By Saturday morning Ethan had almost persuaded himself he was dead. Not literally—he still breathed, still poured coffee, still felt the ache in his lower back from sleeping wrong—but the version of Ethan Cole who’d come to Willow Creek three years ago to disappear had quietly passed away sometime between Mercer’s last breath and Warren’s too-perfect smile. Whatever secret Mercer had mumbled, whatever theories Maya Jensen was stewing over, it wasn’t his business. He poured drinks. He wiped down counters. He minded his own business.
