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He gets into a gray pickup and drives off toward town.

I follow at a distance that insults no one’s intelligence.

His first stop is a gas station.

He doesn’t get gas. He parks near the side entrance, goes inside, buys coffee, and stands near the counter talking to the clerk for four minutes and forty seconds. The clerk leans forward. Tom shakes his head twice, rubs a hand over his face, and accepts what could be sympathy.

Performance.

Maybe genuine.

Often both.

His second stop is Everwood Supply, where he allegedly works. He stays thirteen minutes. Comes out with no tools, no papers, no lunch container. A man in a red cap follows him outside, speaks with him near the truck. Tom keeps his back angled toward the parking lot.

People do that when they don’t want their face read.

I park across the street and watch through the reflection in a bakery window.

The red-capped man puts a hand on Tom’s shoulder. Tom nods, then says something that makes the man’s expression harden. I can’t hear it.

I write: coworkers believe story?

At 11:06, Tom drives to the police station.

That should improve my assessment.

It doesn’t.

He parks in the front lot but doesn’t go inside.

He sits in the truck with the engine off for eleven minutes, phone in hand, scrolling. Once, he lifts it as if recording or taking a photo. Then he starts the truck again and leaves.

I stare at the station doors.

A man whose partner is missing shouldn’t need eleven minutes to decide whether to walk into a police station.

Unless he isn’t going in. Unless the appearance of going matters more than the act.

I write: performative contact with police?

Then underline it twice.

At 11:31, I enter The Corner Cup, a coffee place with gray walls, Edison bulbs, and pastries priced as if they’ve acquired advanced degrees.

The barista has purple hair and suspicious eyes.

Good.

Suspicious people notice things.

“Black coffee,” I say.

“What size?” She sounds bored.

“Medium.”

“We call that a Tall Root.”