The Neighbor
Trust no one who volunteers too much.
Town || Suspicion || Character
His name was Dale Pritchard, and he knocked on the door of her rented cottage at seven that evening with a jar of homemade jam and a smile that reached precisely to the corners of his mouth, no further. He was sixty-something, lean, with the careful movements of a man who had learned long ago not to draw attention to himself. He said he lived two houses down. He said he’d noticed she’d been asking around town about the Wren family. He said he thought she should know: “People around here don’t like that name being stirred up.”
Elena invited him in because she was a journalist, which is to say because she was constitutionally unable not to. He sat at her kitchen table and accepted tea and spoke for forty minutes about the history of Millhaven in the careful, circular way of someone who is actually saying very little while appearing to say a great deal. He mentioned Gerald Wren twice: once to call him eccentric, once to call him misunderstood. He did not mention what happened to him.
When she asked directly — “Do you know what happened to Gerald Wren?” — Dale Pritchard looked at his tea cup for a moment that lasted too long. “Gone,” he said. “Same as a few others.” He looked up. “You’re from the radio station.” “Yes.” “You should be careful what you broadcast.” “Is that a warning?” He stood, gathered his jacket, and smiled the same precise smile. “It’s friendly advice. Millhaven’s a quiet town. People like it quiet.” He left the jam on the table. She threw it in the bin without opening it. Then she sat back down and wrote in her notebook: Dale Pritchard — who sent him? What is he protecting?