Webster Daily's Arc

Chapter 3 of 6

Webster drove back to Rust Creek three days later, but this time he didn't stop at the shopping center or park near the square. He went straight to the house with the porch, the one where the woman waved at him every time he passed. The structure was patchwork metal and weathered wood, rust spreading across seams like a slow-growing stain. She sat outside on a wooden chair, watching the road. When Webster's car appeared, she didn't wave. She stood and waited, hands folded at her waist. He parked and walked to the edge of her yard, but she came down the steps before he could speak. She wore tattered clothing that hung loose on her frame, and her eyes held the weight of something he'd been trying not to see. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a leather-bound book, edges worn soft from handling. "My son worked at the shopping center," she said. "Before." Webster took the diary and opened it. The first entry was dated two years back. Maintenance crew. Underground repair access. The handwriting listed equipment needed for the power source installation, then stopped mid-sentence. The next pages were blank. Webster looked up at her, but she was already turning back toward the house. He stood holding the diary as she climbed the steps and sat back down in her chair. "He never came home," she said without looking at him. "They told me it was an accident. Equipment failure. But Sherrie paid for the funeral, and she never pays for accidents." The diary felt heavier than it should. Webster wanted to ask what happened, wanted to push for details, but the woman's silence told him everything he needed to know. The power beneath the shopping center had a cost, and her son had paid it. Webster walked back to his car and sat behind the wheel, the diary on the passenger seat beside him. He could write about the water, about the company, about the people who left. He could follow Sherrie's instructions and stay safe. But the diary proved what he'd suspected since he first heard the hum beneath the shopping center. Rust Creek's power came from somewhere, and someone had died keeping it running. He started the engine and drove toward the town square, the diary still on the seat. This time he wasn't going back to ask permission. He was going back to find out who else knew what it cost to keep the lights on.