Webster Daily's Arc

Chapter 6 of 6

Webster drove back down the hill with his hands tight on the wheel. The diary slid against the passenger seat at every turn. He needed to talk to someone who knew Sherrie before she became whatever she was now. He thought of the bar on the main road, the warm light in its window, and the man behind the counter who poured drinks and listened more than he spoke. Webster pointed the car toward town and drove. The bar sat under a hand-painted sign, its scrap-metal walls strung with vines and dim lanterns. Inside, Barry wiped a glass and watched Webster cross the floor. He didn't wait for a question. He set the glass down and led Webster back out, past the door, to the old red-and-white hotdog cart rusting at the edge of the lot. "Not in there," Barry said. "Walls hear too much." Barry leaned against the cart. "Stay away from Sherrie," he said. "Whatever you think she is, she's worse. She decides who breathes in this town." He set a stack of three leather ledgers on the cart's chipped counter, fishing for a key in his pocket. A folded page slipped from between the covers. Webster caught it before the wind did. Shift rotations. Guard names. A header at the top read PLANT — OPERATIONS, SHERRIE D. Webster's mouth went dry. Barry's face dropped. "Don't," he said. But it was too late. Webster handed the page back with steady fingers and lied with his eyes. The plant wasn't a secret Sherrie kept. The plant was hers. She ran it. She owned it. Every road in this story bent toward that hill, and Barry, who had meant to warn him off, had just handed him the map. Webster walked back to his car knowing exactly where the truth lived now, and who he'd have to face to write it.