Chapter 2: Rehearsed

The town of Calloway, Nevada had 340 residents, one diner, a gas station that doubled as a post office, and a collective memory that functioned like a single organism. Journalist Dana Reyes had noticed it within the first hour. She'd gone to the diner, ordered coffee, and mentioned, casually, that she was here about the Mira Sandoval disappearance. The response had been immediate and identical from the waitress, the man two seats down, and the woman refilling the sugar dispensers: sympathy, vagueness, and the same three sentences in almost exactly the same order. *Such a sad thing. Mira was a lovely girl. We've all moved on as best we can.* Word-for-word was rare. People didn't do it naturally. People embellished, contradicted themselves, added details that weren't in the official account. Synchronized grief was a performance, and a performance required rehearsal. She drove out of town and called her editor. "They've been practicing," she said. "Or they're just a small town that tells a consistent story," her editor replied. "I've covered small towns. They do not do this." She pulled over on the highway and looked back at Calloway, which sat in the basin like something poured there and left to set. "The mayor has already called me twice since I arrived. I've been here three hours." "He's probably protective of the town." "He's using the same phrasing as the waitress. 'We've all moved on as best we can.' Verbatim." She paused. "Someone told them I was coming before I arrived. My inquiry to the county records office was three days ago. I never contacted anyone in Calloway directly." A silence. "Be careful," her editor said. "I've been invited here on purpose," Dana said. "Someone wants me to dig. They just haven't decided yet whether they want me to find something or not find something. I need to figure out which."