Chapter 3 — Exile to Willow Glen

Riley

The road unfurled ahead of Riley like a ribbon tossed carelessly across the countryside. Her rental car hummed along its curves, the GPS chirping directions in a voice far too cheerful for her current mood. She gripped the wheel tightly, her knuckles pale against the leather, and tried to focus on anything but the weight settling in her chest.

Fields of green stretched endlessly on either side, dotted with sheep that grazed lazily under the midday sun. The occasional farmhouse punctuated the landscape, their red roofs and white walls standing stark against the cobalt sky. It was all so picturesque, so utterly idyllic, that Riley felt an irrational urge to roll down her window and yell at the oblivious scenery to stop being so smug. The vast quiet swallowed her city-hardened instincts whole, leaving her restless and unnerved by the unrelenting simplicity surrounding her. She imagined the countryside laughing at her—a former investigative journalist now relegated to covering what she derisively labeled "human-interest fluff."

Her phone buzzed in the cupholder, breaking her thoughts. Riley glanced at the screen: another text from Greg. *Settle in and get to work. This isn’t a vacation.* She snorted, the sound dry and humorless. As if she needed another reminder of the stakes. The text was just another weight on the growing heap of pressure she carried. She tapped the phone to silence the notification and returned her attention to the road.

The first signs of Willow Glen emerged with the same cautious charm as the landscape she’d traversed. A weathered sign stood at the roadside, its peeling paint whispering of better days: *Welcome to Willow Glen – A Community at the Crossroads!* The exclamation mark struck her as a faintly desperate attempt at cheer, like a door-to-door salesman’s forced smile. The sentiment, however earnest, felt hollow.

Main Street appeared next, a single lane bordered by modest wooden storefronts and tin rooftops. A café with mismatched chairs spilled onto a wooden porch, where patrons paused their conversations to watch her car roll past. Their gazes weren’t hostile, but they weren’t welcoming either—guarded curiosity with just a hint of suspicion. Riley caught a snippet of conversation from two elderly men leaning against a storefront. They fell silent as her car passed, one of them raising an eyebrow as though cataloging her presence for future discussion. Another trio of children dashed across the street, pausing mid-chase to stare at her car before resuming their game.

The general store came into view, its hand-painted sign advertising everything from fresh produce to fishing supplies. Riley noticed a "Help Wanted" flyer taped to the window, the edges curling from the wind. It was such a small, unassuming detail, but it hinted at the town’s struggles—a quiet plea for help that mirrored the town’s existence as a whole.

She pulled up in front of the café, gravel crunching under her tires, and cut the engine. For a moment, she sat in the quiet, her hands still clutching the steering wheel. With the car off, the hum of the engine was gone, leaving only the distant sounds of the town—the faint creak of a shop door opening, the chatter of voices, the occasional clink of a spoon against a ceramic mug. The silence pressed in on her from all sides, foreign and unyielding.

With a sigh, Riley unbuckled her seatbelt and stepped out. The late afternoon air was cooler than she’d expected, carrying a crispness that hinted at the coming autumn. She glanced around, noting the way the townspeople avoided outright staring at her while still managing to track her every move. It was a skill, she supposed, honed by years of small-town living where everyone knew everyone and strangers were a rare novelty.

The bed-and-breakfast was easy to find—a charming old house with a wraparound porch and window boxes spilling over with flowers. The building exuded an overbearing cheerfulness Riley found both grating and insincere. Its white exterior gleamed in the sunlight as if to say, "Welcome! Stay awhile!" but to her, it felt like a mocking reminder of her outsider status.

Margaret and Tom greeted her at the door, their smiles warm but not overly trusting. Margaret was petite with short silver hair and sharp blue eyes that missed nothing. Tom stood beside her, broad-shouldered with weathered wrinkles that told the story of a life spent outdoors.

“Riley Monroe, right?” Margaret asked, her tone brisk and efficient, as if she were checking Riley off an invisible list. “Welcome to Willow Glen.”

Riley nodded, forcing a polite smile. “That’s me. Thanks for having me.”

“Long journey?” Margaret passed her a set of keys, the brass cool against Riley’s palm.

“Something like that,” Riley replied, her voice clipped but cordial. She wasn’t in the mood for small talk, but Margaret’s steady gaze suggested the woman didn’t miss much.

“Tom’ll grab your bags,” Margaret continued, gesturing toward the rental car. “Your room’s upstairs—third door on the left. Dinner’s at six if you’re hungry. We keep things simple, but there’s plenty to go around.”

“Thanks,” Riley said, unsure what else to say. She followed Margaret inside, the smell of polished wood and lavender wrapping around her like a soft, uninvited hug. The interior was as quaint as the exterior, with antique furniture and floral wallpaper that looked like it hadn’t been updated in decades.

Her room was small but tidy, dominated by a wrought-iron bed with a patchwork quilt and a single window that offered a view of the rolling hills beyond the town. Riley set her suitcase down by the door and surveyed her surroundings. The floral wallpaper was a bit much, and the lace curtains looked as if they belonged in a museum of outdated decor, but it was clean and quiet. She supposed she couldn’t ask for much more.

The file Greg had given her sat on the nightstand, its edges slightly battered from the journey. Riley stared at it for a long moment, the title glaring up at her in bold letters: *Willow Glen: A Community at the Crossroads.* Her stomach twisted at the words, their earnestness grating on her nerves. The title seemed to mock her, daring her to confront everything she’d been avoiding since Greg handed it to her.

Instead, she turned away and crossed to the window, pushing the curtains aside. The view outside was, admittedly, stunning. The hills rolled on endlessly, their green depths tinged with gold where the sunlight hit. Clouds drifted lazily across the sky, their shadows moving like restless ghosts over the landscape. Riley hated how the sight made her feel—small, insignificant, and achingly out of place. The city’s chaos had always mirrored her internal state, but this quietude left her unmoored.

A knock on the door startled her, and she turned to see Tom standing there with her suitcase in hand. He set it down just inside the room and gave her a polite nod.

“Anything else you need?” he asked, his voice gruff but not unfriendly.

“No, I think I’m good. Thanks,” Riley replied.

Tom hesitated, his gaze drifting to the file on the nightstand. “So, you’re the journalist, then?”

“That’s right,” she said cautiously.

“Margaret mentioned it.” He looked at her, his expression unreadable. “Folks around here aren’t used to outsiders poking around, so don’t be surprised if they’re a bit… stand-offish.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Riley said, forcing another smile. She couldn’t decide if his comment was meant as a warning or just an observation, but either way, it was clear that Willow Glen didn’t plan to make her job easy.

Tom nodded once more and left, the door clicking softly shut behind him. Riley let out a slow breath and sank onto the edge of the bed, the mattress creaking under her weight. Her gaze drifted back to the file on the nightstand, its presence both a challenge and a taunt. She thought of Greg’s words—his thinly veiled ultimatum—and the bitter sting of her recent failure.

Outside, the faint rustle of leaves mingled with the occasional murmur of voices from the street below. Riley stared at the file, her chest tight with doubt and frustration. This was her shot, her chance to prove she still had what it took. And yet, as she sat there in the stillness, the enormity of the task before her sank in, wrapping around her like a noose. For the first time in a long time, Riley felt the unsettling weight of uncertainty.