Ethan Cole had long since resigned himself to the fact that nothing interesting ever occurred in Willow Creek. The town had one stoplight that blinked yellow after nine p.m., two diners locked in perpetual war over which made the best pancakes (Patty’s claimed fluffier batter; Mae’s insisted on real maple syrup), and his bar, The Rusty Tap, where you could get a whiskey without anyone asking your name or your troubles. Three years ago he had limped here after Chicago chewed him up and spat him out—divorce papers still warm, liver still tender, pride in tatters.
