SPIDERSILK

by bernthalslut, Shallott

Summary:

A Kastle AU.
Karen Page moves to the small upstate town of Hartford hoping for a slower pace after a recent article in New York got her into hot water. But, while she expects Hartford to be cozy and sleepy, a murder puts the town on edge and Karen can't help but investigate—with the help of her new partner in crime, the local mechanic Frank Castle.

Notes:

A cozy murder mystery small town Kastle AU: Frank and Karen never met and Frank never got caught (as the Punisher). But, these two still end up finding each other because honestly, in any universe.

And thank you to Shallott for helping edit my lavender haze writing. 🤍

Chapter 1: Chapter 1

Karen Page cursed as she stubbed her toe on the corner of her bedroom doorway.
Her new rental was fully furnished, and she had been spending her first couple of days knocking her hips into credenzas, sweaters catching on doorhandles as she hauled boxes into their respective new rooms. She had unpacked almost everything, but the haphazardly packed bags and boxes of clothing had become the last, dreaded bastion of her move. And her toothbrush was missing, so she chewed on a handful of mints and pulled on two unmatched socks before shoving her feet into boots.

Karen had professional outfit in mind—she was going to be meeting with the mayor who hired her, Nora Rowland in under an hour. But that outfit she had failed to pack separately. The only other clothing she had been able to locate that were suited for the cool temperature outside was a pair of black jeans and a tattered jersey sweatshirt from her alma mater that she remembered wearing while doing cram sessions and also vomiting all over after drinking too much at a pub during Christmas break. She pulled on a slightly dressier, moody maroon blazer she’d been able to find to over hide the holes and frayed edges on the wrist of the sweater.

Her car, her beloved 90s Jeep Cherokee had rolled into town on its last legs, refusing to start the morning after her first night in her new place. She had had it towed using a credit card and had nearly choked in the morning when she got the call telling her that the current estimate was at $800.

Luckily, her new town of Hartford, in the upstate corners of New York, was small. Tiny, even. The downtown was within walking distance from her petite, brick bungalow rental. The season was just giving way to full fall colors and crisp mornings made for walks. It was October second and, if she was being honest with herself, the reason her clothes were still unpacked was because she had prioritized setting out orange string lights, pumpkin blow molds, ghost-shaped mugs, black wreaths, and even a collection of witch-themed romcom novels. She felt she needed the comfort of it all.

Halloween was solidified as Karen’s favorite holiday as a child. Christmas in the Page household had been a tense affair—extra hours at the diner, car heaters not working—or cars just not starting at all— too small coats and boots that her parents couldn’t afford to replace. It was a drafty old house, sleeping under piles and piles of blankets with microwaved potatoes at her feet like she was Laura Ingalls Wilder. And at school, everyone talked about the gifts they were expecting, asking for. Karen and her brother Kevin (her parents were very, very creative) knew not to make lists, to expect much besides thick socks and maybe some Hanes jersey sweaters.

Halloween, though?

Halloween was cheap. It was scary books from the library, gutting $3 pumpkins, Ouija boards at a sleepover. She and her brother could always manage to paint on whiskers with an eyeliner pencil, a cheap sheet they could cut holes in. Cats, ghosts, scarecrows, Rosie the Riveter. They looked a little shabby compared to the kids in store-bought costumes, characters right out of the latest blockbuster. But they didn’t care. Her parents were relieved, really, to send them out to get candy bought by somebody else. She and her brother would stay out until the last stoop went dark and pool their candy together in a corner booth of the diner while her dad closed up and actually refrained from asking them for help, under the glow of orange string lights, pumpkin shaped buckets filled to the brim. During this very unplanned career move and relocation the orange lights, horror lit, and her Halloween knickknacks gave her a little comfort, helped her to not feel displaced, and she pulled them out first.

The fastest path to town was through the small cemetery across from the house. She had always liked cemeteries—and this one was lovingly, painstakingly maintained, with a small stone path winding from one entrance to the other that spilled out by the town hall building. Though harried and feeling less than prepared, Karen enjoyed the scenery of grey and black headstones and falling leaves. She had thrown the name of the auto shop the car had been towed to, Hartford Auto Repair (catchy) into Google Maps and walked the path that led her through the cemetery, and then pulled her into downtown.

Karen had grown up in Vermont, where autumn was ritualistically observed, consumed by locals and people from all over the country. But Hartford had its own, unique feeling. Whereas her native town in Vermont was roughly shaped by blue collar workers, corporate farming, and body-taxing factory work, Hartford was rural, quaint and small—but it still felt tightly knit, shared. The trees looked alight with intense burning reds, yellows, and oranges that swayed and swished overhead, some leaves descending in the gentle breeze that twisted through the branches. She admired all of the decorated houses, porches with spiderwebs stretched between beams, yards and stairways with jack-o-lanterns. The neighbors left the leaves in their yards, the only signs of them being raked were in piles clearly made to be jumped in.

Downtown was sleepy, but alive. The town square had gazebos, benches, all of the public seating laden down with pound after pound of pumpkins, corn stalks, orange and black ribbons, miles of bulbs glowing even during the day. Hartford was a very close-knit community, that was what the mayor who hired her directly for the job had said. Mayor Rowland said to expect friendly faces, to be welcomed in quickly to community events and for the locals to be “harmlessly excitable”. Nora Rowland was Karen’s only contact in Hartford, and who would be doing her little orientation this morning. Karen’s phone led her past an atmospheric slideshow of storefronts: a bakery, a diner, a marketplace, an insurance office, a small combination dance and yoga studio, all of them aglow with orange lights and pumpkins in their windows, many warmly dressed parents walking with young children—likely fresh from dropping the older kids off at school.

Karen jogged across the only crosswalk in the downtown, where next to a hardware store was where her car was promised to be—Hartford Auto Repair, the front bay doors open to the street, the sharp smells of gasoline and metal assaulting her senses that had been basking in the wafting smells of pumpkin-scented coffee and fresh bread. Not to mention the noise—the deafening pitch of a drill winding up, workers shouting, and then on top of it all, the greatest hits of The Misfits blaring at an incredible volume.

She pushed through the front door into the narrow lobby, which was concrete floors, paneled wood, with a couple of the most uncomfortable looking chairs she had ever seen. The walls were haphazardly… Well, she didn’t know that she would call it “decorated”. But they were certainly covered. There was a large “hot rods” calendar with all kinds of scribble up on the wall, vintage license plates, a 90s Batman poster, a notice for a high school battle of the bands from two years ago, an American glag, several metal oil and tire brand signs, and Karen’s personal favorite: a poster of Megan Fox straddling a motorcycle.

Karen walked up to the counter, glancing through the panoramic bay window that looked out into the shop on her left. She hadn’t seen her car yet, but it could be out back. Currently there was a truck with two oil slicked techs—a man and a woman—arguing and pointing at the undercarriage beneath the lift, a tech making loud drilling noises doing tires. Then, she could only see part of someone who was obscured by the hood of a vintage muscle car, only able to make out that they were in street clothes—a black shirt, boots..

She jumped as the bells hanging on the door clanged as a tech walked through the door. Covered in grease, a deeply stained covered baseball cap backwards on his head, dark streaks on his face, a babyface if there ever were one, and a messy head of blonde hair. His name tag read Parker.

“Hey, how can I help you?” Parker asked, his tone casual, openly tired. Before she could respond he grabbed a coffee off the counter, checked the name, shrugged, then took a long drink.

“Well,” Karen started, passing her phone back and forth between her hands. “I got an call this morning about my car and honestly I’m just really surprised by the total so I was hoping to take a look at the itemization.” she said.

The kid nodded, as though he heard this daily. He reached for a sheet of paper on the counter in front of him. “What’s the car?”

“A Jeep?”

“Oh yeah, we only have one Jeep in.” The kid took another sip of coffee as he leafed through paperwork.

“Mhm, yep, looks like that total is gonna be four thousand, eight hundred, forty-two dollars, and… Sixteen cents.” Karen felt a physical response to the numbers being rattled off.

“I’m sorry,” she said slowly. “What was that?”

“Yeah, it would’ve been the original total except that you added on the tires?”

“I didn’t talk to anyone about tires,” Karen assured him.

“Huh…” Parker seemed genuinely puzzled but not urgent. “Well, if I take those off then we do drop back down to about… Two thousand, eight hundred and thirty seven dollars and seventy-four cents.”

Karen blanched. “But… Just this morning I was quoted eight hundred dollars.” Parker’s brow furrowed, but almost in slow motion.

“Yeah, there’s no way, like, even without the tires we’re well beyond that. I mean, I get the sticker shock, the parts on a newer car like that can sneak up on you.”

Karen shook her head. “New?” She repeated. “It’s used.”

“Oh, sure, I mean: relatively new,” he allowed, but gave her an odd look.

“I just don’t understand how there could be this big of a failure in communication. I never approved tires. I thought you were looking at a battery?”

“Aw, no man that’s only like… Well, I mean it depends on the battery and like if you want us to do like the usual fluid checks which you absolutely should—“

“Right,” Karen cut in. “No, I will get the fluid thing, but… I was surprised by the $800, to be honest,” she said. “Because I knew something else might be wrong, but I didn’t know what exactly cost that much.”

Parker’s gaze narrowed, confused. He took another sip of coffee like that would help. “Right, well, I have your signature, you authorized this amount—the one over three-k, so I don’t know where the $800 came from.”

Karen felt the weight of the last couple days settle over her already tensed shoulders. The ten-hour drive got her in late and miss her appointment with the landlord—her new neighbor— who had to go pick up his grandkids from school. She sat in the car and avoided pointed eye contact with the movers who were ready to get to work and go home. The landlord was hurried, vague. She shouldn’t find half of her things. She had been swiping her credit card left and right for days. Using money she didn’t have for gas, eating gut-demolishing gas station food, a crappy motel that didn’t smell like bleach at all. All of this because she had been living her life on edge for months, following an article she had written while moonlighting at an indie-political paper in New York. It was short and sweet: a slumlord, a dirty cop, and an employee at city water; at the point that shadowed figures had started haunting her steps. The strain of it got to her, and she moved. The move had been sudden, expensive, and unfamiliar. And now this half-asleep child was arguing with her and she felt herself tipping over an edge.

“I never signed anything,” Karen said, her voice slow and tight. “So I don’t know how that’s possible? Are you sure this is my car?”

Parker glanced back at the paper. “It’s the only Jeep we have in here right now,” he said again. “And I mean, I say signed: but it’s a verbal approval that gets noted,” he shrugged.

“But I didn’t verbally approve anything, either.”

“Well, it says you did.”

“Well, maybe it’s a mistake?”

“Nope.”

Karen pursed her lips. “Is there, like… someone else I can talk to?” She asked. She refused to use the words manager, but Parker's sleepy gaze that kept getting caught on the Megan Fox poster wasn’t exactly inspiring confidence.

His irritation was visible as he took another drink of coffee. “I mean, the manager is here,” he said, throwing the word in her face with an intentional glance. “Do you want to talk to the manager, ma’am?”

Karen sighed, he no doubt saw her name on the order form. “Yes,” she muttered, defeated.

Parker nodded, a little judgmental look of thought so before he turned and slipped back out into the garage.

Karen could see the mechanics in the shop all stop and look directly at her through the glass as Parker went over and talked—well, more like yelled over the garage’s din— to the person buried in the engine of the muscle car.

Parker came back in, an odd smile on his face that Karen didn’t like. “Boss’ll be in, just a second,” he said.

Karen understood the look of satisfaction on the kid’s face when she saw the imposing figure that straightened into view from beneath the hood of the car.

He wore a black t-shirt that was streaked with the rainbow reflection of oil—damp with sweat and clinging to his heavily muscled frame in a way that made Karen swallow. Hard. He wore jeans covered with more black and bleach stains, roughed up combat boots on his feet. His hair was dark, cut with a fade, currently messy on the top, some strands hanging close to his eyes, clearly pushed around and out of his face, which was crafted by broad, stern, statuesque lines and curves. He looked like a goddamn classical Roman statue.

Karen stepped back a little as he pushed through the door. He didn’t look angry, exactly, but his heavy lips were in a severe line, his already austere brow and sharp jawline furrowed and tensed. He had puppy dog eyes, she thought, even as his gaze was narrowed, fiery and dark. As he moved just in the line of golden fall light coming through the window to her right, she could see the maroon undertones, like a spiced red wine.

He looked sweaty, dirty, deeply irritated, and heading her way.

He moved behind the counter, boots heavy against the concrete. He looked to Parker, grabbed the papers out of his hand with a quick, agitated movement, then looked at her. When he spoke she felt the depth of his voice sparking something in her chest, graveled and growly but not so rough it was unpleasant—like black coffee and honey.

“So,” he started. “You called yesterday and approved the labor and charges on the Jeep for nearly five thousand dollars but today you claim that I told you it was eight hundred dollars and are expecting to take it home for potentially less than that?”

Karen felt a little overwhelmed having the full force of his his gaze and tone settling over her, but still bristled at his bitchy phrasing. “Uh, no,” she snapped. “I called yesterday, but someone called me today and told me eight hundred.”

“This is your invoice,” the man said, holding up the papers in his hands. “We talked about it on the phone yesterday.”

“I didn’t talk to you,” Karen said, and of that she was certain. She would remember that voice anywhere. “I got the second call this morning.”

The manager snorted. “You’re out of your mind. There’s no way,” he said.

Karen’s gaze narrowed. “Look, I talked to someone,” she said.

“Do you remember their name?” The man challenged.

“No, I didn’t think I would get tested later,” Karen snarked, avoiding looking at Parker as she asked for a third time: “Are you sure this is the right car?”

“The Jeep? The Jeep I talked to you about on the phone yesterday afternoon and you approved all of the labor and charges?” The guy supplied caustically.

“I never approved anything!” Karen exclaimed. “Why would you work on my car when I didn’t approve anything?”

“Look, lady,” the man didn’t raise his voice but his irritation was palpable. “The tires you ordered alone are over a grand,” he said. “I ordered those specifically after you approved it. We overnighted them like you asked, the shipping cost alone—that we’re eating half of, by the way— was three hundred.”

Karen laughed despite herself, shaking her head. She laughed when she was angry. “Why would I put brand new thousand dollar tires on a twenty year old car?”

The man stilled, his gaze narrowing. “What?”

“My 90s Jeep Cherokee? Why the hell would I put tires like that on it? It barely runs!”

The man looked back and forth between the paperwork in his hands, and both Karen and Parker. “Is this a joke?” He asked.

“I’m not laughing,” Karen assured him. The man flipped the paper in his hands for her to look at. “This is a service order for a 2022 Jeep Unlimited for a Stephanie Lewis.” He said, looking back to Parker. “You didn’t once bother to ask her name?”

Parker seemed unbothered, picking the coffee back up, and the man’s gaze narrowed even more as he caught sight of the name scribbled on the side of the giant cup—Frankie, with a little heart drawn next to it.

Karen felt like her brain was short-circuiting. “I’m sorry, my turn to ask if this is a joke?”

“How did you not know you didn’t drop your car off here?” The man asked her, he wasn’t accusatory or even harsh, his genuine bewilderment was much more cutting.

“Me!?” Karen barked a caustic laugh. “You’re the ones who gave me some other woman’s invoice! And I didn’t drop it off: I had my car towed yesterday after it wouldn’t start, I got two calls, and now you’re saying you don’t even have my car?!”

The man sighed, tossing down the paperwork on the counter. “Fuck, you had it towed?” he muttered, running the back of his hand across his brow, leaving another black streak. “Is your car at Auto Repair of Hartford?”

“Again, a joke?” Karen asked. “This is Auto Repair of Hartford.”

“No, this is Hartford Auto Repair. Your car is likely at the other shop on the opposite side of town: Auto Repair of Hartford.”

“I-…” Karen pulled up her phone, pulling up the call logs. “Look, I got a call from you guys,” she said, holding the number up for the manager to see.

He looked at it for only half a second before he shook his head. “That’s not us.”

“So you're genuinely, truly telling me that this town has two auto shops and they are both named virtually the same thing?” Karen felt as though she was trapped in really bad improv show.

“We were here first,” Parker threw in a little indignantly, the information seeming very important to him.

“What in the fuck? Why!?” Karen seethed.

“Like he said, we were here first so you can ask the fuckheads over there and the Hartford Chamber of Commerce. You’re not the first to get it confused,” the manager said, looking at her more directly. “But you are the first one to come all of the way into the wrong one and demand we give you someone else’s car for eight hundred dollars.” His face and voice deadpanning.

Karen’s gaze narrowed. “I never demanded any car, I only asked about my car,” she said.

“Which we don’t have," Frankie <3, said with a tight smile.

Karen straightened. “It’s a surprise you have any cars back there when you’re such an asshole,” she snapped.

The man’s smile only got bigger. “You’ll realize why when you go to pay your eight hundred dollars for the fucking oil change they gave you,” he said. “But please, feel free to leave us a review on Facebook that no one under the age of sixty will ever see or care about.”

Karen glowered for a moment, but then felt her phone vibrate and she glanced at the screen—from Nora Rowland, confirming their meet-up at library in five minutes. Fuck.

Karen shoved the phone into her bag, giving the two men behind the counter one last glare—Parker had long since checked out, now unabashedly staring at Megan Fox, sipping on his boss’ coffee.

“You suck,” Karen said in place of a goodbye before she turned to the door. Childish, but she had little left to offer at the moment.

“Don’t forget that Facebook review!” Frankie <3 called after her as she pushed through the door and out onto the sidewalk, cursing as she went.

Chapter 2: CHAPTER 2

Summary:

Karen meets Nora Rowland, gets a tour of the library. Moody academia vibes.

Karen deeply regretted not sparing a minute to grab a coffee before walking over to the library, her brain a garbled mix of sleep deprivation, new job jitters, and now a small dose of rage.

She googled the name of the auto shop again during her jog/walk further downtown to the library, and sure enough: there were two auto shops in Hartford with near-identical names listed.

Karen clicked on the reviews, unable to stop herself from doing a quick scroll-through. She found reviews and comments that seemed to be interactions between locals arguing about the name of the shop, which one was established first, who had the right to the name, and who should change it. A couple scrolls deep and some people were talking about 1960s family feuds involving the two shops, and the very public and divisive property dispute that preceded that.
Also peppered in were two peach cobbler recipes and one lengthy complaint about the “demonic music” Hartford Auto Repair blared so close to the downtown.

Karen forced herself to stop before she followed a thread about a property dispute related fratricide in the 1950s—though she left the browser open for later—and pocketed the phone, re-orienting herself mentally for meeting Mayor Rowland.

She did a little wash of calm when she saw the library building come into view—a little reminder of what had drawn her here in the first place. A building full of books for her to organize and play in. The building was constructed from heavy white stone and richly toned brick. Shaped like an old, but modest castle—arched windows made with stained glass, a turret on the side. Vines climbed up the side of the building, deep emerald greens leaves with fresh splotches of red and orange.

Standing on the front steps of the library was a woman Karen had only talked to via text, phone, and email. But, she did recognize her face from Hartford’s township website, the mayor, Nora Rowland.

Nora was younger than Karen—maybe late twenties. She had flawless, rich brown skin, sharp cheekbones, black hair falling in stunning waves down her back, and dressed in a chic and fall inspired ensemble of neutrals and maroon.

Nora looked up from the phone in her hands when she heard footsteps, revealing a stunning smile. “Hey! I’m guessing you’re Karen?” She asked, her voice bright and warm.

Karen nodded, taking in a nervous breath. “That’s me, and you’re Mayor Rowland?”

“Please call me Nora, but yes! And I am so excited to have you here!” Nora exclaimed, digging in her bag for a moment until she came up with a large key ring. “So how are you settling in? How is Hartford treating you so far?”

All that came to mind was a tall, snarky, dirty, mechanic who didn’t have her car and the fratricide lore, but Karen decided to keep that to herself. “It’s so gorgeous, the town clearly goes all out,” she said, gesturing at the heavily decorate town square.
“It’s a tradition,” Nora said. “Hartford is really small and the sense of community is one of its most charming traits, honestly.”

“You were born here?” Karen asked, trying to be conversational. Nora was, rightfully, an intimidating person. Even beyond the immaculate hair, make-up, and clothes: just from their correspondence Karen knew she didn’t miss a thing. Organized, quick, efficient.

“My parents moved here from the city when I was five,” Nora said, then gestured for Karen to follow her up the staircase to the front library doors. “I absolutely fell in love with it all and was drawn back after college. It’s small and rural but we do pride ourselves and trying to be progressive,” she said, then let out a big ceremonious sigh before holding the keys out to Karen. “First official duty as town librarian, keeping these keys on you.”

Karen took the hefty key-ring, with one long heavy one singled out at the top. She turned to the library door, made with beautiful old wood and heavy iron locks, and let them in.

“So,” Nora started as she lead the way in to the vestibule and started switching on lights along the wall. “Winifred was a saint and devoted to this place, but not exactly the most qualified person to be running the library as long as she did. Don’t get me wrong: whip smart, always kept the shelves tidy, but her record keeping was… Unusual. She didn’t have a degree in library science, she got grandfathered in, essentially. She loved it, and that’s what mattered to us. But, now that she is gone we want to honor her with someone who will understand the place and what it needs.”

Karen took in the space as Nora continued to flip switches, staring in awe at all of the beautiful elements that went into the interior.

Beautiful, gleaming herringbone wood floors stretched out before her, the walls exposed brick. The building was laid out in a long rectangle—the center open to a cathedral ceiling, the second story open, lined with shelves—all accessible via wrought iron staircases. The main floor was full of rows of books, towards the back of the building were bright windows with seating areas. The books were housed comfortably in dark wood shelves with carved trim details. Beyond the most immediate row of shelves were study nooks and well worn leather couches. Green library lamps on a couple rows of study tables.

Nora ran her up one of the second story staircase to tour the children’s section—talking about the building as she went. Built in the late 1800s, with a few updates—an elevator built in to take you to the second floor or into the basement that housed old microfiche and academic books.
Karen felt her heart burst when she saw the children’s section—with the turret just off from the rows of short shelves laden with colorful books. The turret had been transformed into a circular reading space made from wood, layered in cushions and blankets, providing room for children to sprawl and play. Paper mâché planets and stars hung from the ceiling.

Nora led Karen back down towards the office, around the edges, and that was when Karen was able to see the scale and scenes on the vibrant stained glass windows. They depicted scenes from from classic literature—King Arthur, Frankenstein, and Hamlet. It was like something out of a fairytale.

“So, what do you think?” Nora asked as she guided them back downstairs and towards Karen's new office.

“It’s so…” Karen tried to find words. “It’s just a little overwhelming, honestly. I didn’t expect it to be quite this stunning.”

“The stained glass pieces, right?” Nora grinned in understanding. “They were an installation by Winifred’s late husband, a wedding gift to her when they were young. She absolutely adored them, and so does the town in general. We have them specially cleaned and maintained by a specialist, the information should be in the directory,” she told her as she walked towards the windowed room in the back of the first floor, labeled Office with a heavy brass plate. “Of course, that’s assuming the directory is where it should be…” Nora mused, puling the door open, and Karen followed her inside.

Karen stopped in her tracks after Nora flipped on the lights. “Oh, wow,” she breathed out.
The office was covered in a wanton mess of papers, boxes, books, knick-knacks, piles of yarn, half-finished scarves. It wasn’t filthy, not even dirty, but it was an undeniable mess.

“Like I said,” Nora said, her voice still sing-song and upbeat. “Winnie had some unusual approaches to organization. But the employees will be able to help you deal with this, they are super excited to meet you—Josie, who is a riot, very fun. And Andrew, who is…” Nora’s smile faded. “Well, Andrew is just particular. You’ll get to know him,” she said.

“A+ for diplomacy,” Karen said, amused.

Nora laughed, all silver bells. “You’ll need that energy around here,” she said. “Have you lived in a small town before?”

“I have, but mine was a little different,” Karen said, recalling ruddy lawns and the large grey factory parking lots and buildings. Bleach mopping the floors mixing with the smell of eggs at he diner. “New York most recently,” Karen added.

“You’re going to fit right in, I can just tell,” Nora said, her infectious enthusiasm threatening to rub off on Karen. “So like we talked about via email: the town is so ready to have the library open again, now with someone with more formal training and experience, so we’re shooting for next weekend, ready to have a little grand re-opening in the morning before the town fall festival.”

Karen gestured vaguely in what she thought was the the direction of the town square. “That’s… Not ready?”

Nora laughed. “Oh, no way. The gazebo is getting some repairs, temporary stage is getting put in for live music. Beanie Cooke who runs and owns the coffee shop organizes the community theatre and puts on a great mini Sleepy Hollow, so great,” she said, then paused when her phone went off. She frowned when she looked at the screen. “Shit, speaking of, I am supposed to be tracking down a hundred more pumpkins, going to a planning meeting, and meeting up with my secretary for lunch,” she said. “I hate to abandon ship on you.”

Karen waved her off. “No worries, I don’t mind having a little quiet time to get acclimated and start sifting through things.”

“Perfect,” Nora smiled. “Ugh, I’m so happy to have you here, Karen. It’ll be amazing to have another younger person there at town hall, to see you really make this place your own, bring it up to date,” she breathed happily. “Now, I’ll send you the info on the budget meeting, that’s next Wednesday—I will be in your corner as far as getting you funds to get some fresh literature in here, maybe upgrade some computers, but it will be an uphill battle and I don’t want you to get discouraged! We can make this all happen.”

Karen knew part of Nora’s job was to be upbeat, make people feel good, but she had to admit: it was working. She felt a fresh little spark of excitement about this new adventure, not just uncertainty roiling in her stomach. “Looking forward to it,” she said.

“I’m so happy to hear that!” Nora gushed, then tossed her phone back into her bag. “I will be popping in tomorrow, please do not hesitate to text me if you run into any issues at all. The alarm system is having issues, so don’t worry about setting it—the Sheriff has been sending deputies by at night to check in until we get the system reset. Beyond that: enjoy!”

Karen waved goodbye, then looked back to the layers and layers of… Well, whatever it all was. She started leafing through a stack close to her—newspapers, a small collection of raunchy romance novels, a very dog-eared copy of Wuthering Heights.

Karen felt the itchy need to organize, to put things back where they belonged. Her work in libraries had been scattered, including a couple of years after she left Vermont. It was what helped her to get this job, she got a certification and signed a contract saying she’d finish her library science degree during her employment. The paper had definitely been more her speed—fast, lots of legwork, a little dangerous, even. But the stress of the last year made this challenge feel more than manageable.

She was looking forward to this quieter pace, at least that’s what she told herself. After all, her love of reading cultivated by her school librarian growing up had been what made her want to write. She wanted to make this a friendly place for young readers—popular titles, banned book celebrations. She didn’t eschew the romance novel reader, the manga fanatic, the audio-book addict. All reading was relevant to her, she wanted everyone to be able to find something they loved here.

She smiled a little to herself as she surveyed the room. Despite being covered in mess, she could feel the bones of it, and behind the desk, at the top of the stack of books there, she realized there was a window behind the piles of papers and softcovers and an oversized basket of yarn. The top of another stained glass window.

Curious, she started there. Pulling away the stacks, letting in more and more technicolor light until she could see the beautifully detailed night sky lovingly detailed in the glass. A deep navy sky, a pale and full moon, golden stars. The sunlight washed through it, casting a celestial blue and gold glow over Karen’s skin.

Chapter 3: CHAPTER 3

Chapter by bernthalslut

Summary:

Karen and Frank meet again :) I love a shy/struggles with eye contact cutie pie Frankie (especially when talking to Karen) so we have a little bit of that. Rest assured Frank's coffee is hot and black and cheap. Also, I HATE Dante Inferno and Milton's Paradise Lost is better and not because I wanted to sleep with my professor who loved Milton for a semester.

 Karen had started sorting the bulk of clutter into distinct piles: newspapers, books, file folders, scrap pieces of paper, notebooks, mugs, tins of mints, unused tea bags, and the list went on and on. She had categories, piles, sub piles. 

 She sat in the middle of the room on the floor, feeling a little sweaty, itchy, and tired. She had also been playing phone tag with the auto shop that did have her car—she still didn’t remember which one was named what—to no avail. All of this for a roughed up car that was legally old enough to drink. 

  She had been at it for about three hours—that was enough time to warrant a coffee break, right? She tossed a quilting magazine onto the two-foot-high appropriate pile, sneezing as the action upset a layer of dust. 

 The fall day was in full swing when Karen walked back out the front doors of the library. More people walking the sidewalks, ducking in and out shops and eateries across the street, more cars moving down the main drag. Leaves skittered and swirled on the concrete, and she could smell the spiced scent of their decay carried on a warm breeze. 
 
Hartford’s coffee shop was simply named Beanie’s—Karen remembered Nora mentioning it was named after the owner. It was heavily decorated with pumpkins, paper leaves, and orange lights in the window. She stepped inside to find herself transported inside a cornucopia of pumpkin stacks, leaf garlands, black paper bats on the walls. The smell of coffee mixed with cinnamon sticks and baked goods. There was a small shop display with a “local businesses!” Handwritten sign hanging above it. Baskets of handmade soaps, bookmarks, and hand-poured fall scented candles with minimalist and alluring branding that read honeyheart. There was also a shelf of books claiming to be “Beanie’s faves!”,  which were mostly 80’s romance novels with blush-inducing covers like the ones piled high in Winnie’s office. 
 
Karen got into the surprisingly large line—though maybe she should have expected it given there were several fresh looking signs exclaiming “now pouring PSL!” in the window and on several chalkboards. The building was old, and it had been allowed to keep its charm—some exposed brick, creaky but well maintained wood floors, all of the tables and chairs wood but mismatched, vintage art prints on the walls, mixed in with some beautifully cared for houseplants.  
One woman ran the counter alone—Beanie, Karen assumed. She was short, wiry, with a shock of short white hair, but exuded force of nature energy. She reminded Karen a little of her maternal grandmother who spent her youth as a roadie for underground rock bands and who took Karen to get a tattoo when she was seventeen. She liked her for it. 

 When it was Karen’s turn to order, the woman’s gray blue gaze settled on her, a brow a little quirked. “You the librarian?” 

 Karen was a little jarred, forgetting for a moment that she wasn’t still living in a town where no one would notice if she vanished into thin air. “Sorry,” she collected herself. “How’d you know…?”
 
“I heard we were getting one, and Sonya Webb said she saw someone matching your description coming out of the library, which she noticed because it’s been closed since Winnie passed.”

 Karen had no idea who Sonya Webb was, but guessed she would find out soon enough. She also felt a small twinge in her chest when she realized that the previous librarian whose things she had been pitching and piling up all afternoon belonged to someone this town knew well and likely cared very much about. She decided to tread carefully. “That’s me, Mayor Rowland let me in this morning,” she said. “Your town’s library is just beautiful, I’m really lucky to be working there.”

 Karen was happy the woman made a sound of approval. “What’s the name and iced or hot?” She asked. 
 
“Uh, could I get a large iced with honey, cinnamon, and oatmilk?” Karen ordered then paid with the loose ones and change in the bottom of her purse.  She considered throwing her last piece of physical cash, a dime, into the tip jar but that felt like an insult more than a gesture of gratitude. 
 
She stepped out of the way so Beanie could take more orders and get her coffee started, turning to look out the window into the town square, when she saw him. 
 
The asshole from the auto shop— looking oversized in a wooden cafe chair, his legs manspread out around the feet of the table. His hands and face were cleaner, but his clothes were the same. He sat by the window with his hair still messy—it seemed to curl on the ends—but no longer hanging in his face. His brow not as tightly knit together, his jawline still sharp but not clenched. He looked softer, less intimidating as he leafed lazily through the newspaper he had sprawled out across the table. He had another coffee cup, now with a poorly drawn monster and the name Frankenstein scrawled on the side. 

Karen looked away, pretending to look at the candle display in a social panic. Fuck, fuck, fuck, she didn’t not want to see him again—especially not now when she was pretty sure she had spiderwebs—and potentially an actual spider, there had been a close call—in her hair and buying coffee with loose nickels. 
 
She glanced over at him just as Beanie called out the name for a coffee order, and he looked up, and…  

 Frankie, now Frankenstein—or more likely, Frank—leaned back a little in his chair when he saw her, glancing over at the counter.He gestured over to the bar where Beanie had set someone named Jennifer’s coffee “Aren’t you going to grab that?” He asked, then smirked. “Well, assuming it cost more than yours.” 

 Karen’s embarrassment was quickly replaced with the same biting heat in her chest she’d felt that morning, her gaze sharpening. “Don’t you have a child labor violation to babysit so he doesn’t give someone a Ferrari for three hundred dollars?” She asked.
 
Frank looked truly amused, a brow quirked. “You think someone who owns a Ferrari would bring it to an auto shop in Hartford?”

 “I wouldn’t take my piece of shit car to you so probably not,” Karen muttered. 

 “Good thing you didn’t, then,” Frank mused with an easy, smug smile, picking up his coffee cup.

 Karen rolled her eyes. “You know,” she said, her voice short but she kept it low, almost a whisper with all of the other people around. “Neither you nor your fresh-off-the-turnip-truck employee bothered to ask me my name, the make or model of my car, or even say ‘hey this is an incredible price difference: did you bring this in for a battery change or to get tires crafted by the Lord Jesus himself?’”

 Frank’s gaze had locked onto her, and it made her feel too warm in her layers of sweater, jacket, scarf. He looked at her expectantly, as though waiting for her to finish. 

 “And,” Karen continued, too flustered to stop now. “You had to know I’m not from here, that I probably wouldn’t know about the absolutely batshit crazy history of the properties, including six murders in the forties. Not to mention the suspiciously fuzzy documentation about the purchase in the 60s...” Karen babbled, spiraling under his unwavering eye contact, word-vomiting. 
 
“Oh shit, you didn’t get to the 80s yet?” Frank asked before taking a drink of coffee. 
 
“Huh?” Karen shook her head lightly.
 
“The drug trafficking in the 80s, that’s my favorite Hartford Auto Repair bit of folklore, personally,” Frank said, sitting forward again, one hand returning to the edge of the paper, folding and unfolding with a slow but almost mechanical rhythm. 
 


Karen let out a long sigh, a small laugh dancing on the end. “Talking to me about my manic deep dive isn’t an apology,” she said to him. 
 
“You want an apology?” Frank was once again amused. 
 
“It’s your Facebook review reputation on the line, not mine,” Karen shrugged, smiling a little despite herself. 

 “I know I came in a little hot,” Frank allowed. 

 Karen laughed. “Hot? You kinda called me a thief for walking into the wrong building in a town I’ve lived in for two days.”
 
Frank’s gaze softened a little, though still uncomfortably discerning, painstakingly evaluating. 
 
 “Look, I-… I was having a bad morning. Parker is just a kid, I should have been helping him not just going off,” he said, then ran a hand through his hair, shrugging lightly. “So, I am sorry for that.” 

 Karen considered him for a moment. Despite his teasing, he looked sickeningly genuine now. Puppy dog eyes, truly—dark and penitent. 
 
“Well, I guess I didn’t have to accuse you of running the business into the ground,” Karen sniffed. 

 Frank’s brow furrowed, but he smiled. “Did you say that, exactly?”

 “I definitely thought it,” Karen assured him. “And about egging the place, putting up a for sale sign for eight hundred dollars…” 

 Frank laughed Karen was caught off guard by the sweet soft edges of the expression manifesting on his lips, the genuine tilt of his head. His laugh was deep like his voice, a rumbling noise that she could feel the timbre of in the joints of her skeleton. 

 “I’m Frank, by the way,” he told her. 
 
“Yeah, Frankenstein, I figured that out,” Karen said, gesturing to his cup. “And Parker’s name-tag didn’t match Frankie with a heart, so…”

 Frank cracked a small smile a little easier this time. “The hearts started after I fixed Beanie’s absolute shit car for the fourth time,” he said, then thrummed his fingers along the top of the newspaper in front of him. They had faint lines of opal scarring, he ran his middle finger along the edge of the newspaper, until they both realized she was staring, and he sat up a little more, pulling his hands away while Karen’s cheeks burned. “Well, I should probably get back,” he said. 

 “Right, “ Karen agreed, nodding a little too emphatically until she made herself stop. “I should get back to the library,” she said, and Frank paused. 
 
“Oh, you’re the librarian,” he said with a look of recognition. 

 “First day,” Karen said, reminding herself that apparently it wasn’t weird that everyone knew about her arrival in some way or another. 

 Frank shook his head a little bit. “Well shit,” he said. 

 “Oh no,” Karen felt genuinely alarmed. “Don’t tell me Hartford has some kind of violent and controversial past with librarians like they do real estate.” 

 Karen could see Frank continue to fight a smile, he almost seemed embarrassed by it. Shy, which was so odd to see on the hard, sharp lines of his face. 

 “Late fees,” said Frank. 

 “How late?”
  
 “I don’t know, like eighty dollars.”

 “Eighty!? You mean they just charged you for the books because you stole them?” Karen’s jaw dropped in mock disgust. “You’ve stolen books from the library—and then had the audacity to yell at me—”

 Frank cut her off, but both of them were smiling, he even laughed a little. “It wasn’t on purpose—””

 “That’s government property, I think it’s a federal crime.”

 “Federal crime my ass!”

 “A moral crime of the highest order, then.”

  “I had them… A little overdue before it got closed and then I set them somewhere else and now…?” He shrugged uncertainly. 
 
 “What kind of monster threatens local literacy, Frank?” 

 “Look, they were not exactly gems, alright? One was a very, very unabridged version of Moby Dick that still had a due date card in it from 1998—”

 “God knows what impoverished college student needed that very copy to write a paper about male impotence in a capitalistic society,” Karen managed through a laugh and Frank shot her a look then continued with a smirk on the corner of his lips.

 “Two were ones that someone there slipped in as recommendations that were exceptionally,” he made a vague, uncomfortable gesture. “Graphic,” he said. “Then the purgatory book with like the hell circles…?”

 “Dante’s Inferno? That’s actually a poem,” Karen said. 

 “It sucked,” Frank said with the forcefulness she recognized as a reader--was there anything worse than a shitty read?

Karen almost told him she felt the same way, but didn’t. “That’s considered a deeply seminal piece of literature, Frank,” she said instead. 

  “Is seminal librarian code for fucked up but not in a fun way?”

 Karen laughed a little. “Try Paradise Lost, you might like it better,” she said. “Satan is way more fun in a fucked up way in that one.” 

 She got another light laugh, his nose scrunching a little—which she found she really, really liked but told herself she shouldn’t notice. 

 He stood up to leave, not towering over her, exactly, but she did have to tilt her head a little to meet his gaze. He folded the newspaper into a neat rectangle, leaving it on the table, then paused as he looked at something behind her, confused. 

  Karen slowly turned around to see every pair of eyes in the coffee shop settled on her and Frank, Beanie leading the charge with Karen’s dripping, melting iced coffee drink suspended in her hand. 

 They had the decency to all turn and pretend they hadn’t been gawking and eavesdropping, except for Beanie who belatedly called out the name for the order. “Karen!” Before setting it down and turning back to the espresso maker. 

Karen’s cheeks burned red, and when she looked back at Frank he looked irritable, the same expression from that morning. 

 “I should get back to work, too,” Karen said abruptly, her face burning with embarrassment, quickly grabbing her coffee off the counter and unable to make eye contact with Frank when she waved and said, “see you around” before darting out the door. 

 Karen moved quickly down the pavement, hearing the bells on Beanie’s jingling behind her before she heard Frank’s deep voice call out. 

 “Hey, wait up!” 

 Karen turned back, and Frank caught up to her quickly. Though as soon as she was looking directly at him again, he shifted on his feet, looking away as he spoke.

 “Look, I could…” he started, switching between glancing at the ground and making the most intense eye contact she had ever experienced in her life. “I could take a look at your car, y’know?”

 Karen was surprised. “Take a look at it?”

 “Yeah, you know, like give you a second opinion. They’re not exactly… Look, I’m biased but they do actually kind of suck.”

 Karen considered. His gaze, when settled on her, was earnest—soft, even. An incredible contrast to the flinty, agitated version of him from this morning or the little spark of annoyance just moments before the coffee shop.

 “Would it mean I’d have to take down the scathing Facebook review?” Karen joked. 
 
Frank’s expression softened, relaxing a little as he recognized the gentle teasing. “Leave it, the techs love bad reviews, they frame them sometimes,” he said, and she barely kept herself from staring as his fingers methodically strummed at his thigh. “You don’t have to pay me anything, I owe you for being a dickhead” he added. “I’ll look at it and be brutally honest, and if you don’t want me to work on it or they can do it cheaper: I will be shocked but also drop it completely.” 
 
Karen considered. “You don’t have to—“
 
“I want to,” Frank cut in. “I was an asshole.”
 
Karen sighed. “You were,” she couldn't deny it. 
 
“So let me apologize,” Frank shrugged. 
 
He held her gaze for a moment, his dark eyes more of the mulled wine tone in the daylight, but still dark and quixotic. 
 
“Ok, fine,” Karen relented. “I’ll have it hauled in the morning…” she said, going to grab her phone. 

 “Nah, I got that, you don’t have to worry about it,” he said, and Karen could tangibly feel the relief of having one less thing to worry about after weeks of tense decision after decision, reminder after reminder pinging on her phone.
 
“Oh, you sure?”

 “’S no problem,” Frank assured her. “I know Nathan.”

 “Oh, yeah Fieldman, he’s the one who picked it up,” Karen said, eyes wide at the coincidence. 
 
Frank looked amused. “Yeah he’s the only guy with a tow truck in Hartford, so.” 
 
“Ah,” Karen sighed. “Right, very, very small town.” 
 
Frank glanced back inside the coffee shop. “Too small, sometimes,” he grumbled.

 “Do you need my number?” Karen asked. “For the car,” she added quickly. 
 
“Oh, right, yeah,” Frank said, pulling his phone out of his pocket, unlocking and handing it over. 
 

Karen couldn’t help but spare a glance at his home screen—which was entirely barren besides a browser, phone, messages, contacts… And that was it. Even the factory preset apps like music and wallet were removed. The background was factory settings. Karen threw him a raised eyebrow, but said nothing as she clicked on contacts. 

 Frank Castiglione (You) it said at the top before Karen hit add contact in the corner. She threw in her information, handing the phone back, and Frank looked at the screen. 
 

“Nice to meet you, Miss Karen Page,” Frank said before re-pocketing the phone. 
 

“Karen is fine,” she said, though realized the she hadn’t told him her name until typing it in. 
 

“I’ll text you,” Frank said. “About the car,” he added, in the same way she had. 
 

“Right,” Karen managed, playing with the hem of her jacket between her fingers, still feeling too warm when he looked directly at her like that. “Well, I’ll see you around, unless you can’t find those books and then I will be forced to impose a ban.
 

“I will pay for Inferno just so I can burn at least one copy.”

 “Things you should never say to a librarian definitely include verbalizing a desire to burn books, Frank.”
 

“I thought it was a poem,” Frank threw back at her with a trouble-making smile. 

 The town bell—oh my god they had a bell tower, like she was in the provincial town in Beauty and the Beast—rung out, and Frank shifted his stance. 
 

“I gotta get back, Parker is genuinely a liability when left unsupervised on many different levels.”
 

“Never would of guessed,” Karen shrugged. 

 Frank only fought another smile before he turned and walked towards the auto shop. “Tomorrow, Page,” he called over his shoulder, and Karen stood for a moment, before she turned and looked back at the coffee shop window next to her, and several people inside quickly turned and pretended to be deeply invested in their coffee, their book, pumpkins, leaves, and paper bats. 

Chapter 4: CHAPTER 4

Chapter by bernthalslut

Summary:

Shady locals, Frankie has a dog and his hair is curled on he ends from being wet, Karen being a perpetual hot mess, and shitty editing by yours truly. Enjoy.

 Karen had wiled away several more hours in the library, well into the evening. She had started playing an audiobook, low and quiet in the background as she continued to sort things into categories, unearthing more and more official library and township paperwork that she had dedicated a cleared shelf to—using sticky notes as interim labels. The low light of the lamps in the room quickly became the only source of light as the stained glass night sky faded as the sun set outside. 

It was almost eleven when she first she thought the noise she heard was from the audiobook—a loud, heavy banging. The story hadn’t used effects so far, but she had heard odd artistic choices in recordings before. She stilled, listening, hearing nothing more than the quiet buzz of the backup lights that were on outside of the office—she had seen no reason to jack up the electric bill on the place the first day when she was only in one room. The audiobook was a horror listen, maybe her own brain was—
 

Karen startled when the banging resumed, more forceful and distinct this time. She got up from the edge of the desk where she had been perched while looking through a stack of old invoices, immediately silencing her phone so she could hear better. 

 She walked out of the office, feeling exposed and uneasy in the open, echoing darkness of the library while all alone. Every small sound ricocheted off of the walls while the thumping on the heavy wooden and iron door grew more and more incessant. 
 

Karen walked forward carefully—asking herself how bad could it be? Surely she had dealt with worse than whatever this was on the subway in New York. Hartford’s crime rate was virtually non-existent, this was very likely an early Halloween prank. She braced herself to find a burning bag of dog shit on the stoop, maybe a couple of kids in Ghostface masks who would would run away, devolving into laughter. Why they would think anyone was there at ten at night, though… 
 

Karen reached the door, the pounding now reverberating through her body, making her heart try and keep pace with the beat. Her hand closed around the brass handle while she slipped the keys in with the other, pulling it open.

 Where she expected ghoulish masks and burning feces, instead was an older man—unkempt gray-brown hair, heavy rimmed glasses over wide pale eyes and dark circles. He was dressed in slacks and haphazard layers that all looked too big on his lean, almost gaunt frame. 
 

He looked at her with glassy eyes. “About time,” he said, and Karen smelled the booze before she heard the slurring. “I’ve waited long enough!” His words were much too loud for the hour or situation.
 

“Sir,” Karen barely had the door cracked and wasn’t about to open it any further, wondering why she hadn’t just called the cops and let them handle it now that she was face to face with a drunk, strange man. “The library isn’t open yet,” she said, false steel in her voice, “especially not after ten at night. You should go home.”  “You have been closed for two months now!” The man argued. “I need to get in there, I have a right—”
 
“Sir,” Karen’s voice was much firmer than she felt. “I really need you to try coming back after we re-open—Hey!” 
 
The man pushed against the door, slurring out an argument she didn’t want to hear. She was trying to shove the door back closed and dial 911 when her vision went white. 
The entrance was illuminated by a bright cool toned beam of light, coming from a flashlight. When her vision cleared she could see a police car pulled up alongside the sidewalk, running but no siren lights. There were two officers approaching, though they were just blobs of mass in her line of sight against the bright flashlight that one of them was pointing her way. 

  “Sir I’m going to need you to step away from the door,” came a voice through the odd mixture of sharp light and darkness. 
 The man at the door looked agitated, annoyed even as he squinted against the light. “I told you, Elson! I’ve waited long enough! I want my documents and I want them now!” He shouted with boozy gusto. 

 The light finally lowered and Karen could make out the two men approaching more clearly. 
 
“Mr. Holmes, I’m going to need you to step away from the door please,” the younger of the two said, clearing in Karen’s vision. He wore a badge, shaped like a star just like in the movies. He had a head of blonde hair that was allowed to grow out a little long, messy even. He had blue eyes, a strong jaw, a sloped nose, pouty lips, angled cheekbones. 

 “Now I’m telling you what I told you the other day, Mr. Holmes,” the Sheriff said. “The documentation you requested is archived here and until the library re-opens it is not available to me, you, or probably even this little lady right here,” he added, and maybe it was the words on his tongue, but the smile on his lips suddenly reminded Karen of the soft and slick flesh of rotting fruit. 
 
“Deputy, why don’t you come on up here and help Mr. Wilkes find his way to our car,” the sheriff said, but his eyes stayed on Karen. The older cop, who seemed absolutely uninterested in what was happening, bored even, moved forward, pulling the wayward Mr. Wilkes down towards the car—he didn’t fight it physically but continued to argue about paperwork. Karen knew he was drunk but Christ who the hell wanted into a library this badly? 
 
The Sheriff looked at Karen in the low light of the street lamps, the sconces on the library walls casting sharp shadows. “I’m going to need you to step out of the building, m’am,” he said. 
 
Karen moved out onto the concrete stairs. “Officer, I’m sorry if I—”

 “Sheriff.”
 
Karen stiffened. “Right, Sheriff,” she corrected, and something that the base of her skull felt zingy, a familiar twinge of uncertainty. 
 
“Now,” the Sheriff continued as though she hadn’t been trying to speak before. “What would a girl like you doing here in the middle of the night all by yourself, Miss Page?”

 Karen’s grip tightened around the door handle where the sheriff couldn’t see it. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced,” she said. The air was heavy, almost humid—storm clouds had gathered heavy and low in the sky, promising a downpour. Leaves moved across the ground in small, low gusts of wind, the streets were eerily quiet. She told herself that this was literally the best case scenario: a strange man was at the door and two cops just happened to be doing a quick pass, but why did she suddenly feel so uneasy? 

 “Oh, you’ll find I know everything about everyone in my town,” the Sheriff said, and his smile had sharp edges. “I’m Sheriff Elson, we drive past the library a few times a night when we’re on duty with the security system down. Good thing, too, since it looks like you were in a bit of trouble there.” 

 Karen straightened a little, clearing her throat gently. “I’m really alright. Just about to lock up and head home,” she said. 
 
Sheriff Elson looked her up and down and Karen held back a grimace. “Didn’t see a car in the parking lot out back,” he countered. “You about to walk home in this?” 

 “Walking in the rain isn’t a crime, is it?” Karen shrugged. 

 “Just a little late to be out, is all.” 
 
“Well, I won’t cause any trouble,” Karen said. “Girl Scouts honor.” 
 
“I’d be happy to give you a lift,” Sheriff Elson offered, and she felt like she was being offered to reach out and touch a cold, dead snake. 
 
“No, really, I’ll be fine. Just lost track of time, I’ll get locked up and be home in no time.” 
 
Sheriff Elson stood and stared at her for several moments too long, his blue eyes dark in the shadows, unreadable. It reminded her of a dog about to bite. 
 
But then, just as quickly, he plastered on a very genial smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Alright then, darling, I’ll let you get to it,” he said finally, with a shrug. “You get on home now, then,” he said before turning to walk back towards the police cruiser. 

 “Right, yes, thank you,” Karen barely managed, her voice felt dry, caught in her throat. She retreated back into the library, moving with an uncomfortable buzzing in her skull, her movements a little shaky. She gathered up her things quickly, switching off the lights with trembling fingers, before she went out back out the door, locking up behind her. 
 
The police cruiser was gone by the time she was back outside, and she was grateful for the streetlamps that guided her way through the shadowed graveyard and back to her house.  
Any movement in the trees, the shadows cast by headstones, the movement of nocturnal animals all making her heart float into her throat, her breathing hitch. A couple of deer startled and ran off Ito the dark and she gasped out loud.   She all but jogged up the front steps of the house, fumbling with the keys until she got inside, locking the door behind her immediately, dumping off her things, reaching around blindly for a light switch she couldn’t remember the location of. 
 
Karen felt an odd combination of sticky with sweat and dry from the dust she’d been sitting in all day. She took the hottest shower that the old—possibly failing--water heater would allow, puling on a holey but soft sweater set, her hair in a messy pile on her head. Her heart rate wouldn’t come down, no matter what she did. She brewed tea, she put on an episode of Seinfeld on the TV in the background while she dug around and found an outfit for the next day, she checked all of the locks and bolts. 

 She was checking one of the window locks in the front of the house when she saw it. 
 
The Hartford police cruiser, driving by her house with its lights off. 

X   X    X   X

 Karen slept like shit. 

 She woke up to her alarm hungry, cold because she hadn’t figured out the thermostat, and looked out her bedroom window find that a heavy downpour was in full swing with no signs of letting up. The autumn rain pulled leaves down prematurely from the branches, everything slick and dark outside of the window. 
 She got dressed out of the same haphazard piles of clean clothes she had unearthed the night before, making herself promise she would finish it up tonight—especially before the township budget meeting on Wednesday, where she should at least try to hide what a hot mess she had become. 
 She was brushing her teeth when she looked at the phone and saw a text from six that morning that she had missed from an unknown number. 

Got the car, tech looking at it now. You have boxes in the back, didn’t know if you needed them?

Karen smiled a little, then added Frank’s number into her contacts before sending back; 

Huh, probably not—what’s it it look like is in them? 

Pots. Pans. “Plant food”, a curling iron…?

Karen considered the text as she continued to brush her teeth, trying to remember what else she had left in the car, what she hadn’t turned up yet, then choked on the toothpaste in her mouth.

  Oh, god.
 
Packing had been a haphazard event to say the least, she had ended up shoving blankets with books, hair tools in with the wok, some extra bedding in with the stuff in her nightstand… 

She scrambled to pick up the phone, hoping she wasn’t too late before Frank found her relatively modest  sex toy stash thrown in lazily with spare sheets and pillow covers. 

you know wha t actually don;t botherlookingiw will come get it beforework. 

She sent the mangled text, still choking on toothpaste. 

Ok. 

Karen groaned before rinsing her mouth. Christ, he had probably already seen it and thought she… Well, god knew what he thought. Karen considered herself a progressive person, not shy about sex, but this was—Christ. She imagined everyone at the coffee shop talking about how the new librarian invited the local mechanic to dig around in a box that they had no reason to believe she didn’t know had sex toys in it. All it would take is him making one mention of her unintentionally creep move at Beanie’s and the town would know about her (favorite) glittery green vibrator by lunch. 

She yanked on her shoes and nearly crushed herself under a wobbly tower of boxes to uncover her umbrella before she headed out into the rain. 
 It wasn’t an outright downpour when she left, eating a plain un-toasted piece of bread beneath the cover of the umbrella. But the brisk walk through the cemetery quickly soaked her boots and the bottoms of her slacks, so by the time she had made her way to the auto shop, most of her was damp and disheveled from splashing or little gusts of wind pushing heavy droplets beneath the umbrella. 
 
She ducked inside the shop, water immediately pooling on the concrete floor beneath her boots. She moved forward then stopped abruptly when she saw the dog. 

 It was an old dog, tips of silver on his otherwise blue-gray face and feet. He was laying in a bed piled high with clean blankets and towels and looked softer than Karen’s bed at home. The dog sat up, tail wagging as it got to its feet—slowly, in the way that old dogs moved— and padded over to her. Karen immediately forgot her fuck up, the fact that she was wet and cold, or even the buzzing anxiety about what had happened the night before and knelt down, hands outstretched.

“Oh my god look at you,” she said, able to feel a genuine smile on the corners of her lips. “Oh you’re just beautiful, look at you,” she cooed as the dog pushed its large head into her hands, tail picking up speed. 

 Karen gushed over him, a tightness unwinding in her chest as she ran her hands over its soft coat, felt the velvet of its ears between her fingertips as he sniffed and licked at her chin. She felt a familiar pang of grief, just for a moment, for her childhood dog who had been  but with long hair and pointed ears, who always slept on the end of her bed. 

 Karen looked up as she heard footsteps coming from behind the counter, looking up to see Frank come out of a door marked “office” with a handwritten note on a piece of line paper, holding an overstuffed banker’s box. Today he was in all black—same combat boots, black jeans, henley, and hoodie. He had the hood pulled up over his head. 

 “Oh, hey, that was fast” he said, pushing the hood back from his head, revealing messy black hair. “I see you met Baby Boy.”
 
“Is he yours?” Karen asked, slowly standing, though her fingertips continued to scratch just behind the dog’s ear. 
 
“Yeah, he doesn’t like thunderstorms so he’s down here today,” Frank said, gesturing outside. “He’s normally pretty shy, though, but he likes you alright.” 

 “Yeah?” Karen knew people always said that about their pets but she wanted to believe it.
 
“Oh yeah, he usually won’t get up for anybody,” Frank said. 

 Karen smiled, looking back at him. “Baby Boy, huh?”

 “It was that or handsome man, which he likes better but it’s a mouthful, so,” Frank shrugged, setting the box down on the counter, reminding Karen why she was there. 
 
“Oh, uh, thanks for reminding me about my stuff, I think I left some tax paperwork in there, so…” Karen trailed off lamely. 

 Frank gave her an odd look. “You packed your tax paperwork in with dishes?” 

 Karen cleared her throat, deciding not to tackle that question. “You know, I actually should already be heading over to the library so I can just grab that and then go,” she said. 
 
Frank looked at her for a long moment, then looked out the window, then back at her. “Wait, you’re going to take those now?” He asked. 

 “Sure, just a walk down the block,” Karen shrugged, realizing in real time the lack of planning but not about to admit it. 

 “I mean, it’s also total shit out there, I can drive you over,” Frank offered. 

 Karen tried to picture herself in Frank’s car, holding a box of floral bedsheets and sex toys on her lap. “No, no need,” she said. 
 
Frank’s eyebrows raised, uncertain. “I think you’re going to drop them,” he said very simply, like it should be obvious.

 “Fine, I’ll just take one,” Karen allowed. 

 “And get drenched on your way to work,” Frank nodded along. “Sounds way better than letting me give you a two second and relatively painless ride.” 

 Karen looked at him for a long moment, his dark brown eyes softer than Baby Boy’s. Honestly, he was right even if he didn’t know why. She thought the idea of him catching a glimpse of silicone beneath a pillowcase and starting a rumor was bad, what if the boxes got wet and fell apart or she slipped (or god knows what else with the kind of luck she was having today) and dropped it outside for the entire downtown to see? 
 
“Okay,” she sighed. 

 “Okay,” Frank nodded, then gestured out to the garage. “We’ll grab your stuff and my truck is out back, alright?” 
 
Karen followed him towards the door, though not without one more quick ear scratches for Baby Boy and a promise to bring him a treat next time.
 
The garage was quieter than it had been the day before. Parker was gone, but she recognized the man and woman from the day before, the man grabbing a socket wrench, the woman under the hood of Karen’s Jeep. 

 “Hey, keep an eye on Baby?” Frank said to the tech as he went around the back of the car. The woman that looked out from behind the hood was in her twenties, the top of her jumpsuit rolled down to reveal intricately tattooed arms. She had long black hair with red streaks in the front, in a ponytail away from her face. She had bright hazel eyes and was chewing green bubble gum. 

 “Sure, Boss,” she nodded, then looked at Karen, amusement spreading on her lips. “Hey are you the customer Parker helped yesterday?” She asked. 

 Karen hesitated. “Yes,” she said. 

 “Oh,” the girl got a very amused smile on her face, then looked over at Frank. “The librarian?” 

 Frank looked un-amused. “Go back to work,” he said, but his tone wasn’t very harsh. It reminded Karen of the way her favorite uncle used talked to her—exasperated, like she was a child sometimes, but never mean. 

 The girl, Ronnie, smiled unperturbed. “Nice to meet you,” she said to Karen, then went back to looking under the hood and Karen followed Frank to the back of the car.  He opened the back and Karen all but lurched forward, grabbing the box label “Bedroom-ish” in sloppy sharpie scrawl. 

 Frank gave her an odd look, but didn’t say anything, just grabbed the other box and gestured to the door at the back of the garage. “Just out here,” he said. 
 
Karen followed him out—admitting bitterly to herself that Frank had been right, there was no way she could have carried all of this even if it was just across the street. The boxes were awkward and heavy and thin. She kept her arms locked securely around the edges. 
 
There was a small overhang behind the building, and parked near the door as a 70’s truck in green with a cream white stripe on the side. 
 
Frank ducked into the rain first, his hood pulled back up over his head, and opened the passenger door first, then looked to her expectantly. 
 
Karen darted out into the rain, then climbed into the cab. The seats were a warm tan leather with a heavy blanket covering the seat—she could see errant grey dog hairs speckling the material. Besides an old coffee cup in the cup holder it was spotless. 

 Frank went around, pushing her other box into the middle seat between them before he climbed in and dug in his hoodie for keys.

 The truck cab was cozy—the small space reminded Karen of reverse snowglobe—gold, red, and brown leaves and rain swirled around outside of the glass, and thunder rolled— while inside was dry, warm air already drifting from the vents, and oddly quiet. The cab was immediately heady with what she thought might be Frank’s body wash—spiced, musky, but clean—hints of her own shampoo, laundry detergent, car oil and the tang of metal and gasoline. 

 “So,” Karen had to say something because she had started staring at the way his hair curled on the ends when it was wet and needed to stop. “How long have you lived in Hartford?” 
 
Frank put his arm around the back of the chair the way people did when the backed up their cars, his hand only a couple inches away from hers. While he backed out she couldn’t help but stare for a moment. “Two years,” he said. 

 Karen was surprised, turning her gaze away once moved his arm back. “Really? That’s it?”

 “Yeah, I bought the auto shop off a guy who was retiring, moving to Florida. Bought the truck off the same guy. Apartment upstairs. It all just kind of worked at the time,” he said as he made a left turn out of the back parking lot. 
 
“You live in the shop?” 

 “Rent’s free,” Frank shrugged.

 “Isn’t it… Loud?” Karen asked thinking back to the drilling noises and the punk music. 
 
“I’m up early anyways, doesn’t bother me,” Frank said, making the turn onto Main, the windshield wipers working overtime to keep the glass clear of water and falling leaves that smacked against the glass loudly before being swiped away. “And Baby Boy is fine with anything but thunder so he’s good. Plus, I lived in New York, so y’know,” Frank shrugged. “Noise is noise, can’t do shit about it.” 
   
Karen perked up. “When?” 

 “When did I live in New York?” Frank clarified.

 “Yeah, I just moved from there.” 

 “Really?” 

 “Yeah. I grew up in Vermont, but yeah I was there a few years.” 

 Frank gave her a small smile. “I grew up there with my parents, was in and out after high school.” 

 “College?” Karen guessed.

 “Military,” Frank said, though his expression suddenly looked a little more guarded, so she decided not to push it any further. Karen had learned to be good at reading faces and tone as a kid, things were never violent at home but she could walk in a room and taste tension, see the small warning signs in their posture, their eyes. It had served her well interviewing sources—knowing when to drop something without being asked. 

 “Nice,” she said, lamely, instead. 

 The library came into view quickly, and when Frank pulled up alongside the front of the building, she felt a knot in her stomach as she looked at the steps, remembering the night before, the police cruiser by her house… 

 “Hey,” Frank said, almost making Karen jump out of her skin. His voice was low and cautious and when Karen looked over at him his dark eyes were catching on her tensed brows and shoulders. “You alright?”

 Karen sat up. “Oh, yeah, fine.”

 Frank didn’t look convinced. “Something I said?” 

 “No, no, it’s just…” she glanced back at the steps. “Do you…” she looked back at Frank, and his gaze was quiet, sincere, patient. She didn’t know why why it felt so fucking easy to talk to him—was she so broke that even her confidence could be bought with a free car inspection? 

 All the same, she continued. “You ever hear anything… Off… About Sheriff Elson?” 

 Frank straightened a little against the back of his seat, looking slightly amused. “Sheriff Todd Elson son of Jeffry and LouAnn Elson of the Hartford Elsons?” He said with some sarcastic grandiosity. 

 Karen offered an amused smile, grateful for the way he so easily broke tension. “I think?”

 “You run into him?” Frank asked, his dark gaze a little more sobered as he continued to watch her face.

 “Yeah, he…”

   He what? He called you pet names that made you feel uncomfortable? Offered you a ride? You didn’t like his face? Where was the crime? Even him driving by her house wasn’t illegal—hell, it could have been a routine part of his drive, he might have no idea she lived there.

 “I don’t know. Situation was weird, I guess,” she said.

 “What kind of situation are we talking about?” Frank sat up, brow furrowed, his thumb absentmindedly running over the top of the steering wheel.

 “Some drunk guy banging on the door at ten at night like an asshole, nothing crazy really,” Karen said. “But maybe that’s just the New York talking, I had that happen once a week in my shitty apartment, so,” she added, attempting to lighten the mood. 

 Frank wasn’t letting go, though. “And Elson responded?”

 “He was just kind of there at the right time, I guess. They picked up the guy, but it was just kind of… I don’t know, odd,” she said, deciding to leave out the part about the drive-by. 

 Frank considered her for a moment, then leaned back on his seat. “Look, Hartford looks very very quiet and a lot of the people have lived and worked here forever and they are teachers and they run businesses or lawn care services or whatever the hell and they’re not any trouble,” he said. “But there are families that have been upstate here a very, very long time. They have that bullshit old money, they own the biggest houses, they employ a lot of people in the county, they donate a lot to the town buildings and events and they’re entitled fucking assholes.” 

 Karen pursed her lips together. “And the Elsons?” She asked. 

 “They have a very, very big summer house on the lake and I’m not even able to order parts for the car Sheriff Elson’s daddy drives.”

 Karen nodded lightly in understanding. She looked out the window—the deluge against the glass and the lack of people on the streets had created the illusion of privacy. “Is he dangerous?” Karen asked, looking back at Frank. 

 Frank’s brow knit together. “What makes you ask that?”    

 “Like I said, nothing really it was just…” Karen felt stupid, she hugged her humiliating box of blankets and vibrators closer to her chest. She felt like she was just mess after mess and she had only been there a couple of days, why was she digging herself in deeper by being dramatic and complaining to someone she barely knew? “Just odd, I guess,” she said again, trying to be dismissive. 

 Frank looked at her for a few moments like he was going to say something, then glanced at the boxes. “How are you getting these home?” He asked, allowing the topic to drop. 

 “I live just back behind the cemetery,” Karen said, gesturing beyond the library. “I can make a couple trips, leave something in the office,” she shrugged. 

 “It’s supposed to rain all day,” Frank said. “And I have your car.”

 “I’m aware.”

 “It gets dark at like five, so you’re going to walk in the rain after dark with a box full of… Well all kinds of shit, actually.”

 “You have a Megan Fox poster on your business wall, I am not taking critique from you,” Karen said, a smile pulling at the corner of her lips. 

 “I didn’t put that up, it was already there,” Frank argued. “And okay I get you not wanting to let me drive you,” he allowed. “We’re strangers, that’s fine. Do you have anyone else?”

 Karen laughed at the sudden look of dismay on his face. “What, do the werewolves come out after sundown?” She asked. “How bad can it be out here?” 

 “It just sounds like you’d be drenched and cold and walking around in the dark alone while trying not to drop shit,” Frank said and the look on his face told her that, for whatever reason, that idea was just no good to him. 

 Karen sighed. “Okay,” she relented. “Fine. You can inconvenience yourself for no reason and drive me home.”

 “Okay,” Frank nodded, appeased. “What time do you get off?” 

 “I don’t know—shooting for six today, but you haven’t seen this office. It’s like one of my moving boxes exploded.”

 Frank cracked a small smile. “Speaking of, you can just leave your stuff here for now—”

 “Oh, that’s okay,” Karen said quickly. Too quickly. 

 “I promise I don’t want your curling iron, Page,” Frank assured her, an eyebrow raised.

 Karen’s cheeks flushed pink. “I’ll take this one just because I have, y’know, some paperwork in it that I should probably submit,” she lied, terribly. 

 Frank looked at her for a long moment, incredulous, but he shrugged. “Free country.”

 Karen unbuckled her belt. “You sure you don’t mind? Might be later than six?” She gave him another chance to change his mind.

 “Just text me, I can be here,” Frank assured her. 

 Karen hefted up her box in her arms, and Frank went to unbuckle his seat belt.

 “What are you doing?” Karen asked. 
 
Frank froze, dark eyes wide. “Getting the door?” 

 Karen rolled her eyes, pulling the door handle open and hefting up the box in her arms. “I got it,” she laughed. 

 “You sure, I—”
 
“I’ve got it, Frankenstein,” Karen laughed, pulling the hood on her jacket up over her head. “I’ll see you around six.”

 Frank looked at the door, unhappy, but left his seat belt on. “See you around six."
 

 

 

 

Chapter 5: CHAPTER 5

Chapter by bernthalslut

Summary:

Karen meets Andrew and Josie (yay) and Frank drives her home in the rain, has a domestic moment, gazes longingly. Dumbass skull reference. Not my best written chapter, but I really struggled with this one for some reason? Think it's the seasonal depression setting it. Idk.

Disclaimer: I have no idea how to fix a heater. I used to re-light the pilot light on mine in my old house and nearly blew myself up once, but no heater repair. Frank is fixing the heater based on vibes and that is all I can say on that.

 Karen found that the lights were on inside the library when she walked in, droplets of water slipping off the tip of her nose, caught in her eyelashes onto the herringbone floors. 
 She was wary at first, hearing some shuffling and movement up ahead as she walked through the foyer, but then she heard a friendly female voice call out from further in the building. 
 

“Sorry, we’re closed!” But then in a softer voice, Karen also heard,“I thought you locked the door?”

 “I did,” a male voice replied, before Karen saw two people peek out form behind some of the stacks main floor stacks. A middle aged woman, beautiful green eyes and dark brown curls clipped back into a bun on her head, a bright red-lipstick smile on her round face, a vintage dress on her thick curves. 

 The man was older, maybe in his fifties— lean, tall, and neatly dressed in an argyle sweater and slack combo. He was holding a small stack of books. His hair was a mess of brunette locks with small streaks of silver, with glasses over bright blue eyes. 
 The two whispered to each other before the woman stepped out. 
 
“Oh my god, are you Karen?”
 
Karen smiled. “That’s me,” she said for what felt like the millionth time that week. 

 “I’m Josie!” The woman said, a sudden burst of energy as she walked over to her. “This is Andrew,” she said, gesturing back to the man. “We work here,” she added. 

 “Right, I remember your names,” Karen smiled, feeling some genuine butterflies in her stomach at meeting her staff. “It’s so great to meet you, Mayor Rowland had only nice things to say,” she said. 
 
“Isn’t she just great?” Josie beamed. 

 “Absolutely,” Karen agreed, still self-conscious of the box in her arms, anxious to put it somewhere out of sight. 

 “Looks like you got into the office alright,” Andrew said, his voice was all business, but not unfriendly. 

 “I did,” Karen said. “I haven’t gotten rid of anything yet, just organizing. I didn’t know how many people had had a chance to  go through things and make sure that anything meaningful got to the right people,” she said carefully, imagining finding the room in disarray might have been upsetting. 

 Andrew pushed his glasses up his nose.“Winnie’s family didn’t even come to the funeral. Hartford was her family,” he said. 
 
Karen saw Josie give Andrew a sympathetic look. “Maybe we should take another look, Drew?” She offered kindly. “Help Miss Page make sure everything goes where it should?”

“Please do,” Karen offered again, gesturing to the office and walking that way. “It seems to be mostly yarn and vintage erotica, besides lots of papers.”

 “Yes, Winnie was a free spirit,” Andrew said. 

 “A messy spirit,” Josie mused, following Karen into the office, taking inventory of the ripped apart and barely scratched space. “I mean I have four kids and this still gives me stress.” 

 “Oh, Winnie,” Andrew sighed, shaking his head as he took in the scene. “She loved this place, practically lived here most days. Unless she was out with Beanie,” he said affectionately. 

 “From the coffee shop?” Karen asked. 

 “Yes,” Andrew nodded as he moved around the room, glancing at a thorny pile of knitting needles. “They both liked the lowbrow literature,” he said a quick glance at a particularly risqué cover of something that claimed to be about a duke. 

 Karen found herself smiling a little, remembering how Frank had told her how Winnie had tried suggesting “graphic” reads to him.

 “What is the collection like?” Karen asked curiously. “I mean, on the floor.”
 
Josie let our a bark of a laugh. “Not great,” she said. “A lot of them should have been pulled from circulation for lack of interest years ago, but the city gives us a garbage budget, we’d have some empty shelves if we really went through and purged.”
 
Karen bit her lower lip, she had told herself to have low expectations but this was sounding worse than she imagined. 
 
“Want some help sorting?” Josie offered. “We might be able to tell you what just needs pitched.” 
 
Karen accepted the help gratefully once she had secured her box under the desk, under the layers of her coat, umbrella, and bag, praying it didn’t get knocked over.  The trio of them quickly settled into a nice organizing rhythm, the two of them asking Karen questions here and there—so where are you from? What brought you to Hartford? Karen was grateful for their more familiar judgement as they sifted through piles of Winnie’s things. She felt comforted knowing that someone who cared about Winnie was able to help make some final decisions on her belongings. 
 
“I’ll take the knick-knacks and mugs and more dubious books to the thrift store if you want,” Josie offered as she hefted a basket of yarn up onto the desk. 
 
Karen nodded from her place on the floor where she was going through a stack of magazines, almost walled in by piles of newspapers that Andrew was going through with precision speed. “That’d be great,” Karen said. 
 
While they all worked Karen got to know Josie and Andrew a little better—though Andrew was a hard one to draw details out of. Josie lived with her husband, Keith, and their four kids—two boys, two girls and they were clearly the loves of her life beyond books and she mentioned dog fostering. Andrew lived with his partner, Greg, though he was very private and not especially forthcoming with details. Though, when Josie gushed that Greg and Andrew threw lovely dinner parties, and that Greg used to be a concert pianist Andrew couldn’t help but beam with a little pride. “He’s very special,” he said. 

 “So,” Josie said as she found another basket to sift through. “Is it just you here, or any kids or partners?” She asked. 

 “Just me,” Karen said, and not without a little bitterness in her chest, though she hid it well. Originally the move from New York was something she hesitated on, because of someone. Things had moved pretty quickly once she realized they weren’t interested in taking their fresh relationship long distance Now it was just something she did her best not to think about very much. And most of the time it was working. 

 Josie paused for a moment, and Karen could see Josie and Andrew glancing at each other then back at her. 
 
“You were expecting something else?” She asked, uncertain. 
 
“No, it’s just…Well…” Josie sighed, hesitating for a moment before continuing. “It’s just that new people in Hartford are rare and consequently buzzy and then we went to Beanies’ on the way here today and they said you already knew someone here and she made us promise to ask.” 

 Karen’s brow furrowed. “I’d spoken to Nora a few times,” she said. “But I don’t know anyone from Hartford.”

 Andrew raised a brow, gossip clearly bringing out a more curious side of him. “Really?” He asked doubtfully. 

 Karen laughed. “Yes, really? Who did they say I knew?”

 Another conspiratorial glance. 

 “Only Hartford’s resident mystery man, Frank Castiglione,” Andrew said conspiratorially. “We heard you were talking in Beanie’s and then right before you walked in I got a text from Cora Phillips that you were in his truck.” 

 Karen barked a laugh. “What?”

 Josie nodded. “We heard you were… Friendly.”

 Karen’s jaw actually dropped. “He’s working on my car. Or, I thought he was, but he wasn’t, but now he is,” Karen said, then added. “The auto shop name thing is really, really insane, by the way.”

 “Oh, don’t get me started,” Andrew said, momentarily distracted, the zeal of a long held bone to pick gleaming in his eyes. “I have petitioned with the chamber of commerce three times, with property documents going back to 1978 but will they listen? No.”

 “Which one was actually here first?” Karen asked. 

 “Oh definitely Hartford Auto Repair,” Josie said as though it weren’t a question. 

 “Frank’s shop?” She clarified. 

 “Oh, just Frank, is it?” Andrew asked, peering at her over his glasses. 

 “We don’t really know each other,” Karen insisted. “He’s working on my car, offered me a ride because it’s raining.” 

 Josie and Andrew looked back at each other, Andrew raising a skeptical brow. 

 “Really, that’s it?” Josie wasn’t buying it. 

 “Yes, really,” Karen laughed. “I don’t know him beyond him looking at my car.”

 “Well,” Andrew sighed. “Too bad, having info on Frank is a nice bargaining chip in Hartford, lots of curious parties.” 
 
“No one has just… Asked him about himself?” Karen was shocked. 
 
“Oh, they’ve asked,” Josie assured her. “He is jut incredible at dodging. Even Beanie who has next to no shame can’t get much out of him.” 
 
“And beyond that,” Andrew chimed in. “He doesn’t leave the auto shop much besides for coffee, some food, walking his dog. Beanie will corral him into helping with town events she claims to be too fragile to do—like helping her with the stages for the children’s theatre.” 
 
“Oh, and the town hall,” Josie said. “He shows up to deal with the noise complaints, but he just scares the shit out of everybody by silently sitting there sipping coffee and glaring at Marcie Olsen until someone pretends they ran out of time and adjourns the meeting before they can deal with it.” 
 
“Marcie Olsen?” Karen couldn’t keep up with the names. 

 “Oh, she is the one who complains about the music. She owns the floral shop next door to him,” Andrew clarified. “And is the most miserable woman in town.” 

 “Drew, be nice,” Josie said, glancing back at Karen. 

 “Well!” Andrew threw back. “You know she said my puff pastry was dense at the last Hartford History Association meeting?” He added. 

 “I remember,” Josie assured Andrew, then looked to Karen. “The HHA is really where a lot of the drama happens, besides town halls,” she said. 

 “That and the PTA,” Andrew said, glancing at Josie. 
 
Josie sighed. “Ugh, don’t get me started. Votes for bake sale director are next week and the campaign is heating up. Francine Wallace brought in coffee at the last meeting—personalized orders from Beanie’s. She must have dropped a hundred bucks.”

 Andrew shook his head. “Money can’t buy competence, and you have that in spades. You’re the best fit for the role,” he said, with a warmth that came from genuine admiration, and a touched smile broke out across Josie’s face. 

 “You know,” Andrew said, quickly changing the topic, seeming uncomfortable in his sentimentality after a few moments. “Despite being married, Mrs. Wallace made several passes at Frank at a Fourth of July event this year, in front of God and everybody. He was helping Beanie get her car to restart and she sauntered over, blue Smirnoff in hand.”

 “He’s not my friend,” Karen re-iterated carefully as she unearthed some more bodice-ripper paperbacks from behind a pile of empty picture frames. 

 “And a week later,” Andrew continued. “Marg Wentworth said that he came back from a ‘fishing trip’ and she saw him sneak up into the apartment when she was picking up her Volvo and he had a black eye.”

 “He’s obviously a criminal,” Josie said sarcastically. 

 Andrew looked to Karen, ignoring Josie. “There’s a reason a man that looks like that walks into town and doesn’t talk to a single one of the women—or men—who suddenly and desperately needed their oil changed,” he said. “Frank Castiglione was dodging casseroles, cakes, cookies, and many a desperate spectacle for the first month he was here. These small town women are like starving piranhas—a little fresh meat that doesn’t wear oil slick fishing sunglasses and they lose their minds.” 

 Karen looked to Josie, who shrugged. “It’s true. I haven’t seen the women in the PTA so riled up except when W.A.P. played at a homecoming dance.” 

Karen stifled a laugh, realizing just why a quick conversation in a coffee shop had started such a buzz, Frank had already been a subject of interest long before her arrival. 
 “Well, if he tells me anything especially juicy while he’s ringing up my invoice I’ll let you know,” she promised despite having no interest in trading in Frank-secrets, and also deciding not to share that he planned on being there at six to take her home. 

 “Oh, speaking of gossip!” Josie exclaimed suddenly. “I was so distracted by the Frank commotion, I forgot: they arrested someone here last night?” She said, 

 Andrew’s brow shot up. “They what!?” He exclaimed.

 Karen was glad Josie had so quickly (and graciously) turned the topic from Frank. “Uh, yeah some guy was drunk out front. The Sheriff and a deputy happened by, picked him up.” 

 “Who!?” Andrew seemed put out about not already knowing the details of the commotion. 

 “Ah, his name was Holmes?” Karen tried to remember details. “Drunk, wanted in for some county records in the middle of the night?” 
 Josie perked up. “He’s not from here,” she said. “But his cousin Daniel Wilkes and their uncle are. Though, the uncle just passed, he lived on the outskirts of town, owned a big farm,” she explained. 

 “I heard there is a little property dispute coming up about that,” Andrew mused, distracted momentarily by a 2009 edition of the Hartford Gazette in his hands.   “Well, Holmes was here the other day,” Josie said. “And he was after property records. I told him we weren’t open and he’d need to come back. Honestly, I wanted to help but I don’t even know where to start with the old county records. Winnie’s system was her own.” 

 “Those are all in the basement, right?” Karen asked.

 “Yeah. It’s dry and tidy it’s just the way she filed it all,” Josie said. “We’re happy to help with that, too, of course. When the time comes.”

 “I will add it to the list,” Karen nodded. 

 “Oh, while you have a list in the works,” Andrew said, looking up from the paper. “Town hall is next Wednesday after the budget meeting—bring popcorn, rumor is they’re going to be talking about the Thanksgiving food drive, proper leaf disposal, and businesses that aren’t participating in the festive decorations, which is absolutely directed at Frank as well— the town tyrant, William Hobbes runs the corner store, the HHA, and wants to run the town hall.” 

 “Marcie and William are always in fine form at the town hall. I bring movie theatre candy and Andrew brings cocoa. It’s great, you should sit with us!” Josie invited. 

 “I’d love to,” Karen said honestly. 

  “And we’re doing a booth at the Fall Festival on Saturday,” Andrew said. “I bought a ton of candy and Josie has made bookmarks to give out.”

 “I will be there,” Karen assured him “Anything I can bring?” 

 “We have the decorations and Keith built us a stand a couple years back,” Josie said. “So it would just be nice to have you there— it’s a great chance to meet people. Though, be prepared to feel like you’re in a fishbowl if you don’t already.” 

 Karen ironed out some details with Josie and Andrew about what needed to happen before their re-opening Saturday morning—they had been re-shelving any drop box returns, keeping the building clean. The main thing needed to re-open was making sure that they were all on the same page about scheduling, payroll, getting Karen up to date on their computer system. It would be just the three of them and then a small rotation of volunteers from the high school. Apparently if things were light the town hall would notify everyone and ask for some help and someone eventually meandered in and helped get things going. 

 Karen’s office clean up and crash course went on until nearly five. Karen was a quick study and had always enjoyed grasping a new process, digging into a new place and getting to know the moving pieces. By the end of the day, she had a small sense of belonging with Josie and Andrew, nosiness and all

Karen hung back after they helped her close up and left so Frank picking her up wouldn’t become a public exhibit, pretending to need to file some paperwork. 
 
Looks like I’m out a little early— I can walk if you’re still working, nbd. 

She sent the text before gathering up her things, preparing to walk in the deluge, but Frank responded quickly. 
 
Shop closes at five. I’ll be there in a few. 

Ok. 

Karen held her packing box close to her chest, after she locked ups standing under the overhang, ignoring a couple of people openly staring out their passenger windows in their cars as they drove by. Luckily it was dark so she could obscure herself in the shadows, though she was still pelted with wet leaves being pulled off the trees by the rainfall, thunder still rumbling off in the distance, thin streaks of lightening on the horizon line. 

She saw the truck pulling up, a small bit of nerves twisting in her stomach. She thought about the warm, dark truck cab— the heavy scent to cologne and engine oil. 

 Frank parked the truck and she ran down the stairs quickly. Frank reached across the cab and opened the door for her. She ducked inside, the cab light on illuminating the high points and broad edges of Frank’s features, shadowed and sharp. He was in different clothes than earlier, a clean pair of jeans and a new jacket and hoodie combo. His hair was damp and she could smell what she guessed was shampoo or body wash—spiced, dark, warm. Something acoustic played gently on the radio. 

 “Hey,” she said, shaking her hair out a little while she balanced her box on her lap. 

 “Hey,” Frank smiled back. “Wasn’t sure you’d actually let me drive you.”

 “You had some stiff competition,”Karen told him. “Josie offered me a ride in her mini van, with the promise of cold French fries and soccer gear in the seats.” 

 “And you didn’t take her up on that?” Frank laughed. 

 “You can’t accept rides from strangers, Frank,” Karen said with mock seriousness. 

 Frank was amused, putting the truck back into gear. “Speaking of, where do you live, exactly?”

 “22 Currant street,” Karen said. “Not far.”  Frank started down the road, windshield wipers groaning rhythmically against the windshield while the rough voiced vocalist and guitar continued to drift from the radio. . 

 “So, first day went alright?” Frank asked. 

 Karen leaned back into the seat. “I think so. Made some headway on the office, got to know Josie and Andrew. Planning for the fall festival this weekend.”

 Frank groaned. “Aw, fuck, I forgot about that.”  

Karen laughed at his look of sheer dismay. “What festival hurt you?” She asked. 

 “Take your pick the town does one basically every month,” Frank said. “And Beanie always guilts me into helping with the set for her theatre thing.”
 
“Hey, she’s… Elderly.” Karen defended. 

 “That woman is strong as an ox, she’s just trying to socialize me like I’m a shelter dog.” 

 “Sounds like it’s well-intentioned?” 

 “It’s slightly invasive, wholly unnecessary, and very uncomfortable” Frank countered. 

 “Sounds like something a shelter dog would say,” Karen mused and Frank gave her some cutting but amused side eye. 

 Frank turned onto Currant Street and they came up on her house quickly, the street drenched in a haze of orange lights and glimmering rainfall, the cab of the truck once again feeling insular, warm, almost like it’s own little microcosm. 

 Frank pulled into her driveway after she pointed out he house, putting it in park up close to the garage. 

 Karen pushed her hair away from her face, adjusting the box in her lap. 

 “You want help bringing your stuff in?” Frank offered, glancing out at the rain, which had now gathered into deep puddles along the edge of her driveway, over some lower parts of the sidewalk. 

 Karen considered. How Not to Get Murdered 101 said absolutely not, but Frank had yet to make her nervous, even if she knew she lacked the foundation to make a clear call. Though, she did also have the added advantage of everyone likely recognizing Frank’s truck. Worst case scenario: he murdered her and someone witnessed his truck in her driveway—surely even Sheriff Elson could solve that crime. Best case: everyone who saw it would think she was already entertaining men in her house and she’d be labeled the new town harlot like it was the 1700s by morning. She decided either one was worth not making two trips. 

  “If you want,” she said, making sure to keep her grip on the box in her lap—grateful to be in the home stretch of dealing with the liability. 
 Frank grabbed up the other box, and followed her out of the truck, through the rain, and up to the door where she fumbled with her keys and got the door open beneath the overhang of the porch. 

 The moment Karen got inside she could feel that there wasn’t a significant shift in the air between outside—which was rapidly dropping into the thirties with the rain and wind— and in the house. 

 Karen sighed and Frank watched the faint ghost of her breathe hang, visible in the cold air. 

 “Fuck,” she muttered as she realized the heat wasn’t on. 

 “They haven’t turned on the heat yet?” Frank was skeptical. 

 “It was working this morning,” Karen assured him, quickly placing her box in a safe corner out of view before going over to the thermostat on the wall in the hallway that lead back to the kitchen and off to her bedroom—which was an old dial control. 

 “It’s set to 68,” she said, a shiver running over he arms.
 
Frank set down the other box. “Where’s the unit?” 
 
“My heater?”
 
“Yeah, in the basement? A utility closet?”
 
“Uh…” Karen glanced as though it might materialize. Asking where her heater unit was hadn’t been a top priority for her during her rushed tour of the house. “I guess I don’t know. Probably the basement?”
 
“Want me to check the basement? Take a look?” Frank offered. 
 
Karen ran a hand through her blonde, damp hair. “The basement is… Rustic,” she said. She had been shown a sneak preview from the top of the stairs and had vowed to never go down. It was a cellar more than a basement, from what the landlord had said. 
 
Frank laughed, and she was caught off guard yet again by how magnetic the deep tones felt as they hung in the air. “I think I can handle whatever is down there.”

Karen relented, gesturing for him to follow her down the hall. The hallway led back to the kitchen—which served as a sort of small hub in the house. It held a breakfast nook to the left with a formica top table and mismatched chairs. There was a door out to the backyard on the back wall, and the door to the basement on the right wall next to where the fridge and stove were positioned. Much like the rest of the house, it was a mismatch of old and new. Refinished wood floors, retro wallpaper, an eclectic mix of furniture and fixtures. Some of the appliances were vintage—a pale green stove, an old blue stand mixer, the wall was decorated in yellow floral wallpaper from the 70s, the floors hardwood. A small island stood, covered in unpacked boxes, a smattering of leaf garlands and pumpkins piled up on the countertop. 

Karen had to yank hard on the antique door to the basement, warped a little by time so it didn’t fit quite right in the doorway anymore. She pulled on the rusted pull chain light switch and  illuminated the descent down on dusty, spiderweb draped stairs. 
 
“You, uh, coming down?” Frank asked, glancing past her, appearing unbothered by the horror movie stairwell.   
 
Karen gave him a pointed look. “Am I going to follow a man I met yesterday down into a dark, dreary, soundproof basement where my body would go undiscovered for weeks? No.”
 
A smile broke out onto Frank’s face. “Atta girl,” he nodded, then turned, pulling the flashlight hanging on the wall inside the door. He clicked on the bright beam. “I’ll be back,” he said, before descending without any hesitation into the dark space. 
 
Karen stood for a few moments until Frank went out of view. Another shiver pulled at her body. She turned and found her kettle that was underneath some kitchen towels in a box and filled it with water, throwing it on the stove for some tea—craving the feeling of some warm stoneware between her cold hands. 
 
While she waited, she quickly tried to tidy up the messy kitchen space—god, she really needed to just finish unpacking once and for all. She was considering running back to change out of her damp clothes when she heard a loud clatter down in the basement, followed by some rough curses. 
 
She moved back over to the basement doorway. “Frank?” She called, to no response, only more clattering sounds she figured she couldn’t be heard over. 
 
She turned on the flashlight on her phone and moved carefully down the stairwell, which landed on rough concrete floors. 

The space was crowded with old bins, toolboxes, some dusty Christmas lawn decorations, and other unlabeled cardboard boxes. Karen’s landlord had vaguely warned her that there was a small accumulation of things from herself and previous tenants from over the years. The lights hanging overhead that Frank had turned on where old, yellowed bulbs that barely cast any light. 
 
She looked around to see Frank in the corner, boxed in by several totes and a couple of Santa blow-molds. He had the flashlight held between his shoulder and jaw as he used both of his hands to re-fit and screw a panel back into the side of a large utility unit she assumed was her heater. 

 “You alright?” Karen asked. “I heard… something.”

 Frank looked over at her as he continued to try and hold up the panel, the flashlight, and screw in another corner. “I think I broke your, uh…” he gestured down. “Whatever that was,” he said before finishing up the last two screws easily.

 Karen moved forward until she saw a cheap, threadbare wire and tinsel lawn reindeer crushed by Frank’s boots.

 “That was my grandmas,” Karen said, hoping she put on a properly distraught face. 

 “Fuck, are you serious?”

 “Vintage.”

 “Shit.”

 “Handmade in Italy by luxury craftsman, obviously, you can tell by the signature dust-encrusted K-Mart tag,” Karen continued, unable to hold her face together any longer and

Frank’s expression quickly looked unamused, but he had a wry smile on his face. 

 “Heater’s working,” he said, stepping away from it, unable to avoid stepping on the reindeer again as he maneuvered around some more boxes. “It was a filter, there was a spare one against the stairs so they probably just forgot to get it done before you moved in,” he said, walking back towards her—knocking over a couple of small boxes as he did.

“Probably couldn’t get back here very well,” he mused. 

 “There’s so much shit in here,” Karen mused, though she couldn’t help her curiosity, and leafed through the tops of one of the boxes near her—old clothing patterns, a doll, and then a sudden quick movement on the floor—

 Karen startled, dropping her phone, crying out as she scrambled back and away from the mouse that darted across the floor by her feet, and crashed directly into Frank.
 He steadied her quickly, though a little harshly, large hands on her waist and arm… 

 “Whoa, whoa, you alright?” Frank’s voice was more confused than alarmed. 

 “It was— It was just a mouse,” Karen managed through her startled breathlessness, which was giving way to laughter, a hand over her heart which was racing. 
 Frank gently let her go, and she turned to face him, having to tilt her head up a little to see his dark eyes. Even in the dark, cold basement she could smell the spiced scent on his skin. 

 “You alright” he asked again, and she could feel his low voice at this distance, the heavy timber echoing against her chest. 

 Karen nodded up at him. “Yeah,” she whispered. 

  Because of the harsh flashlight and the dim bulbs his face was deeply shadowed making him look hollowed like a skull, besides the lines of his lips that just looked heavy and full and.. 
 Frank reached out slowly, and Karen swore her heart stopped functioning, her brain shutting off. 

 “You’ve got…” Frank glanced at her mouth, then looked back at her hair. “Spiderwebs,” he said, then gently pushing the near-invisible silken strands out of her hair. 
 Karen knew a blush filled her cheeks and she prayed the shadows hid it. She went to say something, but jumped again as the tea kettle upstairs started to whistle loudly. Frank smirked a little when she startled into him, fingers wrapping into the fabric of his jacket.  

“Sorry,” Karen practically ripped her hands back off of him. What the hell was wrong with her?  “Uh, tea?” She offered, her voice coming out small and strangled, still feeling a tingle on her scalp where his fingertips had been. 

 Frank looked at her for a long moment, then nodded. “Yeah.”

 Karen turned quickly and led the way, scooping up her phone as she went--somehow, despite her string of misfortunes the screen wasn't cracked. Her entire body was humming and her lips ached in a way she told herself she just needed some air. God knew what kind of mold was down
there. Yes, mold, this unhinged response to a man she had seen maybe three times was the product of mold exposure. 

 Once she reached the kitchen she quickly pulled the kettle off the burner, and grabbed two mugs—one shaped like a ghost, the other one a black cat. She dropped tea bags into each and poured the water while Frank checked the heating vents in the kitchen. 
 
“It’s working,” he confirmed as she slid the cat mug across to him on the counter. She leaned up against it, turning the mug around in her hands.

  “So, car mechanic, stage builder, furnace repair man… What can’t Frank Castiglione do?” Karen asked. 

 Frank shrugged. “I’m shit with computers,” he said. “Not great at baking. Can’t knit a sweater.”

 “You tried knitting?”

 “Exactly once.” 

 “No baked goods, no clothing hand-knit with love—Christmas must be rough for you.”

 “The techs have gotten used to gift cards.” 

 Karen took a drink of tea, the warmth flushing comfortingly through her throat and chest. “So, you’ll be at the festival on Saturday, then?” She asked. 

 Frank met her her gaze, dark wine eyes holding her in place for just a few moments before he looked back at his tea. “Yeah, bright and early.”

 “Same,” Karen nodded. “We are doing a booth. Josie made bookmarks, Andrew bought Halloween candy. Should be fun.”

 “Maybe I’ll… See you there, then?” Frank said, and Karen couldn’t fight the smile on her lips.  

 “You will if you want to,” she said. 

 “I want to,” Frank said simply.

 Karen knew a rose tint was creeping up her neck and cheeks, she pushed her hair behind her ears. “Okay, then you will.”

 Frank gave her a small smile, then looked out the window. “Guess I should get back, then,” he said. 

 Karen straightened, clearing her throat. “Right, yeah. It’s getting late,” she said, glancing at the clock to see it was seven, the sky outside completely black. 

 “Hey if it takes a minute on the car—which it might, ordering parts here is a bitch—just let me know if you need a ride, okay?”

 “Thanks—for everything.”

 “It’s really no problem,” Frank promised, then slid his mug back over to her. “Night, Karen.” Her name sounded so strangely soft in his deep, rough voice. 

 “Night,” she managed.

 He nodded to her before he left the kitchen, his footsteps and exit quiet down the hall. 
 
 
 
 

Chapter 6: CHAPTER 6

Chapter by bernthalslut

Summary:

Frank buys an iced coffee and he doesn't drink iced coffee.

 The rest of Karen’s week was a haze of re-opening preparations. Andrew and Josie helped her organize a few community volunteers to help with the first week—they deep cleaned, shelved, and continued to hack away at organizing whatever they could make their way through. 
 The weather had improved dramatically the last few days, as though the town would stand for nothing less. The day of the festival was warm, dry, and washed in a golden hue—a truly perfect fall day. 

 Karen walked through the cemetery and to the town square in an outfit she hadn’t had to pull from bags and boxes. Throughout the week she had made a concerted, focused effort on getting her clothes put away and having options. Today she was slightly grunge—jeans, dark blood red boots, and easy to remove layers of a dark flannel and a black jacket over her black t-shirt. 
 

She hadn’t heard from Frank much that week. He texted her a couple of updates on the car—he had listed some issues, some parts had been ordered. She mimicked his straightforward tone, leaving any interaction simple, non-conversational.  She hadn’t seen him around town. She had been into Beanie’s a couple of times—not looking for him, of course, she told herself—but he hadn’t been there. She knew he planned on seeing her today, though, and she felt oddly calm and fine about it 
 

Karen was impulsive, sometimes reckless in her work and career space—she liked hunting down, putting her personal well-being and safety on the line was second nature to her at this point. But usually relationships—even platonic ones—kept her up at night, made her pause. She worried over them, mentally tending to them like exotic hothouse flowers when she should be sleeping or eating. But that hadn’t happened with Frank, yet. Maybe it was just too early, maybe it had just been a while since she had seen him and it was already nothing, but he didn’t make her anxious and fretful. 
 

Karen made it downtown by seven, and Hartford was already bustling. There were people everywhere carrying armfuls of pumpkins and cornstalks, bins and baskets of hand crafted goods being carried to their booths. In the square she could see the gazebo was being laden down with gourds, garland and lights, and she could see the stage for the play beginning to take shape next to it, fresh lumber pulled together into something raised, with a scenery painted on the back, she could see a few teenagers working on hanging up curtains. No sign of Frank, though. 

 She found Josie at their booth—the streets had been shut down and their booth was set in  in front of the bakery, which had Karen’s empty stomach growling. They were set between a cotton candy cart that wasn’t up and running yet, and another booth that was piled high with yarn, knitting needles, and wool rovings all in vibrant colors. Across from them on the other side oft he street were several small little tented booths—a bazaar of antiques, hand-crafted goods, artwork, clothing. And in the middle a large, slightly sprawling wood and canvas structure that had been clearly professionally assembled. All in tones of beige, dusty rose, and deep amber—the word honeyheart in lean serif gold font across the top. People in matching beige sweaters running around with amber vases of beige fauna, lights, and crates of what Karen assumed contained product. 

 “Good morning!” Josie greeted her.

  Josie was in jeans, a black sweater with a pumpkin iron-on, and white sneakers. She had her toddler Henry with her, a little boy with dark curls and big green eyes like his mother, who was playing with stuffed animals on a blanket inside of the booth made from interlocking cedar and white canvas—Josie’s husband had apparently made it a couple of years earlier and had helped set it up the night before.
 

“Sorry about baby duty,” Josie apologized quickly. “Keith is helping with theatre stuff with Olive and Eloise, and Isaac had soccer so he couldn’t watch him—”

 “Josie, it’s okay. You can bring the kids whenever you need to,” Karen cut in to assure her.  She had met Josie’s children throughout the week when the oldest Isaac would herd the gaggle into the library after school on days Keith was working late. 

 Henry was her youngest at three, Isaac her oldest was sixteen—while Olive and Eloise were thirteen and eight, respectively. They were all busy, talkative, helpful, and so sweet, Karen had fallen in love with them all immediately. 

 Karen’s phone buzzed, and she pulled it out to see Frank’s name on the screen. She turned away for a moment to read the text.  

 You get here yet? 

 She smiled lightly, sending back. Just got here, actually. 

 What is your coffee order? 

 Karen glanced back at the theatre construction—she could see Beanie now, calling out directions to her high school minions. She caught a glimpse of Olive and Eloise digging in the costume bins with a couple of other girls, pulling out princess gowns. No Frank, though. 

Iced, oat milk with honey and cinnamon. Extra espresso. Lots of espresso. Enough to kill a small horse. 

 When she didn’t get an immediate response, she pocketed her phone and returned to helping Josie with some vintage styled Halloween garland over the front of their booth’s table, setting out some flyers they had made up with information on re-opening hours, when children’s reading sessions and activities would resume, and whatever other certainties they had put together in the last week. 

 Josie was wrapping heavy leaf garland around one of the back posts of the posts of the booth, when she turned to Karen.

 “Did you see we’re right across from Leah Young?” She asked. 
 

“Who?” Karen asked, looking up from the print outs of their favorite book covers they were going to tape around the sides of the booth. 

 “Leah Young!” Josie said in hushed tones, turning back to Karen but gesturing behind her to the large pink and beige booth. A woman with long, curled blonde hair in a flowing beige prairie dress looked on as a worker risked life and limb on a ladder to put up a string of lights.

 “Oh, those are the candles at Beanie’s,” Karen said. “Right?”

 “She sells way more than just that shelf at Beanie’s,” Josie whispered. “Leah Young blew up online a couple of years ago. She lives on a gorgeous farm property just outside of town, passed down for generations. Rumor is she’s going to be getting a huge deal with Opal Nest by Christmas.”

 Karen recognized Opal Nest, it was a home wellness company that was like Goop with more Magnolia Farms energy and a lot less “orgasm scented” candles. They marketed lots of home, health, and children’s goods ranging anywhere from bespoke wood indoor jungle gyms to $50 hand blended laundry soap. One of Karen’s co-workers had waited in an hours long queue line just to get her hands on a special edition tumbler collaboration with an influencer last Christmas, another bemoaned that their limited run $50 lip balm from Maine sold out before she could even get it in her cart. Opal Nest was big money. 

 “But,” Josie continued. “She still does a booth for the festival, sells at Beanie’s. It has helped put Hartford on the map. Her husband moved here from California, they have a couple kids.”

 “They go to school with yours?” Karen asked.

 “No, homeschooled,” Josie said. “And she posts all of the made-from-scratch-meals she makes, she has a huge garden every year, everything is organic and vegan…” 

 Karen could see Josie wince a little as she looked back at Henry who’s face was red with the dye from a sucker he had taken off of the table and was currently gnawing on. 

 “Most of those people hire help, they just don’t talk about it,” Karen said pointedly. She went over to Henry and helped wipe his face with a baby wipe from beneath the table—Josie was truly the mom of their work trio, a Mary-Poppins styled bag packed to the brim with snacks, wipes, nail files, scissors, and seemingly anything else you could imagine— despite some protest. “I’m willing to bet she has a nanny and a tutor and all kinds of help, she just won’t post it on social.”

 Josie considered, but before she could say anything further, Andrew came up with coffee in hand, and a handsome man of the same age walking at his side. He had dark curls, olive skin, and was wearing the same outfit as Josie—white sneakers, blue jeans, and a black sweater with a pumpkin. 

 “You wore it!” Josie exclaimed when she caught sight of him.

 “Of course! It annoys him so much, I just couldn’t resist,” the man said with a light French accent blended through his words, which felt incredibly out of place in Hartford. 

 Andrew rolled his eyes. “You know I bought him a cashmere sweater last Christmas that would have looked great on him today,” he muttered. 

 “You mean it would have matched you today,” the man corrected, amused.

 Josie giggled, thrilled. “We look great,” she said, then turned to Karen. “Karen, this is Andrew’s husband Greg,” she introduced. 

 “Oh, hi!” Karen said, feeling immediately smitten. Greg was adorable and had a smile that touched his eyes. She reached out her hand to shake his, and he gently shook it with both. “So wonderful to meet you, Andrew has been excited about work again, it’s been great to see. You must join us for dinner some night,” he invited. 

 

 “That would be lovely, thank you,” Karen said, blushing a little. Where Andrew was sharp and guarded, Greg was all warmth and charisma—they were adorable together. 

 “Josie, how did the bookmarks turn out?” Greg asked, and Josie squealed like a schoolgirl, pulling out a small tote bursting with paper from beneath the booth table.  She opened it, and Greg reached in for a couple. 

 “Oh Josie! These are wonderful! The prints really held up, I was worried you’d lose some of the vibrancy but these are just perfect,” Greg gushed, then turned to Karen. “Did she show you yet?”

 “Not yet,” Karen said stepping forward curiously. She knew Josie was an artist and had some of her work printed into bookmarks she was giving out, but as she looked at them she was stunned. They were beautiful hand-painted images of the library, downtown Hartford, some of her favorite book covers, some Halloween themed sceneries.  Josie was very talented, and the bookmarks were much more of labour of love than Karen had realized. 

 “Oh my god, Josie, these are incredible,” she breathed. 
 

“Aren’t they?” Greg agreed. “I keep telling her to get a little art print section in Beanie’s, you know she’d love to help you sell them there—plus Etsy.”

 Josie waved them off. “I don’t know, that’s a lot of time.”
 

“Psh, we’ll help watch the kids if you need the free time!” Greg said excitedly, though Andrew gave him an alarmed look. 

Greg took a sip of his Americano, then his eyes widened. “Oh, guess what we saw just now,” he said, his tone suddenly conspiratorial. 

 Josie was all ears. “Oh my god tell me.”

 “Well,” Greg said. “We were grabbing coffee—at Beanie’s of course—and we saw Castiglione and he was getting two coffees.”

 Josie’s eyes went wide, and Andrew nodded along gleefully, recovered from the threat of babysitting.

 Karen bit back a smile as she continued to leaf through the bookmarks.

 “The man drinks a lot of coffee,” Josie said. “Maybe he just got two?”

 

 “No, no, this one was iced,” Andrew said. 

 “Andrew assures me that Frank does not drink iced,” Greg added. “Or anything but black.”

 “He doesn’t,” Josie gasped. 

 Karen would be a little concerned by how much they knew about Frank’s coffee habits, but having grown up in a one light town with the population under five hundred: she could still remember most of the regular’s orders at the diner and what cigarettes her neighbor bought at the gas station on the corner. You sometimes became a stalker out of sheer boredom.

 Karen was pretending to be engrossed in the bookmarks as she heard murmurs of taking bets for who the coffee was for, when she caught sight of Frank walking out of Beanie’s and down the sidewalk. He was in almost all black like she had grown used to seeing him in, though he had a grey hoodie layer on over his black t-shirt and under his jacket. He really did have unparalleled resting bitch face, which she found oddly endearing after seeing how easily he could smile or tease when he felt comfortable. 
 She nervously pushed back her hair out of her face, forcing herself not to stare.

 Josie, Andrew, and Greg all felt silent as he approached. Karen caught the way that Josie and Andrew looked over at her, eyebrows raised. 
 
“Morning,” Frank nodded to them, his rough voice making her brain offering up questions like—do you think this is what he sounds like when he’s still all twisted up in bed? Groggy, rough, stretching… 

  She felt her cheeks warm but managed a straight face. 
 
He moved to Karen, one hot regular coffee with the words “RED EYE HOT NO FLAVOR” on it in all capital letters, and an iced one with a bee and a plant leaf drawn on it. 

 “Hey,” he said, holding out the iced coffee, and she felt another shower of sparks in her brain at the low, growly tone.
 
“Morning,” she smiled before taking the iced coffee in her hands. She stared at him for a moment, then made herself look away, only to realize to her own personal gaggle of onlookers.  She cleared her throat.

“Frank, have you met Josie, Andrew, or Greg?” She asked. 

 Frank nodded lightly. “In passing, nice to see you,” he said, tone friendly but Karen could see a small set of defenses go up in the lines of his body, and his smile didn’t even get close to touching her eyes how she was already used to. 

 “Nice to see you, too,” Josie said, her voice coming out a little too high and Greg elbowed her lightly. 

 Frank went to say something, but then stopped himself, looking back over at the stage, cleaning his throat, fingers thrumming against his leg. “So, uh, I should probably get back before Beanie sends out a search party,” he said to Karen, his dark liquor gaze meeting hers directly, easily. 

 “Right,” Karen said, unable to hide the cold drop of disappointment she felt in her stomach.

 “Maybe I’ll see you around later?” She knew she sounded way too hopeful to be casual, but Frank’s expression lightened. 

 “Yeah, yeah I’ll find you later.”

 “Okay.”

 “Okay,” Frank said, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, but only for a moment. “Good to see you,” he said again to Andrew, Greg, and Josie with a quick nod before turning and heading off to the chaos that Beanie was overseeing, and leaving Karen to realize just how many people were staring.

 Beyond Josie, Andrew, and Greg all trying and failing to be surreptitious, she saw someone with their head out of the coffee shop door quickly duck back inside. Across the
street she saw a group of older women in athleisure, white sneakers, some with visors all stopped in the middle of their morning group speed walk. 

 “Don’t know him my skinny ass,” Andrew said bluntly as soon as Frank was out of earshot.

 Karen’s mouth went dry under the sudden, intense scrutiny. “I swear, I hadn’t met him before this week, he’s just been really, really… Welcoming,” she struggled. 

 “Oh my god, maybe you’re right and they’re both in the CIA,” Greg whispered conspiratorially to Andrew, giving Karen a wicked little grin of amusement.

 “I had never met him before this week,” Karen felt the need to re-iterate. 

 “How did he know your coffee order?” Josie wanted to know. While Andrew looked affronted, clearly feeling lied to, Josie and Greg looked like cats that ate canaries—knowing, maybe even a little smug. 

 Karen held the coffee in her hands almost protectively. “He asked,” she said before taking much needed sip. 

 “Back in New York,” Andrew said with a mock whisper to Greg, who laughed but put up his hands. 

 “Alright, let’s give our Miss Page a break,” he said. “She has plenty of eyes on her without all of your questions about a man she just met this week who brought her a mere cup of coffee,” he said pointedly to Andrew.

 Andrew sighed, and Josie nodded. “Fine, I am done asking questions today,” he said, then looked to Karen. “Though I make no promises for tomorrow.” 

 Karen took another drink of the espresso laden coffee. “Fair enough.” 

                   +   +   +   +   +

 The library re-opening came up on them quickly after they had finished setting up the booth—which Greg had volunteered to run during the group’s library shift. 

 Karen was excited by the number of people that came in—mostly parents with children to loan out mass amounts of books and movies, some just wanted to replace lost cards. 

 Nora came to be supportive, and to help run interference on the people who seemed to have come in just to take a peek at the new person in town, or asking her rapid fire questions about herself.

 “So, we have the teenage volunteers helping the older patrons use the computers,” Karen explained to Nora as they did a small walk through the second level now that things had begun to slow and everyone was beginning to funnel back out into the town square where things were about to go into full swing. “I got in contact with the school and told them we would love to offer official volunteer hours for graduation and set up official times where seniors could come in and get help with computer usage, Josie tells me that computer literacy is a real challenge for a lot of Hartford’s seniors. We did it at one of my other libraries and it was a really great for fostering community, a small move to help close the generational gap.”

 “Just helping my mom upload a picture to an email makes me want to throw myself off the town hall building,” Nora mused with a dark laugh. “So good for them.”
 Karen laughed in agreement. “They’re really good sports about it,” she said. “I think most high schoolers like to be given the chance to teach something, feel trusted,” she added. 

 Nora smiled. “That thinking is going to help make the library the community builder it can be—and should be,” she said. “You are already doing great here, I can’t believe you got this place where you did in just a week.” 

 “Well, Josie and Andrew are a godsend, could not have done it without them,” Karen insisted. 

 Nora went to say something else, then stopped suddenly. Karen followed her line of sight to see a couple standing up ahead by the children’s section. A tall, young man with light brown hair and green eyes, next to a woman with beautiful, full light blonde hair and grey blue eyes. The woman held a squirming baby in her arms, with three more children—all boys--swirling around her feet. She looked tired, yet had on immaculate make-up, a perfect fall ensemble on her lithe body. The lot of them looked as though they had all stumbled out of a Ralph Lauren catalog—children in their neat, tidy little sweaters included. 

 “Oh, fuck,” Nora said, her voice low, going to turn away. “Quick, maybe he didn’t see—”

 “Nora!” The man called out, and Karen saw Nora flinch. He approached them, leaving his wife to wrangle the manic and crying children, which she did with a smile on her face, every blonde hair in place. 

 “Brent,” Nora said, her voice suddenly diplomatic, careful. “How nice of you to come.”

 “Wouldn’t miss it,” Brent said, then looked to Karen, extending a well manicured hand. “Brent Lawrence, you must be Karen Page.”

 Karen shook his hand, which was uncomfortable and crushing, paired with aggressive eye contact. 

 “I am,” Karen said, trying not to yank her hand back too quickly. 

 “Heard good things-- excited to have you, looking forward to seeing you at the budget meeting on Wednesday, so much to talk about when it comes to this place,” Brent said, hands on his hips and looking around to take a quick inventory. He looked at the space with a shrewd gaze, somehow finding fault in the gleaming wood and intricate ironwork. 

 Karen went to ask him what he thought was so pressing when the woman struggling with the four children approached.Karen looked to Nora, who looked even more uncomfortable than before and was uncharacteristically silent. 

 “Hey,” Karen greeted, seeing Nora continue to flounder. 

 The woman hiding any amount of frazzled feelings she might have with Herculean strength. “Hi there,” she said, her voice smoky and soft.  
 
Brent didn’t move to introduce her, and Nora cleared her throat, seeming to force herself to speak up.

 “Karen, this is Brent’s wife, Marnie, and their… Children…” Nora said, clearly unsure of any of their names. 

 “Oh, so nice, hope to see you guys at story time sometime soon,” Karen said. Marnie was unflinching as one of the boys pulled on her coat with all of their weight and complained about wanting cotton candy. 

 “Oh, that would be so fun,” Marnie said, same unbroken smile on her face. “The kids are really into Roald Dahl right now,” she said, before one of them whacked another in
the arm with a copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar. 

 “Well, we’ll have to read The Witches for Halloween, then,” Karen said. 

 “Marnie,” Brent said sharply, making Karen jump. “The kids go to Branhurst, they hardly need to go to a public book reading. Try picking one up and reading it yourself sometime.” 
 
“I—” Marnie started, looking like she had whiplash, her perfect, red lipstick smile faltering for the first time since walking over. 
 
Karen glanced over at Nora who looked as though she wanted to sink through the floor—it was the first time she had seen Nora look less than put together, her bubbly affect dissipating. 

 “Well,” Karen said, looking back to Brent. “The kids are welcome all the same.” 
 
Brent’s harsh look was quickly replaced with his genial, politician’s smile. “Good to know,” he said, then looked at Karen for a long moment, then shook his head with dark amusement as he looked back to Nora, and Karen saw a flicker of something predatory flash across Brent’s face. 

 “Good to see you’re consistent, Nora,” he said to her, voice low. 

  Marnie looked piqued and Nora’s face went a little green. 

 “Well,” Nora spoke up, though her voice was thin, dry. “I see some more people I’d like to introduce Karen to, so maybe we’ll run into you out at the festival,” she said. 

 Marnie forced a wan smile as the baby in her arms pulled at her hair. 

 “See you Wednesday,” Brent said with a sharp edged smile, before Karen followed Nora as she turned and headed down the aisle and towards the stairs. 

 “What the hell was that?” Karen asked Nora, her eyes wide with disbelief. 

 Nora took a deep, deep breath, eyes closed for a moment before attempting to shake it off. “Nothing,” she said. 

 “It didn’t sound like nothing,” Karen pressed. “I mean, he’s...” Karen searched for words.

 “Horrid,” Nora said, then ran a hand through her hair.

 “I was going to say a human hemorrhoid, but,” Karen shrugged. 

 Nora shook it off physically, clearing her throat, taking a deep breath. “C’mon, you’ve got more people to meet,” she said. 

  Karen nodded, not wanting to push Nora—sensing she needed space before talking about whatever the hell that was. “Sounds good,” she said, letting it drop, for now. 
 
 
 

                                                                                                              +.  +.  +.  +.  +.  

 

 The short shift at the library was chaotic but Karen felt like it was a success. They had gotten people library cards again, she got to meet some more of the locals, including some names she had heard floated around before, and Nora helped to keep the interactions brief, including when she met the corner-store owner William Hobbes who asked her if she enjoyed her coffee that morning. 

 Karen locked up behind herself as she left the library. Everyone had cleared out pretty quickly once the start of the festival drew close—Andrew and Josie left a little early to meet up with Josie’s husband and kids in the square, before they insisted on taking over the booth and letting Karen wander the festival for al little while.
 
Karen waded through the crowd congregating in the square, the warm sunlight bringing out the smell of the drying leaves, mixing with the aromas of PSL coffee and the offerings of the food trucks.  The chatter of the crowd was bright, excited, mixed in with pop hits that poured from large speakers by the stage. 
 
She was about to track down something to eat when she saw Frank standing on the edge of the crowd behind the stage, stacking up some spare lumber. 

 She moved through the crowd, and he glanced over as she got closer, a slow smile lifting the corners of his lips.

 “Hey,” he said—she wondered if she would ever get used to how deep his voice was, how his eyes were so disarming. He dropped the board in his hands onto the stack he had created. “How was the first day?”he asked, leaning over to pick up his coffee from on top of a trunk with costumes hanging out of the edges. 

 Karen shrugged. “Hectic, but good. Talked to what felt like a million new people.” 

 “You get one day of that then you know them all and it’s very unexciting,” Frank said before taking a drink of coffee. He saw Karen eyeing it jealously, then held it out for her. RED EYE. LAST ONE, FRANK, YOUR HEART WILL BURST was scrawled in sharpie on the side. 
 
Karen took it, taking a drink and making a face. “Oh, that is hot, deeply bitter coffee bean water alright,” she said, but took another drink before handing it back. 
 
“Flavor doesn’t have caffeine,” Frank said. 

 "Mmhm," Karen coughed around the acid flavored drink. “So, the stage looks alright,” she said.

 “At the very least no one should fall through it like last year,” Frank said. 
 
“Meaning someone fell through before?” Karen’s eyes were wide. 

 “Fourth of July a kid just.. Disappeared during a very patriotic Beanie original,” he said. 

 Karen put a hand over her mouth. “Sorry, it’s not funny.”

 “They were fine, so,” Frank shrugged. “It was actually pretty funny.”

 On the front half of the stage Karen could hear Nora take up the mic—welcoming everyone to the event and listing off the evening’s activities—The Sleepy Hollow production would be on at four, live music on through the night after that—a tent had been erected with dance flooring, tables, chairs, and straw bales for sitting at. There would be a pumpkin carving competition, a costume judging contest, there were giant gourds that were being weighed, food vendors would be serving until late into the night. People clapped and cheered as the events were listed, excitement rising. 

 “You gotta go?” Frank asked Karen. “The booth, I mean.” 

 “Uh, no, actually,” Karen said, pushing her hair away from her face, the breeze pulling on the cornsilk strands. “Andrew and Josie insisted I let them run the booth—we’re closing it up before the play, so I’m a free agent.”

 “Oh,” Frank said, his expression not betraying much. “So, you might be hungry, then?”

 “Definitely might be hungry,” Karen nodded. 

 “It might have to be a hot dog or something fried twice or… ” Frank glanced around. “That’s kind of it. Anything else is closed.”

 “Honestly? I saw a soft pretzel stand this morning and it’s pretty much been all I’ve thought about the entire day,” Karen hinted. 

 “So we’ve gotta get you a pretzel,” Frank said. 

 “It’s feeling that way.”

 “Okay, I think that’s back… This way…” Frank said and Karen walked with him as he moved back into the crowd. 

 “So you missing New York yet?” Frank asked as he guided them past a face painting stand where a child was being transformed into a tiger. 

 Karen sighed. “Ugh, yes. And no. Both.” 

 Frank nodded, understanding. “I miss the lights and noise at night sometimes. I slept better with it.” 

 “There was this bar across the street from my apartment, and god it was just like college kids—lots of fighting and crying all night. It’s so stupid, but I miss the noise so much.”

 “You think you’ll go back?” 

 Karen shrugged. “Maybe? If I want to write again, I would probably have to.”

 “You’re a writer?” Frank looked surprised. 

 Karen realized she hadn’t mentioned her stint at the paper to Frank yet. “Yeah, just for a really small paper, but it was fun.”
 “And now you….don’t want to write anymore?” Frank was skeptical. 

 “Unfortunately it's not something you can just quit--I've tried," Karen said. "But, I have a habit of digging in when maybe I shouldn’t. Pissed the wrong people off. I didn’t get fired, but the paper wasn’t really built to take the heat that they did and the pressure got intense.”

 Frank’s brow knit together, eyes darkening. “Someone threaten you, or?” 

 “Not directly,” Karen said. “It was a low level corruption story. The paper was trying to stick by me, but…I found weird notes on my door. I felt like I was being watched. Normally that’s when I might, y’know, dig in a little more. But…” 

 Karen felt herself shrink back from her own thoughts. The messages that she had found on her door—the newspaper clippings from home mailed to her desk at the paper.
She hadn’t told anyone about that. How could she? Without having to explain it all to her editor, which would only put her in a worse position. 
 The idea of Frank knowing about it all, about why she left Vermont so many years ago, made her stomach turn, bile threatening her throat. 

 “Anyways,” she said, mentally steeling herself.  “I left and I’m sure it’s been long buried and life goes on.” 

  “And you’re alright with that?” 

 “Not even a little,” Karen said but forced a smile. “But occasionally my sense of self preservation kicks in and I make decent decisions.”

 “I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Frank said before Karen spotted the pretzel stand and lead them that way. 
 Frank insisted on paying for Karen’s Coke, pretzel, and three nacho cheese cups, along with his own—just salt— and they found one of the empty tables set throughout the maze of booths and trucks to eat at. Karen laid hers out on the butter soaked wrapper she had been given. 
 
“So,” she said, ripping into the warm bread, pulling off a large piece. “How’s Baby Boy?” 

 “He ripped up three pairs of my socks and ate one of my lunches this week so, as usual, he’s having the time of his life,” Frank said. 

 “Aw,” Karen sighed with adoration. 

 “I’ll be sure to remind you how cute it is when he does it to you,” Frank promised.

 “He’s a good boy,” Karen said defensively and Frank only shook his head and smiled. "And so cute and old," Karen added. "How long have you had him?"

 “Yeah, he is. I only got him a little bit after I moved here, though.”

 “From where?”

 Frank hesitated a moment. “I, uh…  Well, I would drive up to Hamilton to get whatever I couldn’t get at the corner store and I always saw him in front of this house—and it had all of this trash out front, y’know? And he was out there with all this trash and he was chained up around a tree—just big chain around his neck and it was all raw, y’know? And it started snowing and they didn’t bring him in and he was getting really fucking thin, y’know? So, finally I just couldn’t look at it anymore and I just pulled over, took him off the chain, and brought him home.” 

 Karen smiled—it was easy to picture Frank taking the time to bring Baby Boy back from whatever state she didn’t want to imagine. “That’s quite the rescue mission,” she said.

 “Some of my best work, obviously.” 

 Karen asked Frank more about life in Hartford—which he couldn’t seem to help but answer with perfect sincerity. If he liked someone she mentioned he was fair and respectful, if they irritated him it was written all over his face with unimpressed side looks or just outright smirks, or his nose scrunched in disgust. His normally austere, guarded expression fell away when telling her a story. He especially seemed to like trying to make her laugh, and she thought he was funny—his humor dark, dry, or sometimes just simply biting. 

 “Oh my god you like that movie, unironically?” Frank was horrified as Karen tried to defend one of her Halloween favorites. 

 “Frank, everyone likes it! It’s a slasher film it is a cult classic, and it has a decent twist.”

 “You didn’t know it was the boyfriend the whole time?!”

 “Oh, please, you did not think that after he got released from jail—”

 “Whoa, whoa yes I did.”

 “You thought it was the dad like everybody else.”

 Frank rolled his eyes. “Oh come on,” he scoffed. “It was so obviously not the dad because they wanted you to think it was the dad so fucking bad.”

 “Scream is a teen slasher icon, it has everything it’s supposed to have.”
 
“And yet fails to be entertaining to watch on any level.”

 “Ok, let’s hear your favorite Halloween movie, then,” Karen challenged. 

 “Oh my god it’s your favorite?” Frank’s face twisted in hyperbolic disgust.

 “No, it’s not. Scream is traditional, something I watch every year, but it’s not my favorite.”

 “Well then what’s your favorite?”

 “I asked first,” Karen reminded him. 

 Frank sighed, leaning back in his seat, taking the last drink of his red eye they’d been continuing to split. “Rosemary’s Baby,” he said, setting the cup down.

 Karen considered for a moment. “Fuck, that’s actually a good one.”

 “Ouch,” Frank laughed. 

 “Sorry you failed to appreciate Scream I got worried,” Karen said. 

 “Okay,” Frank said, leaning forward, dark gaze examining, taking her in. “Your favorite scary movie, let’s hear it.”

 Karen leaned forward as well, she could see the tones of maroon in his eyes better.“Carrie,” she said. “The original, not the remake.” 

 Frank fought a smile. “Shit, okay, yeah,” he said appreciatively. 

 Karen bit her lip, turning her soft drink cup around in her hands. “So, I—”

 Karen startled when she heard shouting, both her and Frank turning to look behind her. 

 The crowd had parted to give the people fighting some space just a few feet away from where they were sitting. Karen immediately recognized the man—Mr. Holmes—from the library the other night. His face was a bright shade of red as he argued with another man—taller than him, with an unkempt head of white hair and a grey and white beard.

They were both shouting, Holmes most of all. 

 “It’s as much mine as it is yours, Daniel!” Holmes shouted, and Karen recognized the caustic tone from her own personal experience with him drunkenly shouting in her face, a large red cup of beer from one of the stands sloshing in his hand. 

 “I’ll get you your money!” The taller man argued back. “That’s what you want anyways, right? Money? That’s all you’ve ever cared about!”

 “I swear to god, Daniel, if you don’t get with the program—”

 “You’ll what?!”

 Holmes splashed Daniel with what was left in his cup, dousing him in beer, and Daniel immediately swung on him, sending Holmes staggering backwards, before it devolved into a messy fistfight, which all of the locals watched as though it were pay per view, horrified gasps and all. 

 Karen glanced back at Frank, who was watching it carefully but he didn’t look worried.

“Neither one of them can hit worth a fuck,” he muttered. 
 
Karen laughed, looking back at the ridiculous display, though her laugh stopped short when she saw Sheriff Elson move his way into the small clearing, him and his deputy pulling the two men apart. 

 “Alright, alright!” Elson shouted, grabbing Holmes up, pulling him in one direction away from the other man, Daniel. 

 “You’ll regret it, Dan! You’re not fucking this up for me!” Holmes shouted past Elson. 

 Elson dragged Holmes further away from the crowd, and as Karen watched she saw the ruffled man say something to Elson, but she couldn’t figure out what—it was all hushed, through gritted teeth. Elson argued back, voice also low, his eyes dark. It was all over quickly, before Elson and the deputy carted the two men off, away from the crowd. 

 Karen looked back at Frank was looking across the crowd at the alcohol stand Holmes had gotten his drink from.

 "So," he said. "Beer, right?"

"You read my mind."

 

 
 

 

Chapter 7: CHAPTER 7

Chapter by bernthalslut

Summary:

Frank and Karen wander around the festival being cute. Oh, and murder!

Notes:

It's me, hi! It's been forever, I am slowly coming out of a really bad bout of depression. Whaddya gonna do? (Tony Soprano voice). Anyways, here is the next chapter! It's unedited, probably a bit choppy and cheesy, but I have enjoyed working on it and the high of enjoying writing again has made me a bit delusional and I think it's okay enough to post.

Every single person who has taken their time to read this, to comment, to share kudos so I know you were here: that means the world to me and honestly kept me from throwing in the towel like I have with other projects. Turns out I'm not above craving validation lol. But, for real: thank you for reading!

 
 Darkness fell over the festival, deep blue and black against the warm, golden wash of twinkle lights and the neon on food trucks. 
 Beanie’s production of Sleepy Hollow was exactly what Karen had hoped for—an adorable effort by the local kids and high-schoolers that was chaotic and heartwarming in equal measure—Josie’s girls were particularly committed to their roles, acting their little hearts out on the stage. 

 Frank and Karen watched from the back row, sipping on beers that Frank got them from a stand—Karen had one that was supposed to be reminiscent of apple cider, Frank got something dark with notes of coffee. 

 “How’s yours?” She asked curiously during a quick stage transition. 

 Frank wordlessly held it out to her, and she took it to try it for herself. Frank was easy to be casual with—she could see that he was guarded, beyond the fact that he kept the town guessing on every aspect of his life. But Frank created a gravitational pull all of his own that she trailed after like an orphan moon. She liked his voice, his lilting accent, 

 It wasn’t that it didn’t affect her—every time he leaned in to talk to her during he play and she could smell his body wash, cologne, whatever it was that blended perfectly with his skin she felt light headed. 

 “So,” she said, quietly—they had already incurred the wrath of a grandmother trying to record her grandchild on stage when she laughed unexpectedly at something sarcastic he had said earlier. “What pieces did you make?”

 Their voices were low as they talked, and he leaned in close between her shoulder and ear to answer her so he wouldn’t be heard over the hush of the crowd as the play resumed on stage. 

 “The moon?”

 “Yeah.”

 “The trees?”

 “A couple.”

 “The meticulously painted paper mâché pumpkin head on the teenage boy?” 

 “Obviously,” he said, sarcastic that time. 
 
Karen smiled lightly, taking a sip of beer. “Did you paint them, too?”

 “Just the moon because it was easy,” Frank said, shifting a little, almost like it was a confession. 

 Karen looked back at the wood cut out, warmly illuminated by the stage lights. It had rustic, swirls of cool blue and white.

 “You’re good,” Karen said. 

 Frank laughed, earning them a couple more looks of disapproval. “Yeah, I’m a real Michelangelo,” he said, a low rumble of amusement in his tone, unbothered. 

 Karen smiled. “Well, I like it,” she said. 

 Frank didn’t respond, but he had a gentle pull at the corner of his lips. 

 The stage remained home to entertainment, live music, contest winner announcements, all set in front of the haunted woods background scenery from the play—black and blue forrest cut outs, Frank’s moon, and paper bats and stars swaying in the breeze overhead. 

 Frank had already warned Karen that he had promised to help Beanie with stage tear down. Karen offered to help as well and was behind the stage with him. 
 The energy behind the small stage was chaotic as children still in their dramatic stage make-up chatted and bounced around excitedly. Some had changed out of costumes using the coffee shop bathrooms and Karen had quickly fallen into the task of helping take and hang costumes back up alongside Josie.

  The flurry of activity was all washed in the orange glow of string lights strung between trees and the stage, illuminating the black and orange color palette of color on the trees. 

 “What about the shoes?” Karen asked, holding up the little black boots that a child had handed alongside a painstakingly accurate and tiny 1790 Dutch dress replica.

 “There shouldn’t be any shoes, the kids just wore black shoes from home,” Josie mused. 

 “So there’s a kid just running around out here with no shoes, then?” Karen asked, glancing around. 

 “If you had kids that would be the least surprising thing that happened today,” Josie laughed. “Go ahead and throw them next to my bag, I actually think those might belong to one of Eloise’s friends.”

 Karen lightly chucked the boots aside and then was handed the center of a horse costume, which went on a different rack that was being cleaned later.  

Beanie came by to inspect the chaos, several props in hand. Her gray hair was in a twisted bun on the top of her head, pencils helping hold it in place, wearing layers of sundress, stocking, a knit cardigan, and chunky and dangling jewelry hung from her wrist and neck. She was a mix of frazzled and elated. 

 Karen heard Beanie continue to praise any child that walked by her for a job well done, bribing them to hand in their costumes with the promise of orange frosting covered brownies.

 Frank was putting heavier stage furniture onto a wooden pallet that would be removed the following day—for now it all needed to be covered, it was supposed to rain in the morning but not everything could be moved—they were heavily boxed into the center of town by booths and food trucks that would remain until the following night. 

 Karen watched as Frank easily lifted two chairs, one in each hand, dropping them into an empty space on the pallet. He glanced over at her, and Karen felt a pink feeling in her cheeks at being caught staring. Frank turned away as well—she thought she saw a smirk, but his face was all dark shadows and orange highlights on the sharp planes of his face and she couldn’t be sure.

Josie caught the interaction quickly and gave Karen a pointed look.

“So, is this a date?” She asked. 

 Karen gave her an uncertain look. “Do most dates include community theater set breakdown?” 

 “Hey, I don’t know what you’re into,” Josie shrugged, then glanced over at Frank. “He ran into something because he was staring at you a little bit ago,” she said.

 Karen paused, fingers tracing over the edges of the hanger in her hands. “What?”

  “He was looking over here and took a tree cut out right to the hip,” Josie said. “He recovered quickly but I could tell it hurt, could see those gritted teeth from over here.” 

 Karen laughed out of sheer surprise. “Don’t make things up.”

 Josie looked a little mischievous, but she wasn’t lying. “I would never.” 

 Karen shook her head, then turned to take another small dress, pushing an equally small velvet hanger through the collar. “I don’t think it’s a date,” she said. 

 “Did he pay for food?”

 “It’s not 1958, buying someone food means nothing,” Karen reasoned.

 “So, yes he paid,” Josie nodded, spraying one of the teenage boys jackets with fabric Febreeze before putting it on the rack. “Well, you’ll know it’s a date if and when you see the hip bruise up close.”

 Karen shot Josie a withered look, but she knew her face must be splotchy red. 

 Karen and Josie continued to work together until Isaac appeared with Henry, bawling in his arms, both boys clearly at their limit for the night. 
 “Mom I was supposed to meet Ben and Diego an hour ago,” Isaac reminded his mother, not without a strain of teenage exasperation. Henry’s sticky arms were outstretched towards Josie, his expression heartbreaking. 

 “Oh, honey, I’m sorry,” Josie apologized, taking Henry. 

 “I’ve got it,” Karen told Josie. “You go on ahead.”

 “You sure?” Josie asked, her gratitude plain on her face.

 “Absolutely, do what you need to do,” Karen nodded. 

 Josie glanced over at Frank one more time, but said nothing, just gave Karen a raised eyebrow before she began gathering up Keith and the girls to haul them home. 

 Josie left at the tail end anyways, Karen was pretty sure they had collected all of the costume pieces—all of the large pieces and heavy trunks were being covered neatly with tarps. “Is there a cover for this?” Karen asked Beanie as she walked by holding the pumpkin head the leading high-schooler wore on stage. 

 “That one I was going to push back to the HHA building later,” Beanie said dismissively, already turning and on to checking to make sure the trunks had been sorted how she wanted. 

 Karen’s brow furrowed. “Oh, I can just do it for you now,” she offered quickly. Frank had mentioned that Beanie had had him up since six in the morning, the woman must be exhausted, and Karen didn’t like the idea of her dragging the heavy rack anywhere alone after dark—she looked tired.

 “Oh, no need,” Beanie waved her off. 

 Karen glanced over at Frank who she knew was now within ear shot because he paused, a stage light in one hand, a wood fire-shaped prop in the other, and gave Karen a long-suffering look, before he set the items down and then walked over to Beanie, going back and forth with her until she finally lowered her shoulders in defeat and waved him away. 

 Frank walked back over to Karen. “Do you know where that goes?” He asked doubtfully, gesturing to the clothing rack. 

 “No idea.” 

 “Follow me,” Frank said, grabbing the rack and pulling it forward—Karen helped navigate it through the grass and up and down across the curbs until they got it to the sidewalk and the crowd began to thin, that end of the downtown much quieter and darker. 

 The HHA building was a brick with a bronzed plaque announcing its title. The entrance was decorated with corn stalks and piles of pumpkins, leaf garland hanging in the windows. The lights were on and  people—mostly parents and children involved in the play— were moving around inside. 

 Karen followed Frank down the alleyway that ran parallel to the building, until they reached the ramp access in the back and pulled it up that way, some kids moving past them on the way out, traces of orange frosting and chocolate on their street clothes and around their mouths. 

 Much like the library, the historical building was a blend of aged wood and brick. There were couches, rugs, and artwork and photos covering the walls, all next to heavy antique wood filing cabinets. A couple of kids played on the rickety stairwell, while some parents were holding bags of street vendor items, talking and milling about the room. Karen noticed a couple of women that were talking pause when they caught sight of her and Frank, whispering a little when they thought Karen wasn’t looking. 

  “They store all of the theater stuff upstairs,” Frank said, either oblivious to or pointedly ignoring the small swirls of gossip,  pulling the rack towards an antique elevator off to their left. 

They wrangled the rack into the small elevator, barely enough standing room for the two of them on either end of it. Karen almost spilled out into the upstairs when the doors pulled back open. 

 The upstairs made it clear that the chaos behind the stage was just a sample of what Beanie had created and saved from different productions. 
 
Costumes—gowns, coasts, fabric animals, suits, something in faux snakeskin—hung from any available hook. There were even more trunks with props spilling out. Large canvas backdrops were rolled up and lined neatly in one of the corners, some smaller wood tree and animal cut outs were resting against one of the walls. 

 Karen couldn’t help but be pulled in, running her fingers over all of the different textiles within reach—jeweled fabrics in bolts on a nearby table, shelves lined with shoes, stuffed with sewing notions. There was a small changing room created by a curved shower curtain against one of the corners, which was a mess of scattered extra pieces of the Sleepy Hollow costumes. There was a small vanity full of stage make-up and jewelry racks, scraps of ribbon.

 While Frank pushed the rack off out of the way—likely for Beanie to sort through later— Karen wandered around, the dimly lit room full of reflective sequins, swaths of silk and velvet spilling from even more trunks. 

 There was a sewing machine along the wall, rows and rows of thread on shelves above it, all sorted by color, piles of fabric in an array of colors and textures folded and stored neatly on shelves. There were signs of life downstairs—creaking, muffled voices echoing against the old walls and through vents— but they were the only two upstairs.

 There was a small upright piano in one of the other corners, sheet music stacked on the back, an old clock resting on top of it chimed gently. 

 Within a few moments of the chiming, there was a sudden bright light against the row of arched, paned windows on the far wall. Karen jumped a little, but felt silly when she saw the fireworks out the window, a rainbow of sparks raining down from above. 

 Frank looked away from a paper mâché horse’s head he had been looking at, out the window. He didn’t looked startled but Karen could see the lines of his body tense as another loud crack and boom reverberated off of the old window panes. 

 “Is Baby Boy okay with fireworks?” Karen asked, asking about the dog but curious about Frank’s own response. She had had a neighbor who was a veteran growing up, he always left town for a fishing trip during the Fourth of July, the fireworks too triggering. 

 Frank glanced over at her, then she could see him shift, forcing himself to relax against the sudden noise. “Oh, no, he’s fine. It’s just thunderstorms, I don’t know how he can tell the difference but he can.” 

 Karen nodded, then her eyes caught on a small shelf of paint supplies next to the paper mâché masks Frank was next to. She looked back to Frank. 

 “Is this where you paint?” She asked. 

 Frank groaned, rolling his eyes, but he smiled lightly. “No,” he said. “I painted, one time, behind the garage.” 

 “I like that you paint,” Karen said, her smile softening. “Teasing aside, it’s nice that you made something like that. If you liked it you should keep doing it.” 

 Frank shrugged. “It was alright, I guess,” he said, his tone soft and mismatched with the stern indifference on his face. 

 Karen moved over to one of the windows, watching the colors and lights of the square below, music dampened, see bodies milling around beneath string lights—all washed in the hues of the fireworks above. 

 Karen grabbed her phone out of her pocket, taking a quick photo that included the library in the background—Josie said the library had next to no social media presence, so they had been trying to collect pictures through the week and during the event to share. 

 She glanced back at Frank whose head was tilted, looking at the rows of thread. 

 “Thought you couldn’t sew,” Karen mused. 

 “I said I couldn’t knit,” Frank smiled, then glanced over at her. “My mom…” he trailed off, looking around at the piles of gowns and swathes of fabric. “She sewed all of the time.” 

 “Yeah?” Karen asked. 

 “Yeah, sometimes small stuff like patching up work clothes or like resizing stuff. She made dresses sometimes,” he said, fingers running over rows of white thread, only for a moment before pulling it away. “The girls from the neighborhood would come to her when they were getting married with second hand dresses and she’d fix e’m up, make e’m fit nice.”

 “Did you help her?” Karen asked. 

 “Oh, nah, my old man wouldn’t of liked that much,” Frank said with a slight wince. “But, I’d come home from school and there’d be a pretty girl standing on a stool in a white dress in my living room with all her friends talking and my mom… She wanted them to feel special even though they were in some little Italian lady’s living room in Queens with their thrift store dress and she would bring out like coffee, and cookies, or cheap screw-top wine or whatever she had and she’d just fawn over e’m, y’know? She’d be all lit up and she could make all of them look like… I don’t know, they all looked happy, I guess.” 

 Karen felt a lump in her throat, the one that always rose up from deep in her stomach whenever she thought about mothers, dredging up memories of her own mom that felt like pushing on a ripe bruise “She sounds really special.” 

 Frank nodded. “Yeah, she was,” he said. “Arthritis in her hands got bad around when I was in high school, she had to stop. Broke her heart,” he said. “She taught me to, y’know, fix a seam. Only thing I ever did with it was stitch up some wounds— sewed a button back on a teddy bear once.”

 “That’s quite a portfolio,” Karen mused and Frank only made an amused noise, before looking away from the rows of thread, and back over at her. 

 “You close with your parents?” He asked.   Karen felt her stomach twist. He couldn’t know what a loaded question it was, the harsh ache that bloomed in her chest.

 “Mom died the year I graduated high school,” Karen said, her throat tight. “I haven’t seen Dad in…” She was always shocked at how quickly her throat closed up, how she could go from feeling okay to so badly so, so very fast. 

 Every thought of her family, of Vermont, of the small house with the cafe curtains her mom made out of floral print sheets she found at a garage sale, the wear marks on the rough old wood floors and threadbare rugs, the way she always could tell her brother’s mood by the way he came down the stairs…

 It all was an instant pulling apart of unhealed, infected edges—sudden pain and nausea twisting her gut as the memories rose up. The good memories hurt just as much as the bad ones, maybe more. 

 She cleared her throat. “I don’t see him,” she said, voice faint. 

 Frank looked at her for a long moment, then nodded lightly. He didn’t apologize, like most people did. No heartsick ‘so sorry for your loss’, no strained flashes of pity, no worried rush to comfort and soothe. 

 Karen had recognized loss in other people before— in fallen expressions, glassy eyes, the flinch as grief tightened around their bodies. She saw it in Frank, now—a flash of fight or flight, a shadow cast over his features, his body a little rigid. But, Frank might have been one of the first people to recognize it in her so simply, gently even. 

 There was a sincere understanding in his eyes, an unspoken: it hurts, I know the way it hurts.
 
Karen looked away, embarrassed by her dewy eyes. Her heart had always been a sensitive, an organ that felt too large to be seated properly in her chest. It flinched and ached at equally sensitive feelings—joy, shame, grief. And she felt as though it was connected by deformed veins and nerves strung from her chest directly to her tear ducts. 

 She picked up a jar of sewing sequins, turning the glass over in her hands, trying to distract her errant heart. “So,” she said, clearing her throat lightly. “Did you… get a
bookmark?” She asked, wanting to talk about anything else, turning back to him—she knew her eyes might be glossy but she had avoided any real tears.

 Frank gave her a careful look checking her over with gentle dark eyes before moving forward a little, re-establishing the close orbit he had maintained around her for most of the night. “Bookmark?” 

 “Yeah, we were handing out Josie’s bookmarks today,” Karen said, then smiled a little despite herself. “Though, I guess I don’t know if you should get one until you actually return your small fortune of stolen books.” 

 “That makes for an expensive bookmark.”

 “They’re hand drawn, Frank.”

 Frank laughed, the sound low and quiet. Karen could still hear small echoes of movement downstairs—the scuffle of feet on the floors, drifting voices. But, it was still just the two of them. He moved another step closer, and she had to lift her chin a little to meet his eyeline. She could take in more of him—see the soft laugh lines in his skin that made his face so interesting, his five-o-clock shadow, the silver chain around his neck that disappeared beneath his shirt. 

  Everything instantly feeling warmer, more insulated. “Maybe I can come in on Monday? Pay for my crimes, get my hand drawn bookmark, and you can hep me pick out my next book?”

 Karen felt her heart lift in her chest at the comforting topic of the library and the idea of going through shelves to find something to recommend. “What do you like to read?”

 “I’m not picky.”

 Karen laughed. “You indicated you hated all four books that you stole,” she reminded him. 

 “Borrowed legally with a delay in returning—and I didn’t say I hated Moby Dick, I just said that the copy I have is falling apart. I liked that one, actually.” 

 “So, obsession and revenge is alright, but fourteenth century Italian poets are off the table?” 

 “Fuck a fourteenth century Italian poet,” Frank nodded in agreement. 

 Karen considered. “I’ll have something by Monday,” she said. “Maybe two.”

 “Two is good,” Frank said, his voice just a little lower and rougher and it all grazed against some part of her brain, pleasant and cerebral. 

  Karen cleared her throat. “Well, you’re going to be on probation, obviously,” she said, reaching around him to set the jar of sequins back down, her arm brushing his. 

 “Obviously,” Frank agreed smirking as he tilted his head a little.   They could hear more movement downstairs, and they used that moment to slip out relatively unnoticed on the stairs. In the main room downstairs there were more children and Beanie was there  with some parents. Frank stopped and asked Beanie if she needed anything else. Karen saw Beanie glance over at her.

“Why don’t you go have fun for once?” She asked as a form of dismissal. 

 Frank led Karen out the back, though he looked at the crowd of people with some apprehension. “How is your, uh, heater working?” He asked, following Karen’s lead as she took them on the outskirts of the traffic. 

 “Oh, it’s great,” Karen nodded. 

 “Water softener okay? You know you have to put salt in those.”

 “Oh, I guess I don’t know.”

 “I can do that for you.”

 “Oh, okay,” Karen smiled, then looked at Frank for a few moments. “You don’t know what to do without a job, do you?”

 Frank laughed. “What do you mean?”

 “I mean, you just got done doing free manual labor all day and now you’re looking for something else to fix, to do,” Karen said. “What do you do, like… For fun?” 

 Frank made a face. “For fun?”

 “Yeah, you read… What else do you do that isn’t work?”

 Frank considered. “I walk the dog.”

 Karen nodded, smiling a little. “Okay, you read and you walk the dog…” she trailed off expectantly. 

 Frank glanced around them at Hartford’s little downtown. “Am I going to have to be the one to break it to you that Hartford doesn’t offer much in the way of excitement? I woulda thought that ship had sailed by now.”

 “It doesn’t have to be exciting,” Karen countered. “It just has to be things that are just for the sake of enjoyment.”

 Frank glanced around a little as they walked, thinking. “I play guitar.”

 Karen smiled. “Yeah?”

 “Yeah, I like doing that a lot.”

 “Do you sing?”

 Frank shook his head. “Not… No,” he laughed.  

 Frank and Karen continued to skirt the edges of the festival, as they followed the sidewalk they were on the backside of the honeyheart booth, Karen caught sight of Sheriff Elson and the woman she thought was Leah Young behind the booth, talking in low voices she couldn’t make out. 

 The lines of Elson’s body were taught, his jaw tight, while Leah had her arms around her chest, jaw set but she shrunk a little as Elson hung over her—a good foot taller than her petite, waify frame. 

Frank caught he expression because he laughed when he followed her gaze to Elson. “You wanna stop and say hi, or…?” He asked. 

 “Hmm?” She murmured, looking back to see Frank giving her a teasing smile. “Oh. Hah,” she deadpanned. “No thanks, as much as she might want the escape from whatever undoubtedly horrible pick-up line he’s throwing at her,” he added, watching Leah, who wrapped her arms tight around her ribcage as she spoke to Elson.  

 “Even Todd Elson might draw the line at his own sister,” Frank mused. 

 Karen looked back to Frank. “Sister?” 

 Frank just nodded in confirmation. 

 Karen continued walking alongside Frank, one last look at the siblings who were clearly having a spat, but the context helped to lessen Karen’s nerves at seeing Elson singling someone out. If she had a dollar for every heated sibling argument between her and her brother she certainly wouldn’t have had to swipe her credit card for a box of powder macaroni and cheese and two apples at the corner market the night before. 

 “Still can’t tell me what he did to piss you off, huh?” Frank asked. 

 Karen shrugged. “He was just a douchebag, tried to throw his weight around. Not as bad as this other guy who accused me of trying to steal a car.”  

Frank fought a smile. “What an asshole.”
 
The festival was dying out slowly as the night continued to deepen. Parents were taking tired young children home, the teenagers were out in small exuberant groups. The mix of everything—the booth, the short shift, being around so many people—was beginning to take its toll. Karen felt tired, a yawn snaking up her body before she could fight it. 

 Frank looked at her sidelong, smiling. “You tired?”

 “No.”

 Frank laughed unconvinced. “I can walk you home—just through the very warm and inviting graveyard right?”  

 Karen smiled. “As far as graveyards go it’s actually not bad,” she said defensively, she had grown to love the walk through it every morning the last week. Graveyards weren’t about death for her—her worst losses had taken place in hospitals, bedroom sick beds, and places she felt should have been safe and familiar but no longer were. There was something calming about a resting place, it was the dying, the ceremony of viewings and funerals, that made Karen feel uneasy. 
 
The path was poorly lit, but not pitch black—some string lights from the festival helped to dispel some shadows. What small sounds normally made Karen do double takes and pause, Frank was unbothered by—the sudden scuffling noises of bats in the trees, nocturnal animals darting in the dry leaves. 

 “So what do you do for fun? You asked me but you didn’t say,” Frank wanted to know 

 Karen shrugged. “Uhm, reading, writing, long walks in graveyards…”

 Frank smirked. “What was it you said—that’s stuff you have to do, not stuff you do for fun?”

 Karen tried to recall the last time she had had any fun. Work, life in general had been so hectic and tense her last few months in New York, she hadn’t been able to enjoy her beloved, happy rituals—catching a cheap Sunday matinee, or playing cards games with friends and a six pack, summer picnics with a book in Central Park. 

 She had slowly pushed those things, those kind and more gentle moments, out of her life almost completely. Unnerving situations—meeting a member of a biker gang in a dive bar at one in the morning for a quote, strange, dark side streets at night, a couple of instances of breaking and entering, getting mixed up in police investigations— became bearable if you never came up for air. If you just lived in it day in and day out…  

 “You know I don’t think I’ve tried having fun in a while,” Karen said, glancing back at the festival lights behind them. “I think tonight was fun, though,” she added. 

 Frank smiled. “Yeah?” He asked. 

 Karen pulled her jacket a little tighter around herself as a cooler breeze picked up through the tops of the trees, rustling as they bent over top of them. There was a pressure drop from the incoming rain and storm settling in. 

 “You cold?” Frank asked suddenly, already taking off his jacket. 

 “Oh, no, I’m—”

 “Here,” he held it out to her. 

 Karen hesitated, both of them standing in the dark of the graveyard path, completely out of sight of any of the other Hartford citizens. She took the jacket, pulling it on over hers—oversized, sleeves hanging far past her hands. But warm, it smelled like him—with hints of motor oil, maybe sawdust, deodorant, shampoo, cologne. All of it mixed together to make her a little lightheaded.

 “Thanks,” she said, though she paused as the words left her mouth. Realizing that when Frank had pulled the jacket off, it had pulled at the silver chain around his neck, lifting it out from beneath his shirt, and she could now see it held a ring on the end. A simple, silver wedding band that glinted in the light filtering through the trees. 

 She recovered quickly, before he noticed she saw it, though her questions were already piling on top of each other. Surely if Frank was in fact married the entire town of Hartford would know about it, she would have heard by now if he left to visit a woman—or man— regularly or if one came to see him it would be public knowledge. And why would they live apart, why lie about it? But there it was, all the same. 

  “Better?” Frank asked, head tilted. 

 “Yeah,” Karen forced a smile to hide her confusion. She stepped back lightly, before going to continue walking, when her shoe slipped a little, a squelching noise as she lifted it. 

 Assuming it was mud, Karen looked down. 

 Karen knew from hours of watching Forensic Files, listening to crime podcasts, and even some witness interviews of her own for stories—people often thought they were looking at anything but a body. A mannequin, a gnarled tree root, a pile of discarded clothes.
 
And, for a moment, Karen thought the same thing. 
 
“What…?” She whispered, barely audible, steadying and taking a step closer, her boots in a slick wetness beneath her. 
 
Her eyes tried to adjust in the dark as she took in the odd shape of the figure just off of the path, hidden from their view before by a well manicured rose bush. 
 She staggered backwards into Frank, gasping her heart seizing as the realization set in, as she saw the shape for what it really was—the gnarled fingers, pale, empty eyes open, unseeing. 

 She was looking at a corpse.
 

Chapter 8: Chapter 8

Chapter by bernthalslut

Summary:

I've had this chapter for a while and kept fretting over it and decided to just post it. I'm reworking some storyline things so some stuff is feeling jumbled but it's time to post.

I truly love and appreciate every single person who has taken the time to read this, left kudos, and the comments really are unreal. I wish my brain was more cooperative and I could write consistently. But the patience means the world.

Also, with all of the Born Again content trickling in my Kastle heart has been revived. Fingers crossed we get the Kastle content we all yearn for. I love them so much!

Karen twisted her hands together in her lap, the sleeves of Frank’s jacket pushed up in bunches above her wrists, the sleeves tented over her shoulders. 
Frank was next to her on a bench that was just outside of the graveyard fence, both of them washed in the blue and red lights swirling over the area from the two police cruisers parked along the curb.
 

Floodlights now lit up the cemetery, crime scene tape being pulled across the entrances, wrapped around trees and even headstones. Hartford’s entire police force—ten people all together, Karen realized— secured the scene with little to no experience. She could hear them stop constantly to ask each other if something was procedure, to express their disbelief, and one asked another if they knew who was supposed to call the county coroner. 
 
Some of them just looked at each other like deer in the headlights and milled around. Probably none of them had ever worked a homicide case before, at least that was the impression Karen got when she heard a more senior officer shout at Deputy Lillis for throwing a blanket out of his car over the body when the rain started to fall. Contaminating the scene in one simple act. 

 Handfuls of onlookers piled up alongside the wrought iron gate that surrounded the cemetery—morbidly curious and hoping for a glance of the scene she couldn’t get out of her head. Macabre little clusters of craning necks, rabid eyes. 

 The police struggled to shut down the festival, and town native had had to step in and help force people to leave— trying to funnel everyone back into their cars and back home.

Nora had taken up the helm of dealing with the vendors and booths, calmly helping them close and vacate the area. 

 Karen and Frank sat like kids in the principal’s office, waiting to wrap up their witness statements—though where Frank was watching everything with calm, if not somewhat judgmental attention, Karen felt cold, stiff. 

 “Jesus Christ,” Frank muttered as he watched the spectacle of the older officer—a woman in her forties—continued to bite into Lillis for his blunder. 

 Karen remained silent, a harsh lump in her throat, her easily coaxed tear ducts threatening to make her cry. If she closed her eyes she saw flashes of stiff, pale limbs. Eyes open, frozen in surprise. The onyx sludge of blood in the dark. 

 And it all mixed together, with everything. With all of the death, she felt like an unwelcome harbinger here. Did she bring this violence here with her? Was it just clinging to her hair, under her nails, viral in her lungs where she couldn’t rid—

 Frank reached out and took one of Karen’s hands—cold and stiff in his—rubbing the back of it with his thumb. The gesture the only soothing thing she could feel against the harsh lights, the cold dampness settling in, a sporadic icy raindrop against her skin, the stares of onlookers, the constant beeps and crackle of police radios. 

 “You’re safe,” he murmured. His voice was assured, unwavering. 
 
She wondered at how it didn’t bother him. Military experience, maybe? He had, calmly, pulled Karen away from the scene and set her on the bench before he found an officer to inform. His demeanor was different than it had been before—the openness gone, his expression sharp and constantly cutting around the space. But he wasn’t anxious, in fact he almost looked more comfortable in his body than she had seen him look since meeting him. 

 When he saw Elson approach Frank gently squeezed her hand before letting it go, sitting up.   “So,” Sheriff Elson picked up right where he had left off, the upset over the CSU nightmare blanket quieted off in the distance. 

 Elson looked, in a word, disheveled. His dark blonde hair was in disarray, his blue eyes wide and a little moorless as he waded through the chaos around him. Inexperienced was the main word that came to mind. 

 His tone was clipped, easily distracted off towards the glow of lights and stretch of crime scene tape as he asked his questions. “Did you see anyone leave the cemetery? Anyone off in the distance?” He managed. 

 “No,” Karen barely made out. 

 “Nothing,” Frank said, confident. 

 Elson didn’t bother jotting that down in the notebook in his hand. He kept looking past Frank and Karen at the graveyard. “No noises?”

 Frank pointedly looked over at the festival that was now muted compared to the riotous noise it was generating less than an hour again. “Some noise, yeah,” he allowed sarcastically. 

 They had Elson’s attention, sharp and irritated, on them now. The sheriff straightened, shoulders squaring, his jaw tensing. “What where you doing when you came across the crime scene?” He wanted to know, his tone instantly accusatory, bristled. His eyes sharply refocused, namely on Karen.

 “I live on Currant, he was walking me home,” Karen answered before Frank could throw back whatever acidic response she could see sparking behind his dark eyes. 
 Elson looked at Karen, a sudden shift of cold, cutting amusement in his life. Happy to have someone to throw a stone at for the moment, perhaps. “Get scared on that walk home after all, Miss Page?” He asked. 

 Frank tensed next to Karen, then stood. “Sounds like you’re out of relevant questions,” he said.

 Karen stood up alongside Frank, looking to Elson who did a quick back and forth look between the two of them, but didn’t lose his smile. In fact, it widened. “I think we’ve got what we need for right now. We know where to find you if we don’t,” he dismissed them. 

 Frank’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t say anything else. He looked to Karen, walking closely beside her as she grabbed up her bag from the bench, and turned to head home. She stopped just as quickly when she remembered her newly habitual walk home was a crime scene. 

 She felt tears sting her eyes. She wanted to crawl out of her skin— knew she still had blood on her shoes. Human blood. And she kept seeing the way the corpse’s mouth had been hanging open, she could see the darkness of fillings in their teeth, their dark eyes looking at nothing… 

 “Hey,” Frank’s voice was a low murmur next to her, so Elson couldn’t hear. “Let me drive you home, yeah?”

 Karen nodded stiffly, her throat tight. Frank wordlessly nodded back, and she followed alongside him as he led the way through the center of town to the auto shop, passing between booths and food trucks to avoid any onlookers who certainly observed them being questioned, likely already knew that they found the body. On top of being new and an outsider, she was now associated with a homicide. 

 She kept her gaze ahead, her stomach roiling as the smell of blood hit her again. She wasn’t sure if it was from her shoes or just in her head at this point, she could swear she could taste the tang of iron on her tongue.

 “This fucking guy,” Frank ranted as they walked away. “Town of less than a thousand people, should be the easiest fucking crime to solve and his deputy is contaminating the crime scene. Fucking cops.” 

 Numb, Karen followed Frank to the shop, around to the darkened backside of the building. The more covered she was by shadows and darkness, the more her numb stoicism faded and she felt the fractures start in her chest, the lump in her throat. 

 “Just no goddamn procedure,” Frank continued as they came around to the back of the auto shop. “Whoever did kill that guy just won the fucking lotto. You think that moron is going to make a case that holds up in court? Unlikely. Fucking cops. Fucking backwoods, inbred, dumb as a bag of—”
 
Frank cut off abruptly when he opened the passenger truck door for Karen and could apparently make out her expression in the shards of light from the warm bulb that lit up in the truck cab. 

 “Hey,” his voice went soft, the harsh lines in his face and his tense shoulders dissolving into something tentatively soft, concerned. “Whoa, hey are you alright, sweetheart?” 

 Maybe it was the unexpected term of endearment, or maybe the sudden whispered volume of his voice—still coarse, but gentle—whatever it was broke the very stiff but brittle wall Karen had built around herself in the last hour. She felt a sob claw at her throat, trying to find purchase and get out even as she nodded—I’m fine. 

 “You’re not,” Frank said, answering his own question.
 
Karen’s tears were back and her throat was tight, her nose already running. “There’s…” she took a deep breath. “There’s blood on— on my shoes—”

 Frank moved forward and suddenly she was wrapped up against his chest, his arms gentle around her frame. “You’re safe, s’kay, you’re okay,” he murmured into her hair, his voice a mix of soft silt and stone against her skull as she cried. 

 She had seen dead bodies before, she had seen them up close. They had been just inches away, bleeding, horrifically still. She had touched them, held their hands. Bodies of people she loved, so unnaturally contorted and disturbed and suddenly alien. 

 And, bodies that were unfamiliar. Ones on crime scenes she had reported to for the newspaper, ones at her feet, fresh pools of blood… 
 Bodies didn’t often look peaceful, she had learned that when her mother died. 

 It hadn’t been a soft descent and a sudden relief. No eyelids fluttering like butterflies with a polite and tranquil sigh for a last breath. Penny Page, barely in her forties, had been in pain and terrified. Her last few weeks had been unadulterated fear as her death drew closer—knowing at any moment she would cease to exist. Her anxiety difficult to control even with medication. She would hold Karen’s hand with all of the strength she had, like it might help tie her to mortality. She had spasmed, tensed, balked against resignation. 

 The shocked look frozen into the man’s features—the memories of her loved ones bodies. Not just her mother’s. Contorted, bloody—
 It all sloshed together in a sea of shock and nausea as she cried, but despite everything—she felt safe. Frank was solid, warm, his chin against the top of her head. 

 “Hey,” Frank said, pulling away just a little. “You…” he looked for the right thing to say, carefully pushing her hair—which felt cold and damp with tears against her skin—out of her face. His fingers were calloused, but gentle against the thin skin of her temple. 

 “You wanna go up and see the dog for a minute?” He offered. 

 Karen barked a strangled, unexpected laugh at the suggestion sounding so good. Her laugh, however twisted up it came out, made Frank relax a little, a very small smile of relief pulling at the corner of his heavy lips.

 Karen wiped away the tears and general sludge from crying away from her face, nodding lightly.  “Yeah okay,” she managed, her voice hoarse.  
 
“Okay, let’s go see the dog.” 

 Frank pushed the truck door shut then fished keys out of his jeans, letting them into the back door of the garage. 

 “The blood,” Karen hesitated at the threshold into the back of the garage, voice raw. 

 “S’okay, you can take them off before we go in the apartment, yeah?”

 “Okay,” Karen said, clearing her throat against the strain of threatening tears. 

  She followed Frank into the back of the garage—which was dark beyond emergency lights above the exit doors. He led her into a backroom that housed lockers, metal shelving with boxes of auto parts, neat, dust-free rows of jars of screws and bolts, a large, well-labeled machinist cabinet, to a door in the back. 

 Through that was a narrow, creaky staircase that came to a small landing with a door labeled supply closet in sharpie directly on the wood, and another one with a heavy wooden door. There was a small wall mounted lamp that lit the tight fit landing in a deep shade of orange gold light. 

 Frank looked back to Karen. “You can hand them here if you want,” he murmured, his deep voice reverberating off of the walls of the enclosed space. He held his hand out to hold her things. 

 She handed him the wound up mess of her purse, then leaned over to toe her boots off, picking them up carefully, a wave of nausea rippling through her when she could see the dried, congealed mix of blood and mud in the light. 

 Frank took them, swapping her for her things. “I’ll wash e’m, you can just hang out with the dog,” he said, before he opened the door. 
 Karen could hear Boy scramble to his feet, the clicking of dog paws moving towards them, his entire body twisting with a heavy tail wag when he saw Karen, whining excitedly. 

 Karen lowered herself down to take on all of Boy’s excitement, run her fingers over the comforting, silky texture of his blue-grey coat. 

“Hey, pretty boy,” Karen murmured, her voice threatening to crack, but she was already breathing a little easier. As she did, she started to take in her surroundings. 

 She really didn’t know what she expected Frank’s apartment to look like—but it was, thankfully, a far cry from the many the male-occupied apartments she had been subjected to over the years.  It was meticulously tidy, though very impersonal. The walls were exposed brick, the floors a warm tone of wood. It wasn’t much more than a studio, the kitchen and living room were essentially one room—a single door that led to what she assumed was a bathroom bed room combination. He had a worn, vintage green couch, a coffee table with a laptop on it, a modest TV—which was currently playing Golden Girls re-runs—on an rough hewn antique stand. A bookshelf with several novels and some magazines—mostly car part catalogs it looked like— lining the shelves. She spotted a dark wood acoustic guitar in the corner of the room, leaned against the wall. 

 There was a blanket thrown over the back of the couch, and the personal touches ended about there. There were few other signs of life beyond things there for Boy’s needs—an oversized dog bed in the corner, an embarrassment of large dog toys scattered all over, his food and water bowls.

 “He likes the TV on when I’m gone,” Frank explained, gesturing to the late night rerun playing out on screen. He moved towards the kitchen with her shoes, taking them to the sink.

“You want to change clothes or somethin’? I mean I can still take you home but if you want to be in something else,” Frank offered over his shoulder while he ran water in the sink. 

 “You have clothes that will fit me?” Karen asked, doubtful. 

 Frank gave her an odd look. “Not really, but they won’t have blood on e’m.”

 Karen glanced down at her pants, in the light of the apartment she could see what he saw. It wasn’t much, but there was a small amount of blood spatter on her right pant leg. 

 “Shit,” she stood up straighter. 

 “Here, I’ll get you something,” Frank dried his hands off on a towel, then walked over to the door on the back wall. He disappeared in the room for less than a minute before returning with a pair of grey sweatpants and a black hoodie—both of which she felt sure she would swim in.

 “Bedroom is through there, bathroom to the left,” Frank said. “Use whatever you want.”

 “Okay,” Karen nodded, the soft material warm and comforting in her hands. It grounded her for a moment, slowed her heart-rate, the adrenaline still streaming in her veins.

“Thanks, Frank,” she said, her voice more emotional than she intended as the small moment of relief let her breathe. 

 “S’ no problem,” Frank said, his voice soft and careful. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

 Karen nodded lightly, before she disappeared into Frank’s bedroom. 

 

 

 Much like the living room, it was a very minimalist and clean space. A bed—made, a single pillow on the top of a dark red comforter. A nightstand with a lamp. A dresser, a closet—both closed and neat. 

 There was a window above the bed, with thin curtains that still allowed for the blue and red lights from the police cars across the street to bleed through, fluttering manically across the walls, making her stomach twist. 

 She retreated into the bathroom, which was barren but also meticulously clean. Just a clear PEVA liner on the shower, a toothbrush in a cup on the sink. A shelf with white towels. A simple black shower mat on the floor. 

 Karen shut the door and made quick work of yanking off Frank’s jacket, setting it aside, and then her clothes, which she wadded into a pile. She still felt a dry crawling on her skin, the scent of the carnival mixed with the tang of iron—imagined or otherwise— clinging to her skin now making her stomach roil. 

 She opted for a quick shower, twisting her hair up into a knot, grabbing one of the neatly folded towels Frank had stacked on a shelf, fumbling with the knobs until the water was somewhere just barely north of scorching. Stepping into the water, the steam was a soft salve on her throat, helped her to take deep breaths, to calm and remind herself that she was safe.  She dried off and got out, then paused when looking at the sweats and hoodie. She felt weird pulling them on with no underwear, but she recoiled at the idea of putting back on underwear she had been living in since six that morning after a shower. 

 Karen pulled the sweats and hoodie on over her naked body. They pooled at her wrists and ankles, slung low on her hips even with the ties pulled tight. The hoodie hit at her mid-thigh—oversized and thick enough that it wouldn’t advertise that she had forgone any bra. It smelled clean, but there were lingering hints of Frank’s scent—wooden, spiced, but mixed with detergent she had to guess he used way too much of—in the fabric. 

 She carefully folded her clothes to hide the bloody ankle inside out, her underwear hidden in her sweatshirt. She grabbed it all up before opening the door—steam forming as she stepped into the slightly colder room, the floor felt chilled against her bare feet. But as soon as she walked out, she was hit with the warm, comforting scent of coffee. 

Frank was in the kitchen, where he had her shoes drying on a bed of paper towel and was wiping down the counter, putting away a bag of coffee. He turned to look at her. He paused, his expression shifting when he saw her in the oversized clothes, his clothes. He stared at her for a moment. He cleared his throat. “You find everything alright?” He asked, glancing away. 

 “Yeah, I took a shower I hope that’s alright,” Karen nodded. 

 “Of course, yeah,” Frank nodded emphatically. He grabbed a garbage bag off of the counter. “Here, you can put those in here,” he said. 

 Karen dumped her clothes in the bag, then held up Frank’s jacket. 

 “Where should I put this?”

 “Oh, just toss it there, that’s fine,” Frank gestured to the counter, then over to the coffee maker. “I know it’s late, but you want any?”

 “Yeah, please,” Karen nodded, setting Frank’s jacket on the counter, her bag of dirty clothes on the floor.

 Boy made an excited chuffing noise from his spot in the middle of the couch, tail wagging away the blanket he had nestled into. Karen immediately went over to him, sitting on the far end of the couch and he whined excitedly, setting his head on her legs. His big nose sniffed at the fabric, likely confused about the mix of smells. 
 Karen ran her fingers over his oversized head, then looked back over to Frank. “Wait, you have a coffee maker?”

 Frank glanced at it, like he was double checking. “Yeah?”

 “Then why do you buy so much at the coffee shop? 

 “Oh, I get unlimited coffee in exchange for car work,” he shrugged. “And theirs is stronger,” he added while he grabbed a couple of mugs out of a cabinet. 

Karen pet Boy’s sleek, salted coat. She loved the extra pokey white hairs around his muzzle.  “Your place is…” Karen started, then searched for a word. Devoid of signs of life? Kind of like a serial killer lived there?  “Not very sentimental,” she managed. 
 
Frank poured coffee, and gave her a wry glance. “I travel light,” he said, grabbing the mugs and walking over to hand her one, which sent a shiver through her body as the heat drenched her fingertips. 

 “Haven’t you been here a couple years?” Karen countered, glancing around. “How the hell did you even lose your books in here, anyways? Where could they possibly have gone?”
 
Frank laughed lightly, taking a seat on the other end of the couch. “The office is kind of a mess—the techs put pictures up and pile up papers and all their crap. I think they’re down there.” 
 
Karen took a light sip, a pleasant bloom of heat on her tongue. The warmth fought back the numbness on the inside, the stuff the heat from the shower couldn’t reach. As her body slowly relaxed, the tension and adrenaline slipping away, she felt spent.  She looked to the TV, the sound still next to muted as another fuzzy episode of 80’s television started up. 
 
Frank watched the screen, uninterested, then looked back at Karen carefully. “You feeling any better?” He asked. 

 Karen swallowed, setting the mug down on the coffee table, rubbing Boy’s ears. “I think so? I don’t know,” she said, scratching at the bridge of Boy’s nose, eliciting a heavy, relaxed sigh from his lungs. “Did you…” She trailed off. “Did you know him? The guy, I mean?”

 Frank shook his head. “No, not well. Couldn’t tell you a name or anything like that,” he said.  

“Could you tell what killed him?” Karen asked. 

 Frank gave her an odd look, but shrugged. “Shot in the chest, looked like point blank, chest entry, with a pretty standard handgun caliber but I couldn’t tell you that for sure. But if he was shot during the fireworks—to mask the sound— he’d bled out a lot already, so probably a through and through,” he rattled off easily. 

 Karen stared at him, her mouth almost unhinged at the corners. 

 Frank shifted a little. “Maybe we shouldn’t talk about—”

 “How did you get all of that?” Karen asked. 

 “I was in the military,” Frank reminded her, like that should clear everything up. 

 “Yeah the sheriff in my hometown was in the military, he couldn’t tell a buckshot from a M80 on a crime scene,” Karen said pointedly. 

 “I was in special forces,” Frank offered, his tone nonchalant, but his body language wasn’t exactly relaxed. “Took a basic forensics class one year,” he added. 

 Karen considered. “Okay,” she said softly. She didn’t know if she believed that was the end of it, simply because of how unsettled Frank had seemed—but for that same reason she didn’t want to push it. Plus, a slow drip feeling of exhaustion was hitting as the adrenaline and panic faded. The caffeine from one cup of coffee a non-starter at this point in her life.

  She played with the oversized cuffs of Frank’s hoodie. The material was so soft and warm against her body, it helped relax her into the couch. 

 “Do you…” she trailed off, then looked over at Frank, whose dark eyes looked at her expectantly. She pushed away some hair that was falling into her face. “Do you think stuff like this can follow people around?”

 Frank’s brow furrowed. “Stuff like… What?”

 “I don’t know, death?” Karen said softly, the word left the feeling of a small cut on her tongue. 

 Frank’s expression held a recognition she hadn’t expected, almost a flinch. But he recovered quickly, clearing his throat and sitting up, making sure to catch her eye contact. 

 “Hey,” he said. “That guy out there? He’s dead because someone decided to kill him, yeah? That’s it. That’s why, full stop.”

 Karen bit her bottom lip. The resolution in his tone should have felt comforting but it just felt like another stone in her gut. It had been an unfair question to ask, because he didn’t know her. Didn’t know the reasons that death, bodies, and blood made her feel a gutting sense of guilt. And she couldn’t make him understand, in no world could she just tell him, no matter how soft his eyes were. 

 “Okay,” she said quietly, instead. 

 “What if,” Frank said slowly, glancing back over at the kitchen. “We don’t talk about dead people anymore, at least for tonight,” he said with a small reassuring smile. “And maybe you should just drink your coffee, I can make you something to eat, you can put something on TV you want to watch?”

 Karen nodded lightly. “Yeah, okay.”

 Karen’s idea of not thinking about dead people turned out to be re-runs of old episodes of Law & Order. She found it within a few remote clicks, the familiar sounds of the show helping her to settle into her spot on the couch more comfortably, slumping more and more while Frank moved around the kitchen. She wasn’t exactly hungry but Frank seemed to want something to do and she didn’t mind letting him do it. 

 However, the comforting scent of coffee, the ramble of the TV, the incredibly soft and comfortable clothes on her body—plus the warmth radiating off of Boy, who had settled into a new, more comfortable position on her feet while she stretched out a little—and the sounds of Frank’s footsteps, the clinking of things just steps away, made her feel a way she hadn’t felt in a long, long time. Even before she got to Hartford. 

 She felt safe. Even though faint ideas of how she should head home drifted through her head, she couldn’t focus on them for long. Her exhaustion helped everything to drain away—the tension, anxiety, floating images of bodies and blood— as she was enveloped the warmth like a salve against her body, and the drifting thoughts of how she had felt pulled into his arms outside—you’re safe—she quickly drifted off to sleep. 

Chapter 9: CHAPTER 9

Chapter by bernthalslut

Summary:

this is short and small but i'm trying.

 Karen sat across from Frank in the diner. 
 
All diners felt vaguely familiar to Karen—and this one was no exception. The slick smell of grease, the fleshy smell of eggs bubbling and and sausage searing on the grill twisted her gut with its familiarity. Luckily coffee helped to mask the parts of it all that tended to make her gag a little from sheer overexposure. 

 That smell used to hang to her clothes, be stuck in her hair. Animal fat and maple syrup. There were always bits of hash browns  or streaks of ketchup crusted on her shirts and jeans. The only smell she hadn’t grown to hate had been coffee, but this place didn’t churn it out like she used to. She still struggled with making coffee—trying to maximum scent rather than any attempts at achieving decent flavor. 

 Karen wanted to ask about the ring as they sat there. She could see the chain around his neck again today just a glimpse of it before it disappeared beneath the collar of his thick and soft looking henley shirt. 

 They both had an almost comical amount of pancakes on their plates, and Karen’s fingers felt sticky despite not having eaten yet, a fork with small hard water spots sat untouched on the side of her plate. 

 Someone called out an order at the counter—home fries and bacon. The smell got stronger. 

 “Do you think the ballistics will be a problem?” she said almost absentminded. She reached past her food for more coffee. 

 Frank ate his pancakes, she imagined he had no reason to feel sick about slightly fried dough and syrup. He shook his head. “Not if the gun is gone.” 

 Karen nodded, her stomach roiled as there was another ding at the counter, another order up. There was a fresh wave of fried animal matter aroma. She had had a brief, rebellious stint as a vegetarian in high school, but mostly it was her trying to refuse to help prep sausage, bacon, and burgers in the afternoon. Her mom was supportive, though. Penny made her salads—nice ones, with a rainbow of chopped vegetables. She made her plates of fries and grilled mushrooms and zucchini. Toast with piles of peanut butter for protein. She came around back to meat eventually—mostly chicken, turkey. Anything they didn’t serve at the diner on a regular basis. But, Penny never said a word. She never complained, she was never annoyed with her. Karen couldn’t recognize then how loved that had made her feel. 

 Karen turned to look outside, but the view outside of the diner was hard to see, the glass was fogged up to the gingham cafe curtains at the top. For a second she could have sworn it looked like the view outside of the Page family diner through the frosted panes. 

 There was another ding at the counter, another order up. It seemed odd, Karen thought. There weren’t that many people in here. Just a couple other people at the counter. 
  A waitress walked by with an order She was wearing casual clothes, besides her apron. She had a scarf around her head. There was something familiar in the way that she moved, though

Karen found herself shying away. Not looking at her face. 

 “As far as I know,” Karen said. 

 “You’re sure or you’re not,” Frank said, his deep voice had the weight of iron. 

 “I’m sure,” Karen nodded, more resolute. “Unless guns float. “

 Frank considered her for a moment. “Was it yours? Like, registered to you?”

 Karen shifted. “No. Theirs.”’

 “That’s really good.” 

 Karen nodded, trying to agree. 

 “More?” The waitress asked, a coffee pot in Karen’s peripherals.

 She glanced up at her, then startled so hard she jumped. Her stomach lurched so hard she thought she might vomit. Tears immediately sprang to her eyes, sharp and acidic. 

 Frank held up his mug, oblivious. “Thank you, m’am."

  Karen watched as her mother filled the mug. It was the version of her that she tried not to remember as much as she tried to remember the one that made her rainbow salads. She looked tired,  her hair was gone from the chemo—her scalp covered with a stylish head scarf. Her skin was burned, that was something Karen didn’t expect—that her mother’s scalp and skin would be burned from the treatment. She knew she’d lose her hair. She and Penny had picked out the headscarves together at a bohemian boutique a couple of towns over. They had gotten lattes and eaten at a fancy brunch spot, shopped, and Karen had tried not to cry too much when hiding in public bathrooms. 
 
Karen tried to form words, but her stomach hurt too much, her throat felt like a tree branch had been shoved down it. Words wouldn’t come up. 

 Her mother sat casually sat down across from her, next to Frank. 

 “DNA and fingerprints,” Penny Page said thoughtfully, reaching out to grab a spare mug from the table and flipping it over to pour her own cup. “That’s your biggest worry, sweetheart.”

 Frank was looking out the window. It was cleared now—it now looked so much like her childhood back yard outside, but Karen’s eyes went right back to her mother. 

 Karen shook her head, her voice was so sore. “Mom—” she started, but Penny cut her off. 

 “It’s just that everyone thinks they got it all, but who knows how fine toothed a comb they went over it with,” Penny continued, then she looked over at Frank. She titled her head, a smile on
her face. She gave Karen a slightly teasing smile that made Karen’s heart seize for a moment. 

 “Who is this?” She asked. 

 Frank didn’t notice. Somehow, gratefully. It was like he couldn’t hear Karen or Penny at all. He kept staring at something beyond the diner windows, dark eyes narrowing with interest. He had a gorgeous profile, Karen thought. Every line bold, sloped or sharp in just the right spots. 

 “This is…” Karen wanted to tell her so badly. The way she would told her mom about Jake Lewis, a boy who moved into her school from Connecticut her sophomore year and she had such a crush on him after he let her borrow a pen in English she could barely sleep at night. She sighed and her cheeks reddened as she helped her mom at their diner through the weekend and Penny asked her all kinds of questions about him that Karen was dying to answer, hardly able to keep herself from talking about him.

 “Oh, Karen,” Penny said sadly, and Karen felt her heart sink, fault lines forming. Tears sprang to her eyes. Her heart and tear ducts always on their 1:1 ratio basis. 

 Karen had been an overachiever as a child, disappointment from either of her parents was something she had worked tirelessly to avoid. Their standards were unstated, but high. She really did a good job, too, until her mom… 

 “You’re not here,” Karen whispered, trying to both soothe and remind herself but it came out with more bite than intended as she realized the near-angered look on Penny’s face. 

 “You don’t think he’ll find out?” Penny asked, sitting back. Her expression and tone was embittered, removed. 

 Karen glanced at Frank, he remained fixated on something out the window. Something she didn’t want to look at. She felt a cold bead of sweat pool on her forehead. 

 “Karen,” Frank’s voice startled Karen, she jumped in her seat. “Look.”

 Karen stiffened, her gaze down on the formica and metal table. No, she couldn’t look. Somehow she knew what he could see through the glass. She couldn’t look at him anymore. 

 “Karen, look,” Frank said more forcefully, sitting up, leaning towards the glass. 

 “How will you explain it?” Penny asked her her tone unfamiliar, cruel. It made Karen tremble. 

 “Karen,” Penny’s voice was sharp, not really hers. 

 Karen looked to her mother. Her skin had gone ghostly pale, dry and translucent. Her light, feathered brows were gone. Her eyelashes were gone. Her skin sagged and her breathing came in labored rattles. 

 “Karen,” Frank’s voice was almost pleading, confused. “What did you do?”

 “You can’t be forgiven,” Penny’s pupils were blown with rage, her face contorting.  

 “What did you do?” Frank asked again. 

 Karen cried, her fingers wrapping into and pulling at her hair, covering her eyes. 

 “You can’t hide it forever,” Penny railed on. “You can’t come back.”

A scream was knotted, stuck in Karen’s throat when she sat up, hands already pulling at the hoodie on her body. She felt so constricted, she felt like someone was pressing her into the couch, palms flat and angry on her chest. 

 She gasped for air, hands moving to clamp over her mouth. 

 The room was dark and she felt even more disoriented as her brain struggled to catch up and remind her of where she was. 

 You’re in Frank’s apartment. You fell asleep here. You're safe here. 

 She counted out her breaths in groups of fours through her fingers, still secured around her mouth. 
 
It was dark, a small bulb on over the stove, the tv still on and running at at very low volume. 

 Boy sat up from where he was, curled into a tight circle on her feet. He looked at her expectantly, his tail tapping lightly in interest.

 She reached out, her breathing steadying as she ran her fingers over his head, rubbed his ears, her fingers still trembling. 

 Karen slowly pulled herself free of the—several—blankets that were over her body. She didn’t remember even seeing that many the night before, Frank must have drummed them up from somewhere. 

 His bedroom door was closed, giving her space. She wiped away the salty tears dripping from her lashes, her chest still hurt like someone had swung a metal baseball bat on her ribcage. 
 She couldn’t stay here, she couldn’t stay in his orbit. 

 She was hiding here, she had been running for a while. And she couldn’t ever tell him, she could never explain it. Frank was a good person, the people she worked with were good people.
Most of this town was comprised of good people. And she had soaked up their kindness, she had let herself believe she was like them. 

 She wasn’t. 

 She tread quietly as she grabbed up her clothes, her boots off the counter, slipping them on at the door before she went out the door, down the stairs, out the back. She gave the crime scene a wide berth as she walked through pelting rain, to her house. 

 Just a house—walls, a roof. Somewhere she would wander through like a specter. It wasn’t a home, it couldn’t be. She ruined homes. She tore them down, made them unlivable, haunted them. 

 She had almost done that here, she realized. Set down her roots, letting herself poison the ground as she dug in, drawn to a sense of belonging she didn’t deserve. 

 She had to withdraw. Uproot. Quarantine. 

 She had to keep everyone safe from herself. She thought of Frank’s Labrador eyes, his cautious smile, and her gut knotted as she reached her door, hands shaking as she shoved the key in, retreating into the unlit hiding place. 

Chapter 10: Chapter 10

Chapter by bernthalslut

Summary:

I haven't updated in a long long long time. And I'm rusty and worried this is horrible but I really want to keep writing and I love these characters so here we go. :)

 The first casserole arrived Sunday morning. 

 Karen woke to the sound of her doorbell, which was disconcertingly peppy and bright against the weight and ache she felt in her limbs. 
 
When she got back to the house she’d felt sick, the sour taste of bile on the back of her tongue as she fought off the cold sweat and nausea that persisted through her walk home. If she hadn’t had the same dream before—in different forms—she might have thought she was being hit with the flu. She went to her fridge, digging into the back past the scant amount of produce and she had bought at Hobbe’s Mercantile to find a screw top bottle of red.
 
She had twisted the top off with shaky hands, drank it directly from the bottle. Desperate to have it all dulled, make it sift away. 
 After the first quarter of the bottle she stripped Frank’s clothes off of her body, angrily yanking at the soft fabric, pulling it away from herself. A form of self-denial and punishment that felt harsh, but fair. Desperate for noise outside of her own mind and to drown out the unfamiliar creaks and shudders of the old house that were still startling to her—she flipped on the TV, finding a streaming channel that played nothing but Murder, She Wrote at all hours. She sank into the couch, pulling a blanket over her bare, shivering frame. She drank, she stared blankly at a seaside view, cardigans, bikes. A softly rambling vignette of a reality she wanted to step into. Where death was sad, resolvable, serialized, and ultimately—and most enviably— forgettable. 

 She drank and stared with increasingly tired eyes until she had slipped into some facsimile of sleep that left her waking in a cold sweat, her head felt as though it was encased in concrete. 

 Rain continued to pound against the windows as it had the night before— the light that filtered in was gray like the hide of a mournful, beached whale. 
 
Karen rubbed her eyes, sat up and eyed the scant dregs of wine that remained in the bottle—warmed on the coffee table—regretfully, but also longingly. 

 She pulled the sweats back on, since nothing else was within reach. The smell of them—of him, warm citrus, petrichor, and coffee—hit her all over again, and she told herself that after she dealt with whatever this was she could be rid of them.

She opened the door to find her landlord, Louise, standing under the cover of the porch in a raincoat, a pyrex dish covered in aluminum foil in hand. Louise was tall, her limbs long and graceful. She had long, curly hair that had gone a blue tinted shade of grey, glasses on her face.

 “Uh, hi,” Karen managed pushing her hair out of her face. Her voice was hoarse, tight. She folded her arms around herself and a fresh wave of Frank’s scent drifted around her. 

 “You poor thing,” Louise said, shaking her head as she looked at her. 

 Karen stilled. “Sorry?”  

 “With everything, I figured you might not be up for cooking,” Louise continued, gesturing to the dish in her hands. 

 Karen still struggled to understand. How could this woman know about her horrible dream that did in fact make her feel a little bit like her mother had just died all over again. Poor thing, indeed, she thought. She did feel poor, pathetic, orphaned.  The aluminum foil dish like the ones that had been piled up and frozen in bulk when she was eighteen wasn’t helping, either. She, her father, and Kevin had lived off similar offerings for weeks after mom died. 

 “What a fright,” Louise continued. “I was born here and I’ve never seen such violence.” 

 “Oh,” Karen was actually relieved to realize she was talking about a local murder, a body above ground in the cemetery and not her mother. Not everything else. 

 “That is so kind,” Karen managed, her voice sounded like she had just dusted it off after years of disuse. Dusty, clunky. 

 Louise held the dish out. “It’s an lasagna casserole.” 

 “You didn’t have to,” Karen said, but she took the dish. The smell of a home cooked meal should be heady after the weeks she’d been living off of toast, sliced apples, and powder cheese macaroni but her stomach was still lurching easily. 

 “If you need to talk,” Louise said solemnly. 

 “Oh, sure,” Karen nodded. 

 Louise stalled a little. “About what you saw,” she clarified. 

 “Right,” Karen said, then shook her head. “I mean. No. I mean, I’m fine,” she said. “Didn’t see much, it was pretty dark.” 

 Louise nodded, clearly trying to hide disappointment. “Well, enjoy the food.”

 “It’s so nice of you to bring it, thank you,” Karen said again. She had practiced this line, it fell off her lips easily with muscle memory.

 Louise was the first of a couple people who brought her a “so sorry you stumbled into a corpse” offerings that she suspected were actually hopeful little fishing expeditions. Karen’s experience of keeping the facts and statements clear was repeatedly put to the test. 

 Karen had just freshly rinsed herself off again, throwing on her own clothes when Margaret Wentworth, who ran the bakery, Hearth, handed her several loaves of French bread and tsked, “To see a murder, I can’t imagine.”

 “I didn’t actually see a murder,” Karen corrected carefully, her blonde hair still wet and dripping down the back of her neck as she took the bread. “Body was already there.”

 Wendy Sloane who had kids in the pageant brought something that looked, sort of, like green bean casserole. 

 “It’s gluten, dairy and sugar free,” she’d assured Karen. Her brunette hair was curled into forcible beachy waves, her voice like that of an aggressively overachieving cheerleader. Peppy, patronizingly nice. “I know you New York City folks don’t eat any of that.”

 Karen didn’t bother telling her that her diet in New York regularly consisted of sometimes only those things and coffee when she had been working a story—ramen and macaroni cups were a staple in her desk. She could sense the dish was a judgement more than a consideration. 

 “I heard Frank ran after a man leaving the cemetery, is that right?” Wendy pivoted as she shoved the dish that was still warm and congealing fast into Karen’s hands. 

 “No, neither of us saw anything,” Karen said stiffly. Hearing Frank’s name didn’t help her stomach, it twisted harder.

 “Are you two friends from New York?” Wendy asked. “I’d heard that. He’s from New York, too, you know.”

 “So I’ve heard, but no,” Karen deadpanned. She remembered Andrew’s anecdote about wine coolers and the Fourth of July and guessed at the reason for this “everything free” monstrosity that smelled like freezer burnt green beans, canned mushrooms, and warm soy milk. 

Karen was tense, irritable, and feeling edgy and trapped as she instinctively went to grab her keys to get in the car and just drive out of town when she remembered her car was beneath Frank’s apartment. She was considering sneaking into the closed library to hide out when the doorbell rang yet again. 

 She swung the door open with possibly too much fervor but faltered when she saw who stood on the other side. 

Nora stood there in a rain coat, a casual pair of jeans and sneakers, an oversized Tulane sweatshirt over her slight frame. She had two iced coffees and a paper bag with Hearth’s label on it with autumnal dark red and orange flowers sticking out of the top. 

 “Hey,” Nora smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, maybe I should’ve called but I was at Beanie’s and just… I thought I’d come check on you in person. And I brought some food and flowers because there’s no nice card for “sorry you found a body in the town I’m a mayor of that you just moved to,” Nora said quickly. “Even on Etsy. I looked.” 

 Karen felt a twinge of relief at seeing Nora there. There was something so genuine in her eyes—maybe it was the true look of worry and anxiety on her face rather than ravenous curiosity. Her hair was up in a very messy knot bun, and she had eye make-up smeared around her eyes. Karen had never seen her look less than perfectly put together in her short time in Hartford and could tell this was far from Nora’s usual state. 

 “You wanna come in?” Karen asked. 

 “If that’s alright.”

 Karen nodded, then lead the way into the house—she bypassed the living room and her wine bottle and nest of blankets and took Nora to the kitchen. 

 Nora set the bag on the island countertop, then spotted the pyrex dishes. 

 “Doing some food prep?” She asked, trying to politely hide a look of disgust when she eyed the “everything free” green bean casserole. 

 Karen laughed. “Uh, no, that one was from Wendy Sloane.”

 Nora nodded. “Ah,” she said, leaning over, only frowning worse when she got a whiff of the sludge inside, then saw the pile of French bread. “The town suddenly decided to do a welcome wagon for you after you found a body, weird coincidence I’m sure.”

 Karen laughed unexpectedly, another small wave of relief at having Nora call it out directly. “So weird,” she agreed. 

 Nora smiled but let out a long sigh, slumping a little against the counter. “I promise I’m not here to ask you questions. Mostly because I already got asked a million in town today.
Namely about how and when people are getting refunded for their vendor fees since I made the call to shut the festival down early,” Nora said, rubbing her eyes. “There’s nothing in the vendor policy about murder.” 

 Karen pulled the coffee with her name on it from the carrier, and Nora reached for hers. 

  “I don’t know how much you already know,” Nora said. “But they did ID the victim.”

 Karen shook her head. “I didn’t. Was he local?” She asked. She made her hands busy, pulling the flowers—Burgundy roses, fire ombre chrysanthemums, red dahlias, and some marigolds with dark greenery and amaranths—out of the bag and looking under the sink for a plain glass vase she had seen when she had stocked under the sink with dish soap and sponges. 

 “His name was Daniel **. Owned a farm outside of town—grew up here, though. Definitely a local. But kind of a hermit. Came into town for whatever he couldn’t grow on the property. People didn’t see him much outside of that.”

 The name didn’t ring any immediate bells for Karen. She mulled the name over and something pulled on the edges of her memory. But with the number of people she had met in the last week, and given the night she’d had nothing was floating to the surface. 
 
“I heard you got interrogated outside of the crime scene. And then I heard you talked about in general—you and Frank from the auto shop, and the rumors were flying around downtown and I felt bad about all of it and thought I’d come check on you,” Nora said. “Hence the flowers and stuff from Hearth,” she added gesturing to the bag from the bakery. 

 Karen cleared her throat. “I’m— We’re not…” she wasn’t sure which thing to address first. “Interrogated is strong,” she settled on. “We got questioned.” 

 Nora sighed. “I’m really sorry. If there was any hope of Hartford being quaintly nosy rather than a raging gossip mill the murder really squashed it.” 

 “You don’t have to apologize,” Karen told Nora. “I grew up in a small town. Not a stranger to rumors and the way people can be…” Both Karen and Nora’s gazes drifted to the menacing green been casserole, the plastic wrap on top starting to gather condensation. “Invasive.”

 Nora gave it another look of revulsion. “Well, I hope you accept my bribes to not run away screaming. And, if you need some coverage at the library I can call the volunteer list.”

 Karen swallowed down a gulp of coffee. She mentally willed the caffeine to soothe her hangover. “Oh, no, I’m good to go,” she promised, though she hoped it didn’t sound hollow. “I like to stay busy.” 

 Nora nodded. “I expected as much. We’ve decided to move the town hall up to tomorrow. Still the business owners and municipal meeting at the top of everything. We’re hoping to help settle some of the panic. Do you think you’d be ready to talk budget that quickly? We’re just hoping to keep things normal for anyone who comes.” 

 Karen smiled, she hoped reassuringly. “Definitely.” 

 “Okay,” Nora nodded, rubbing her temples lightly.  “Speaking of town hall, I have to go meet with Hobbes to rewrite the itinerary. On top of a safety response he apparently has to talk to me about the Christmas pageant. Urgently.” 

 Karen smiled. “It was really nice of you to stop by.”

 “It was self-serving, but I am genuinely glad you’re holding up okay,” Nora said—and her tired smile was as genuine as her voice. 

 “I’m doing alright,” Karen tried to promise.

 Nora nodded, straightening from the counter and rubbing her neck as she grabbed her coffee off of the counter. She stopped short when she looked at the green been casserole once again. She looked to Karen, mouth downturned. “Don’t eat that,” she advised. 

 Karen shook her head emphatically. “No way.” 
 
 
                                                                                                  X              X              X              X     

 
Karen slunk her way towards Beanie’s on Monday morning. 

 She had to take a long way around from her house to Main Street—the cemetery remained cordoned off by bright yellow tape— and the alternate route spit her out almost directly across the street from Hartford Auto Repair. 

 She felt a little cowardly as she walked back up the sidewalk—a few stray leaves scraped and spent their way across the concrete beneath her feet. The weather had lifted since the storms through the weekend—but she had appreciated the rain on Sunday. It had ben an excuse to stay in, and she hoped helped to calm the parade of casseroles she had endured. But it had also resulted in her making an entire bag of coffee in a couple of days. 

  She was in all black—black pants, a black knit sweater, black coat tied over top, black boots— like it might work as urban camouflage. She wasn’t much of a baseball cap wearer, but she had made an exception and grabbed one that boasted She wished it were a little brighter so she could have justified sunglasses. She figured some version oft he casserole parade might occur at work but if she could just get some coffee beforehand… 

 Karen could hear the music coming from the auto shop as she hit the sidewalk close to Beanie’s—something fast, caustic, and punk today—but she couldn't see any sign of Frank through the tall windows at Beanie’s. She frowned a little as she realized the morning rush extended out onto the sidewalk. Moms before school drop off, early birds in their sneakers and zip ups, a gaggle of teenage girls, all waited and looked on jealously as a happy customer walked out with a cup or two of coffee that smelled divine. As Karen slipped into the back of the line could see Beanie had rolled out a new flavor advertised in the window—The Agatha Christie—a mystery flavor, the chalk paint boasted in a swooping font. And a small magnifying glass drawn next to it. 

 As she waited in line she realized what she should have anticipated: Beanie’s was its usual hub for gossip and news on steroids—the nod to literary murder mystery a bat signal drawing in theories, gossip, musings. 

 “I heard Nelly Reese saw a very suspicious looking man walking down the street late at night just a couple of nights ago—didn’t recognize him.”

 “I’ve been saying that festival brings in too many drifters.”

 “Do you think they’ll enforce a curfew?”

 “Did you see the county Facebook page? Nothing about it. They’re putting worries about tourism over our safety.” 
 
  Karen was about to duck out of line, coffee be damned, when heard raised voices emerging down the street. From the auto shop. 

Frank walked out of the front garage door in a variation of his usual attire. A white shirt—stained to hell— that had the word YOKOHAMA emblazoned across it, blue jeans, heavy black boots. He had a particularly heavy and big wrench in his hand. 

 A man Karen recognized as William Hobbes—who she had met in passing—followed out after him. He was short, a wired sort of person with white and gray hair poking out of a tweed cap, and a short trimmed gray and white beard, a Hobbe’s Mercantile apron tied neatly around his body.

 He was waving a bright pink pile of papers in his hands. 

 “This is the twenty-second complaint that’s been filed, Frank! You can’t keep ignoring these, not coming to town halls—” 

 “I did come to the last one,” Frank’s voice was heavy, unmoved. “The lady wasn’t there, we couldn’t talk about the complaint.” 

 “After threatening the complainant—”

 “I what?” Frank’s voice picked up a level. 

 Karen quickly realized she wasn’t he only one watching. The line around her fell completely silent. Someone paused as they walked out of the shop with their matcha to stare. 
 
“Marcie filed the report,” Hobbes looked to his papers. “And I quote—the day of the last town hall in September when the matter was to be discussed, the offending business played particularly violent and aggressive music particularly loud throughout the day, one can only assume as a form of threat.”

 “Jesus fucking Christ. I’ve told you all before—if it wasn’t the music it would be complaints about the drills, the compressors. It’s an auto shop. It’s. Loud.” 

 “Be that as it may, I’m here to deliver an official—and final—request for appearance for tonight’s meeting.”

 “Some asshole got shot in your town, your tourist event went to shit, and you’re worried about a noise complaint?” The judgment in Frank’s voice even made Karen shrink. 

 Hobbes, however, was unmoved. Karen wasn’t sure if his sense of beaurocracy was unnerving or admirable—maybe both. 

  “That is police business. This is town business,” Hobbes said with a shrug. 

 “Jesus Christ,” Frank went to pull a hand down his face but then seemed to think better of it—it was dark with some kind of fluid from whatever he had been doing in the shop. 

 “Give me the paper,” he said, hand out to take it. 

 Hobbes gingerly handed it over. “Fail to appear tonight and the fines go up from seventy-five a month to three hundred, Frank. It’s in the by-laws.”

 Frank looked over the paper, his expression darker and darker by the second.

 “Look forward to seeing you there,” Hobbes said, actually sounding genuinely chipper, before turning to walk down the street, unmoved by Frank’s baleful gaze following after him. 

 Though, as he watched Hobbes stroll towards the coffee line, his gaze—unfairly—caught on her.

  She squirmed a little. 

 She hadn’t so much as sent a text to Frank, since she left his apartment. And, she assumed out of sheer discomfort, he hadn’t reached out to her at all. 

 She hadn’t expected seeing him to suck quite this much.

  He mirrored her uncomfortable shifting. He looked unsure of what to do with the wrench and papers in his hands—settling on nodding very lightly in her direction before turning to disappear back into the noise in garage. 

 Karen cleared her throat and questioned how desperate her need for coffee was as half of the coffee line glanced her way and quick looks and whispers spread around her. She decided it might be worse to leave now and stood her ground—while, coincidentally, looking at the ground. 

 Karen hadn’t talked to Frank since she left his apartment on Saturday. He hadn’t texted, called. She had started about two hundred messages to him. 
 
sorry I left like that. 
 I couldn’t sleep so I went home. 
 You didn’t do anything. 
 You were too nice, actually. 
 You don’t want to be anywhere near me. 

Apparently both of them had decided it was best to simply say nothing at all. And that was fine, however diluted and exhausted and emotional Karen’s post-nightmare storm out had been: she knew it wasn’t wrong. The things she had spent her life running away from, especially in New York, weren’t done. Hartford was a hiding spot in a long list of hiding spots. 

 You’re making the right choice, she promised herself. The idea feeling hollow in her chest. 

 The line picked up a little speed after the part of the line that had been gawking at Frank and Hobbes’ interaction moved forward. The smell of coffee, tea, and spices was almost calming. As she inched forward she stood next to the stand of books and magazines Beanie sold and and saw what proclaimed to be the local paper—the Hartford Herald. 

 Karen reached out and grabbed a copy.

 She hadn’t picked up a paper since leaving New York, since leaving her job at her paper. The last time she had picked one up, her name had been embedded in the pages as a by line.

She would have known the names of most of the other writers, she would have been under a deadline. 

 She expected to see someone else’s name there, under an oversized, attention-grabbing picture of the crime scene. Police lights and caution tape. 

 But, Karen paused when she realized that the front page was a generalized story about a power plant being fought off another nearby county. A blurb on gas prices. 

She flipped to the next page, and through the other four—it was thin, to say the least. Mostly ad space. Nothing about the murder there just a couple of nights before. She would have thought it would be front page—she didn’t know any reporter who wouldn’t milk a small town murder for all it was worth. 

 Beanie was bustling behind the counter with a couple of early morning helpers when Karen moved forward for her order. Beanie stopped cold when she saw her. 

 “Well, well,” Beanie said. “You’re brave.” She threw a glance at the line behind Karen—she didn’t have to look back to feel the eyes on her. 

 “Just under-caffinated,” Karen shrugged. 

 “Hmm,” Beanie nodded. “What can I get you?” 

 Karen held up the flimsy three pages in her hands. “This and the uh…” her eyes found another magnifying glass drawing on the board above them. “The special?” Karen said. 

 Beanie rattled off the total and Karen paid, and continued to skim through the paper as she waited for her order. 

 Nothing. There was some light reporting on some issues discussed at the town hall in September. A feel good story from somewhere upstate. A statement from the DNR about wildfires. Some talk of school district rezoning. But that was it. 

 Karen doubled back to the rack while her order was made—checking for a Sunday edition. She found one, it was only slightly thicker—it contained crossword puzzles and a couple of comics. Still nothing about the murder. 

 Karen grabbed her coffee and then held up the paper for Beanie to see. “Hey, really quick—who runs the paper?”

 Beanie looked surprised, she barked a dry, amused laugh. “Runs it?”

 “Yeah, like where is the newspaper office, who runs it?”

 Beanie looked slightly amused. “Funny no one mentioned it—especially with your background.” 

 Karen shook her head. “Mentioned what?” 

 “Well, no one here in town runs the paper—the Journal or someone fills it in, prints it, ships it to us in the mail. But, the paper used to be run out of the library.”

 Karen looked down at the generic pile of paper in her hands. “Really?” 

 “Whatever’s left of it is right under your feet across the street,” Beanie shrugged before getting pulled back into the morning rush to deal with a temperamental espresso machine. 

Chapter 11: FIVE MONTHS AGO

Chapter by bernthalslut

Summary:

flashback. This probably should have come sooner in the story but it's here now. :)
Also, I know I've mentioned this before but this is very much a everything-is-different-but-everything-is-the-same AU. Karen's situation and relationships to known MCU characters is all different in weird ways because frankly that's very fun to write. :)

FIVE MONTHS AGO 

 Karen walked through the newsroom of The Vein with a pile of papers in her hands, an overstuffed bag slung over her shoulder, a lukewarm and oversized coffee just barely balanced in her hand. 
 
The Vein took up residence in a rented floor of an old industrial building in Hell’s Kitchen. The walls were exposed brick, windows locked in by the view of other surrounding apartment and industrial buildings. It was a small, independent with the sound of phones ringing, keyboards clacking, and conversation a familiar din. Some of the old windows were forcibly pried forced open, window fan units groaning in a fruitless effort to stir the heavy June air that made the city feel like the maw of a beast was open above them, exhaling down rank, wet breath. 

 “You’re late,” one of Karen’s co-workers (Lorne, who ran the very small sports beat that the Vein felt compelled to include in their publications) mused loudly, not bothering to look up from his nest of a desk. Piled with papers, sports memorabilia—a box of baseball cards, a shrine of foam fingers that were stacked and slanted into a physics defying small tower. He was currently sharing his attention between a pastrami on rye and his desktop. 
 
Karen stopped by his desk. “Do you have them or no?”

 Lorne sighed, his dark pony tail of hair bobbing as he bent to reach down into one of his desk drawers and pulled out an envelope. 

 “Two box tickets, home game. You owe me.” 

 Karen grinned. “I owe you,” she agreed, holding the tickets on the top of her paper stack. “You said Monica wants to see that new Broadway show with a certain pop starlet…?”

 Lorne shook his head. “Don’t tease me, Page,” he said. “That show’s been sold out for months, trust me if there were tickets out there—”

 Karen shuffled some papers to hold her phone, open it, then opened it to her wallet app to show him the tickets. “Yours if you want them.”

 “How?!” Lorne sat up. 

 “My lawyer friend helped a costume designer over there with their shit ass landlord and two of the backup dancers with their shit ass landlords.”

 “They didn’t want to go?” Lorne was shocked. 

 “Oh, they are going, you lovebirds will be sitting next to one Foggy Nelson, he’ll talk your ear off until the lights go down and might trample you trying to get to stage door.” 

  Lorne couldn’t hold back a laugh. “I’m texting Monica, she won’t believe it.”

 “I’ll get them transferred today,” Karen sing-songed before she walked over to her desk—not far from Lorne’s, but next to a window. She had paperweights (makeshift or otherwise) all over her desk holding all of her organized chaos in place. Corners of paper lifted against the current of the fan that wobbled and groaned in her window. 

 Karen was organized but her desk was in rare form at the moment. A corkboard behind her covered in pictures, threads, and printed papers that also flapped against the window fan.

Different color threads connected different pieces of information, different people. A cop, a public utilities employee, a dancer at a dive joint in the Kitchen, a low level mob enforcer. But they all had tennous threads linking each other, all leading back to a hand-drawn question mark in the center. A  lot of the thread was in red, he color she used for deaths. 
 
She dumped her bag and files onto the desk, taking another sip of her coffee, performing her daily ritual of looking at the board, hoping something jumped out at her. Something she missed before. 

 She was barely able to begin rearranging things before she heard the editor’s office door swing open. 

 “Page!”

 Karen looked over to see her editor, Ben Urich, standing in the door of his office. “Right now, please!” He called. 

 Karen grabbed her coffee back up, ignoring a couple of glances from her co-workers as she made her way through the maze of desks and into Ben’s office. 

 Karen took another sip of coffee as she stepped in. “What’s up?” She asked, her voice airy. It was met with a very unamused look over Ben’s glasses. 
 
Ben was almost to retirement age, salt and pepper hair, deep winkles of laugh and concentration lines in his skin. In his sixties, he had left a big paper to edit The Vein on behalf of an industry friend who wanted to get it off the ground strong. There was always a rumor he was retiring, but Karen could rarely see signs of him slowing down. If he was ever going to leave, it likely would have been to spend more time with his wife, who passed away the year before with dementia. Since she had passed, he was throwing himself into work with a ferocity

Karen worried about, but one she certainly couldn’t judge. She admired and emulated it it too much. 
 
“What’s up,” Ben signed, sitting at his desk, which was busy but tidy with files, mugs full of paper clips, pens, highlighters. A couple of writing awards half covered by issues of other papers he read each morning. He liked ink on his fingertips. 

 “What is happening at your desk, Karen?”

 Karen cleared her throat. “Work.”

 “Not funny.”

 “I don’t really find it funny, either there’s a lot of dead people up there.” 

 “I thought we talked about that case.”

 “We did,” Karen agreed. 

 “And about you dropping it.”

 Karen used her free hand to grab up her hair and pull it off of her neck. “God, your office is hot,” she said irritably. 

 Ben leaned back in his chair, rubbing his forehead. 

 Karen knew, deep down, any other writer would have already started getting it a lot worse from their editor. And she knew when she deserved it—and she did. She had, several times.  
 But Ben was a surrogate parent to her. He had taken her under his wing when she had wandered in to his previous newspaper’s office, The Bulletin. She was living in the city with a humanities degree she wasn’t using, hustling night and day at an office and a bar after she graduated and couldn’t work at the school library anymore. One of her co-workers at the bar had been assaulted. And Karen saw a pattern, in the MO, in the description from her co-workers, and other cases that the police weren’t following up on. 

 So she’d gone to Ben. And he’d listened. 

 Ben worked with Karen tirelessly, he’d believed her. They helped turn a man named Harris Lowfield into the police. He was tried with DNA evidence, put away, and Karen got her first article at a real newspaper when Ben gave her the byline. 

 When Ben took an editing offer at The Vein, he brought Karen with him.  She helped build The Vein’s crime desk with Ben’s very active guidance—though his days of working pavement for stories were certainly winding down. 

 “I’ve seen this before,” Ben said, pointing in the direction of her desk. “With you spinning your wheels, coming and going at odd hours. You haven’t gotten me notes on anything else.”

 “Yeah well I’m close.”

 “You’re not,” Ben assured her. “I told you I wanted you to move on.”

 “You only told me you wanted me to move on after I brought you a name connected to some wealthy asshole’s kid.” 

 Ben sighed. “Karen, I know how hard it is to realize when your information isn’t good enough and your work is subpar,” he said. He was using his serious editor voice now that was something like a disappointed parent. It stung. 

 Karen’s lips formed a hard line. “My work isn’t bad—”

 “Usually, no,” Ben allowed. 

 “Have you even looked at it?” Karen felt petulant. 

 “I have an eye on your work, always. Your connections are tenuous, I think you’re seeing what you want to see because of unsubstantiated rumors.”

 “Getting charges dropped through obvious payoffs is not unsubstantiated—”

 “It’s not obvious because there is no proof—”

 “I have a source, I told you—”

 “A source isn’t a source if they won’t come forward.” 

 Karen fought back embarrassing tears of frustration. “Ben, I just need a little more time and I will have some proof. Please, I just— I know I can get through to this woman. Please.”

 Ben leaned forward and picked up a stress ball that he’d gotten in the office holiday party the previous Christmas. He’d written the name Karen on it in Sharpie. He pulled and kneaded it, shaking his head. 

 Karen waited. 

 “I can give you a week. If you come up with something definitive, concrete, I will let you keep going.” 

 Karen breathed a sigh of relief that came from deep in her stomach. “I will, I will get something. I’ll work harder.”

 “Don’t work harder,” Ben said. “Work smarter. Get some sleep. Eat some real food—starting by going with me to the media event dinner next Saturday.”

 Karen pulled a face. “Ben—”

 Ben put a hand up. “You owe me. And the Vein investors want to meet my crime desk reporter I have been talking up so much. Word is she’s a damn fine journalist, when she keeps her head on straight.” 

 A smile pulled at the corner of Karen’s lips, the weight in her chest lifted by the extension, but even more so by the assurance. Ben’s opinion of her meant the world. She let out a deep breath. “Only for you.” 

 “Black tie,” Ben said with a small eye roll.  “So wear something nice. These investors have some delusions about how much we’re getting paid.” 

 “I’ll keep the tags on,” Karen nodded, glancing out the window at what she knew Lorne and their food and culture writer called “the murder corner”. Karen got along with people, but she wasn’t especially social with the other writers. They saw her as intense, engrossed. She was used to talking with her friends who were lawyers or people she met in forensics. So, with the exception of her best friend Foggy who had a weaker stomach for the macabre, most of them didn’t flinch when she started talking about foreign objects and decomposition over dinner. Her co-workers flinched. 

 When she was on story it just never stopped circling in her head. The crime scene photos, the police reports, what she had seen at the scene. Especially with this story, little things in each file, each photo all seemed to speak to something else, if she could just—

 “Alright,” Ben could see her detaching, already mentally back at her desk. “Get out of here,” he dismissed her. “I expect an update in a couple of days.”

 “I’ll have one,” Karen promised. 

 “I mean it, something tangible.”

 “I promise,” Karen said again as she headed for the door. 

 “And damnit, Karen, check your email. If I get one more email from HR about some form you haven’t filled out I’ll take the board down myself.”

 “Email, got it,” Karen parroted back reflexively, but she was already out the door.