The plows carve their first dirty ridges through the snowbanks just after dawn, grinding and roaring past the Mercer gates like something from another world. From the guest room window, I watch them slice the estate off from the rest of the peninsula with a neat, cleared curve, then crawl on toward town.
I dress in layers—jeans, wool sweater, Daniel’s old college hoodie hidden under my own coat—then add a scarf and a hat Claire the housekeeper left on my bed “in case you brave the elements.” My phone goes in my pocket, the trust photos a quiet, humming weight in my hand when I touch the case.
Daniel pretends to sleep when I slip out. His back stays turned, shoulders rigid under the duvet, breath too even. I pause in the doorway anyway.
“I’m going into town,” I say, voice low. “I need air.”
No answer. Just the distant pulse of the generator and the faint clink of dishes downstairs.
The cold slaps my cheeks the second I step outside. The air smells of salt and woodsmoke, threaded with that clean, sharp tang from the hospital on the hill. The cliffside mansions up here sit high and smug above the cleared back road, their driveways already shoveled by staff. The main road toward the manicured center still looks buried, but the local cut-through—Daniel’s “teenage escape route”—is passable, two narrow tire tracks cutting between skeletal trees.
My boots crunch through the packed snow in the road’s center. Cars inch past every few minutes, drivers lifting gloved hands in the reflexive half-wave small towns teach. Some headlights linger on me a beat too long. Mercer property this way, their beams seem to say. Mercer wife.
Harbor Glen’s main street appears in stages: first the church spire, then the block of boutiques with their tasteful window displays, fairy lights still wound around lampposts from the Light the Harbor festivities. Posters for last week’s boat parade cling to poles, Mercer Foundation logo curled at the corners, the abstract wave pattern bending with the paper.
The café sits halfway down the hill toward the docks, its sign swinging over the sidewalk: HARBOR BEAN, letters hand-painted, edges chipped. Warmth spills from the windows, condensation fogging the glass where people sit inside with both hands wrapped around mugs.
A bell over the door jingles when I step in. Heat and the smell of coffee and sugar rush my face, bringing a sting to my eyes. I peel my scarf loose from my neck and stamp snow from my boots on the mat.
“Morning,” a woman behind the counter calls. “Brave soul.”
She’s mid-forties maybe, with a messy knot of dark blond hair and a faded sweatshirt with the café’s logo stretched over one shoulder. Laugh lines fan from the corners of her eyes. She wipes her hands on a towel tucked into her apron, then steps closer.
“First thaw always brings the cliff crowd down,” she says, giving my coat and flushed cheeks a quick, assessing once-over. “You from up there?”
I hesitate, then nod. “Visiting family.”
“Mmm.” Her gaze flicks to the Mercer crest on my gloves, a tiny embossed wave pattern I forgot I was wearing. Something clicks in her expression, a mental file sliding into place.
“Right,” she says, voice smoothing. “Let me guess. You’re Mrs. Daniel Mercer.”
The honorific catches in my throat. “Hannah,” I correct quietly. “Cole-Mercer.”
“Claire,” she says, and offers her hand over the counter. Her palm is warm, faintly sticky with powdered sugar. “I keep this place fueled and caffeinated so the town doesn’t riot. What can I put in you? Latte, regular, something with enough sugar to make you forget the plow guy took out half the mailbox row again?”
A laugh shakes out of me, unexpected and grateful.
“Latte,” I say. “Whole milk. No syrup.”
“You’ll learn,” she says. “Harbor winters require syrup.”
She moves with practiced efficiency, banging the portafilter against the knock box, steam hissing as she works. A small line has formed behind me; two teenagers with wet hair and hockey jackets, an older man in a fisherman’s sweater, a woman with a stroller already covered in a dusting of dirty snow.
I slide to the side to wait, hands pressed around the warmth of the counter’s edge. The hum of conversation softens to a murmur, punctuated by the hiss of milk and the occasional clatter of ceramic. A chalkboard behind Claire lists daily specials in looping handwriting. Someone has drawn a little boat parade scene along the bottom, each yacht labeled with the names of Harbor Glen’s big families.
The Mercer yacht sits in the center, of course. Larger, more detailed. Tiny lights sketched along the rigging.
“You new in town?” the fisherman sweater man asks, shifting to give a kid space to pass behind him.
“Just here for the holidays,” I say.
“Lucky for some,” he says, but his tone holds more envy than bite. “You picked a hell of a storm week.”
“Claire,” I say when she sets the latte down, foam heart slightly off-center, “what do you recommend for something…warming?”
“We got ginger molasses cookies still warm in the case,” she says. “And a cranberry orange scone that does not photograph well but will heal your soul.”
“Cookie,” I say. “Please.”
She plucks one from the tray with tongs and sets it on a small plate. The ginger hits my nose immediately, dark and rich under the citrusy brightness in the air and the bitter roast smell from the espresso machine.
I take my drink and cookie to a small table near the window, where I can watch the hill and the fight between slush and sunshine on the street. My fingers tingle as they thaw around the mug. I take a sip; the foam kisses my lip, then the coffee cuts through, strong and slightly nutty.
For the first time since the snow started, my shoulders ease away from my ears.
Claire swings a “Back in 5” sign over the pastry case, then wipes her hands and comes around the counter with her own mug, sliding into the chair across from me without asking.
“You’re Daniel’s wife,” she says, but this time it sounds more curious than impressed. “He didn’t bring you by in the fall when he did his little foundation check-in?”
“We stayed in the city,” I say. “Work, wedding, life. This is my first extended Harbor Glen stay.”
“Welcome to the petri dish,” she says, lifting her mug in a mock toast. “We grow one specific organism here: gossip.”
I smile. “Occupational hazard?”
“Genetic,” she counters. “My grandmother ran the old bakery down by the docks before the hospital expansion forced them to ‘renegotiate’ the street. She knew everyone’s business before they did. I just upgraded to espresso.”
She nods toward the docks visible past my shoulder, where masts poke above the rooftops like bare branches.
“Christmas week’s good for business?” I ask.
“Oh, sure,” she says. “You get the yacht people back for Light the Harbor, pretending they’re still locals while kids take selfies and their PR teams count donations. You get the hospital staff pulling doubles, living on caffeine and whatever I can pack into a sandwich. And you get the Mercers coming down from their cliff in their cashmere to let everyone remember who pays for the shiny donor walls.”
She says it with an affectionate dryness that could read either way.
“You know them well?” I ask, keeping my tone light.
“Know of,” she says. “Harbor Glen’s smaller than it looks. Your mother-in-law’s name is on every second thing, and your father-in-law gave my nephew a grant for his EMT training. Lydia used to come in here for hot chocolate when she was little. Before…”
She trails off, staring into her mug. The foam lace on top has collapsed into tan swirls.
I set my cookie down.
“Before the boating accident,” I say.
Claire’s eyes flick up to mine. For a second, guardedness flashes there, then eases just enough to let something softer through.
“You know about that, then,” she says quietly.
“Daniel told me,” I say. “And Evelyn took me to the memorial tree.”
Claire huffs out a breath. “Of course she did. That tree gets more curated than my front windows. Different ribbons every year. People go up there for sunrise on Lydia’s birthday. Half the town cried on those cliffs the week it happened.”
“You knew her?” I ask.
“As much as anyone from town knew a Mercer kid,” she says. “She’d wave that little mitten at me through the car window. She loved those frosted snowman cookies I used to make. Her laugh carried down the whole block. You could hear it from the docks on parade days.”
Something pinches tight behind my ribs.
“My grandmother used to say,” Claire goes on, fingers tracing the rim of her mug, “‘There’s the tragedies we mourn together and the ones we pretend didn’t happen at all.’ Lydia was the first kind. The others…” She stops herself, lips pressing together.
“The others?” I prompt, heat licking at the edges of my curiosity.
She shrugs, eyes drifting to the chalkboard boat parade drawing. “Mercer tragedies,” she says. “People use that phrase when things go sideways around here. A nurse quitting overnight, a family moving away after a bad outcome at the hospital, a kid who used to hang around and then doesn’t. Folks say, ‘Well, you know, Mercer tragedies,’ and everyone nods and pays their respects and gets on with their day.”
Her shoulders lift and fall. The café noise swells behind her, someone laughing too loudly at a joke by the counter.
“Because the Mercers do so much good,” she adds, lower now. “They keep the hospital funded, fund scholarships, pay off medical debt. They host that boat parade so every kid gets cocoa on the docks while the rich people wave from their yachts. I’m not saying that’s not real. I’m just saying people here learn which kind of tragedies they’re allowed to talk about.”
My fingers curl around my mug until the ceramic edges press into my skin.
“What about paperwork tragedies?” I ask. “Records that don’t quite match, adoptions that vanish, that kind of thing.”
Claire goes very still.
“I used to be a social worker,” I say quickly. “Before the wedding. I saw cases where hospitals made ‘documentation errors’ that changed kids’ lives. Sometimes families never found out what was missing.”
I keep my voice steady, conversational, but my heart drums against my sternum.
“I’m curious how Harbor Glen handles that,” I add. “With such a big hospital in town.”
Claire’s hand slips from her mug to the table, wiping an invisible crumb with the side of her thumb. She doesn’t meet my eyes.
“You’re asking me if our hospital makes mistakes,” she says.
“I’m asking,” I say, “if anyone ever noticed discrepancies and got…encouraged to let them go.”
Her gaze flicks toward the counter, where the fisherman sweater man has just accepted his refill. He’s not subtle about his listening; his head tilts a fraction in our direction, eyes hooded.
“I pour coffee,” Claire says. “I don’t pour over medical charts.”
“But you hear things,” I say. “Nurses, techs, receptionists. This is the petri dish, right?”
“You’re Daniel’s wife,” she says suddenly. The shift in her tone raises the hairs on my arms. “You’re not just some tourist who stumbled down the hill because you smelled cinnamon. You’re part of that family now.”
“I’m trying to understand that family,” I say.
A new customer comes in, bell jangling, gust of cold air tasting like salt and car exhaust. The teenager with the hockey jacket brushes past Claire’s chair, muttering an apology. The whole room rearranges around the disturbance, conversations pausing and resuming.
The fisherman sweater man clears his throat, loud enough to snag Claire’s attention.
“Claire,” he calls. “You got any of those cranberry scones left, or did the doctors wipe you out again?”
She turns, grateful for the interruption.
“Last one’s got your name on it, Joe,” she says, half-rising.
His gaze cuts to me, sharp and assessing. “Then I’d better eat it before the snow melts and the reporters return,” he says. “Can’t have outsiders thinking Harbor Glen lets its secrets go stale.”
The word outsiders lands heavy in the space between us. My throat dries.
“You know how it is,” he adds, smile tight. “Big families keep this town afloat. We all like our jobs. Don’t we, Claire?”
Her jaw works for a second. “We sure like our jobs,” she says.
Joe winks in my direction and turns his back, effectively closing the circle around our conversation. The meaning is clear: subject change, now.
Claire gathers her mug and stands up.
“I should get him that scone,” she says. Her voice has gone bright again, all café-owner ease.
“Claire,” I say, before she can escape. “I’m not trying to get anyone fired. I just…”
The trust text flashes in my mind; irregular medical documentation, no contact, perpetual non-disclosure.
“…I’m trying to make sure there aren’t people out there whose lives were rewritten because my in-laws decided they could.”
Her eyes flick toward Joe, then back to me. For a heartbeat, we’re sealed off in our own little pocket of air.
“Do yourself a favor,” she says quietly. “Don’t say that kind of sentence where anyone can hear you.”
“Is it untrue?” I ask.
Her mouth curves, but the smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Truth’s not the point,” she says. “In Harbor Glen, what matters is who can afford their version of it. And nobody can outspend the Mercers.”
She starts to turn again, then hesitates.
“My niece worked up at the hospital for a while,” she says in a rush, words barely above a murmur. “Maternity ward. She used to come home with stories about mix-ups, babies being moved, charts reprinted. When she mentioned…patterns…somebody from admin had a chat. Next thing, she had a transfer offer she couldn’t refuse in another county. Good pay, better hours. Real smooth.”
My pulse spikes.
“What was her name?” I ask.
“Doesn’t matter,” Claire says sharply. “She’s happy where she is, and I’m happy she’s nowhere near this hill.”
Her hand tightens around the handle of her mug.
“You need to understand something, Hannah Cole-Mercer,” she adds. “Harbor Glen takes care of the Mercers. The hospital, the foundation, that boat parade, the donor walls—people wrap their kids in those stories. They name wings after dead grandmothers. When a Mercer says jump, this town checks its bank account and asks how high. Anyone who doesn’t like that usually leaves quietly.”
“And the ones who can’t leave?” I ask.
She studies me a long moment. A clatter from the counter punctures the silence; someone has dropped a spoon.
“They learn to talk about weather, not paperwork,” she says at last. “Speaking of, looks like the sun’s trying to do us a favor.”
She nods toward the window. Outside, light has broken through the clouds, turning the snowbanks on the hill into blinding white slabs. The hospital glints on its perch, glass and steel catching the glare. Below it, the back road snakes between trees, a vein connecting the cliff houses to Main Street.
“You should go before the slush turns to ice again,” Claire says. “Those back roads get treacherous for the unprepared.”
The phrasing sends a shiver down my spine; I’ve heard a version of that warning from Evelyn in another context, with another kind of threat coiled inside.
I stand, my legs slightly unsteady. “Thank you for the coffee,” I say. “And the…local color.”
“Town gossip’s free with purchase,” she says. “Legal advice costs extra.”
A smile tugs at my mouth despite the tension coiling low in my gut. I slide a five into the tip jar, the bills already crammed with holiday generosity and guilt.
At the door, she calls after me.
“Hannah?”
I turn.
“If you really want facts,” she says, voice low enough that Joe pretends not to hear, “you won’t find them at my counter. Or in anyone’s living room. Go somewhere that doesn’t care who signs the checks.”
“Like where?” I ask.
“Places that keep records because they have to,” she says. “Library. Town Hall. Police. Paper doesn’t flinch as fast as people do.”
With that, she pivots back to the counter, all motion and chatter again, scolding Joe about crumbs on the floor.
I step back into the cold. The air slaps my face, bringing water to my eyes. The sounds of the café drop away behind the glass—muffled laughter, the hiss of steam, the soft clink of cups—as the sharper noises of the street take over: a car door slamming, a dog barking somewhere up the hill.
The hospital gleams on its rise, white against the sky. The Mercer crest catches the light on a banner near the entrance, that abstract wave curling over the name HARLOR GLEN MEMORIAL from this distance.
Claire’s warning curls under my scarf and settles against my skin.
If the town bends around the Mercers, I need to find the rare places that don’t.
I turn toward the other end of Main Street, where the brick building that houses the public library and a tiny municipal records office waits, quiet and stubborn against the snow, and start walking, bracing myself to see whether the official story of Lydia’s “accident” has cracks big enough for another missing girl to fall through.