Chapter 1: Chelsea plumber int
SCENE1
The diesel heat came off the dashboard in waves, and the air that pushed through the Honda's half-open window didn't do a damn thing but move the sweat around on his neck. Tyrone Thickwood kept one hand loose on the wheel and let the other hang out the window, fingers drumming against the door panel in a rhythm he wasn't aware he was making.
Civic hummed underneath him. Cheap and reliable, like a working mule that didn't know how to quit. He'd bought it two years ago with cash from a summer of laying pipe in Montgomery, and it had carried him through worse roads than these. Hooterton's streets were almost insultingly smooth. Paved and tidy, with painted curbs that hadn't begun to peel.
His phone sat in the cup holder, screen dark. The work order was burned into his memory anyway.
214 Sycamore Lane. Grant Mercer. Kitchen drain.
HandyHelps had sent him out here with a company T-shirt two sizes too big and a van that broke down forty miles from the job site. He left the van at a garage in the next town over and drove the rest of the way in his own ride. The dispatcher told him he'd get reimbursed for gas. Tyrone wasn't holding his breath. He'd learned a long time ago that promises written in emails were worth about as much as promises made on toothpicks.
Yesterday, he'd pulled into Hooterton around dusk. A male landlord in his sixties had met him at the rooming house on Maple Street, handed over a brass key, and pointed him toward the back unit. The man had said maybe six words total. The room had a bed, a mini-fridge, and a window unit that rattled like it was dying but blew cold. Tyrone had eaten a gas station sandwich, stared at the ceiling for an hour, and slept hard. He hadn't unpacked. He wasn't sure yet if it was worth unpacking.
Now he drove through the town in the late morning light, and he still hadn't seen a single woman.
That was starting to bother him.
Not that he was out here looking for company. He had a job to do. But it was a strange thing, driving through a place and seeing nothing but men. Old men on porches, middle-aged men at gas stations, teenage boys on bikes. All white, all watching him with that particular look he knew from every small town he'd ever passed through—the look that said they were trying to figure out if he was lost or if he belonged.
He wasn't lost.
He wasn't sure about belonging yet either.
Sycamore Lane came up on the left, and he slowed, turning without signaling because there wasn't a car behind him for blocks. The street was short and ordinary. Single-story houses with front lawns that were mostly green, some with flower beds, some with chain-link fences. Three cars sat parked along the curb—a blue Ford F-150, a silver Camry with a dent in the passenger door, and a boxy maroon station wagon that looked older than he was. Nobody was walking. Nobody was gardening. No kids. No dogs. No mailman.
The houses themselves didn't look hostile. They looked closed. Windows shut, blinds drawn, garage doors down. Like the whole street had decided to stay inside today, and whatever was happening inside those walls was none of his business.
Fine by him. He didn't need to be anybody's business.
Number 214 came up on the right. White house with gray shutters, a concrete stoop, and a single azalea bush that had given up on trying to impress anyone. The lawn needed mowing. The gutter over the front door hung loose on one side, sagging like it was tired of holding on.
Tyrone pulled the Civic to the curb in front of the house and killed the engine.
The silence rushed in with the heat. He sat there, hands still on the wheel, and looked at the front door through his windshield.
It stayed closed.