she wasn’t crazy, okay? People only said that after. She just…she just asked a lot of questions.”

“What kinds of questions?”

“Where the Fund’s money really went. Why some families got help and others didn’t. Why folks who called the hotline about domestic violence or mental health never heard back, but then a week later their spouse or kid was gone or checked into some facility out by—” He stopped himself with a choked sound.

“Out by where?” I pressed, even though I already knew.

His eyes flicked up, met mine, then darted away. “Stonybrooke,” he whispered. “The…uh…the private side. The wing that was shut down to the public early on. That’s where they sent many of the ones who didn’t play ball.”

My stomach turned. “What happened to Eleanor?” I asked.

He shook his head, breathing shallow. “She wouldn’t take more money. They offered—I don’t even know how much. A lot. Enough to pay off her mortgage, let her and the hubby retire to Florida, whatever. She said no. Said she had an obligation to the town. To the truth.” His mouth twisted. “The bigwigs didn’t like that.”

“The bigwigs like, who, Darren?” I asked.

“Nobody I can prove.” Darren’s voice dropped into a hoarse whisper. “I was actually there the night they… The night they said she might have to disappear for good. Said she’d already poisoned too many people against the town, and if she went to the paper or the state investigator, the whole machine would come down.”

“Where were you?” I said, keeping my tone level. “And be specific.”

He shifted in his chair, cuffs clinking. “Out past Birchwood Preserve. There’s a maintenance road that goes farther than the map says. Dead end by a dried creek bed. They told me to bring a shovel. Said they needed a hole dug for…for a…for someone’s dog that died.” Darren’s laugh cracked in the middle. “I knew it was bullshit, but two grand in cash is a lot when you’ve got overdue bills and a kid with braces.”

“So, you dug,” I said.

He nodded miserably. “I dug. Some masked guys showed up later with another guy and a tarp. I didn’t… I didn’t unwrap it. Didn’t even touch it. I swear. I just looked the other way until it was over. The guy who looked to be in charge handed me an envelope on the way out and told me to forget I’d ever been there.”

“Did you?” I asked.

He looked down at his hands. “I tried.”

The room felt too small. Too quiet. The hum of the fluorescent light overhead buzzed against my teeth.

“Okay,” I said softly. “You’re going to give me directions to that spot. Exact. Landmarks, distance from the road, everything you remember. Then we’re going to get a warrant, and we’re going to bring her home.”

Darren swallowed. “They’ll know it was me,” he whispered. “If you go there. If you start digging…”

“They already know,” I said. “They sent you and your cronies into the woods with masks tonight. You think they’re going to just let you clock in for third-period maintenance tomorrow as if nothing happened?”

His gaze darted around the room, landing nowhere. “I just wanted to pay off the cards, man,” he said, more to himself than to me. “I didn’t…I didn’t mean for anyone to die.”

They never did.

“Well, how about you help me stop anyone else from dying?” I said.

He nodded, tears slipping free again. “Okay. Yeah. Okay.”

We spent the next thirty minutes getting the route down. Twice through for detail, once more on camera by himself, so there’d be no questions later. When it was done, I clicked off the recorder.

“Darren,” I said. “One more question. The eyes. The masks. The notes. What exactly are the Watchers?”

His shoulders hunched like the word hurt. “It’s not… They’re not…” He sighed. “Kinda like a club, I guess,” he said slowly. “Exclusive. But also not like that. It’s more like…levels. People who get told things ‘for the good of Maple Ridge.’ People who do favors. Look the other way. Paint those symbols. Deliver packages. At first, it’s little stuff. Push a permit through. Lose a file. Tell somebody their complaint will be handled, and then never log it.”

“And then?” I prompted.

“And then, one day, there’s a memo that never makes it into the system and a body that never makes it onto a death certificate.” He laughed again, a broken sound. “You don’t wake up and decide to be a monster, Sheriff. You just get used to taking smaller and smaller steps until you look down and realize the ground’s gone.”