Chapter 5 — Willow Creek

POV: Daisy

The cab pulled up outside a house I'd known my whole life, porch light already on, my father silhouetted in the doorway before I'd even paid the driver. He didn't say anything when I got out — just crossed the yard in a few long strides and pulled me into a hug that smelled like dish soap and the same aftershave he'd worn since I was a kid. Neither of us spoke until we were inside.

My childhood bedroom still had the same paint color, a soft yellow I'd picked out when I was twelve because I thought it looked like sunshine. It didn't look like sunshine anymore. It looked like a room someone had left in a hurry and never quite come back to, even though I was standing right in the middle of it.

Willow Creek didn't forget things. That was the trouble with a town this small — everybody's business became everybody's business within about a day and a half, and by the time I'd been home a week, I could feel the shape of my scandal following me down every street like a second shadow.

I walked toward the pharmacy to ask about a part-time opening I'd heard about, keeping my chin tucked into my collar.

"Isn't that the Bennett girl?"

The words cut through the crisp morning air, sharp and clear. I froze near the display window. Two women stood by the newspaper rack, their eyes locked right onto me. The older one in the knit cardigan didn't even bother to lower her voice.

"The one who forged her grades to get into that fancy school," she whispered loudly to her friend. "Poor Thomas. After everything he's done for that girl, working himself to the bone keeping that campus running. She goes and throws it all away."

The second woman shook her head, her mouth twisting into a tight, judgmental line. "Shameful, truly. You think you know a neighbor, and then they go and pull a stunt like that. I heard she didn't just cheat on the exams. I heard she falsified the whole application."

"Some people have no shame," the first woman said, staring directly at me as I passed.

I kept my eyes fixed on the cracked pavement and kept moving. I'd gotten good at that by now. Eyes down, feet moving, don't give them the reaction they're fishing for. I noticed, distantly, that the story had already changed shape twice since I'd left campus — first it was cheating, then forgery, now apparently I'd forged my own high school transcript on top of everything else. Lies had a way of growing extra limbs the further they traveled from the people who'd started them.

By the time I made it back home, I'd rehearsed my face back into something calm enough not to worry him. It didn't matter. Whatever was wearing my father down, it had nothing to do with me walking through the door.

My father wasn't as lucky. He came home from his maintenance job three nights in a row looking like he'd aged a year each time. On the fourth night, I had his coffee waiting before he even got through the door — black, no sugar, the way he'd always taken it. He slumped into his usual chair at the kitchen table, his shoulders hanging heavy under his faded work shirt. He didn't look at me. He just stared into the cup.

"Dad," I said, setting my dish towel down. "Look at me. What happened today?"

He waved a hand, trying to brush it off, but his fingers trembled slightly. "Nothing, Daisy. Just a long shift. The boiler in building three gave us some trouble."

"Don't do that," I said, stepping closer to the table. "Please. You've looked like this for three days. Tell me the truth."

He sighed, a long, defeated sound, and began turning his coffee mug in slow circles on the worn wood. "Some of the guys on the crew heard about the university thing. They were talking in the breakroom."

My stomach tightened into a hard knot. "What did they say?"

"It doesn't matter what they said," he muttered.

"It matters to me," I insisted, my voice cracking. "Dad, please."

He finally looked up, his eyes bloodshot and weary. "The facilities director pulled me aside after my shift. Said it doesn't look good, me still running the night maintenance crew, given the... situation. Thinks it's a distraction for the rest of the staff."

"A distraction?" I echoed, anger flaring hot in my chest. "You've worked there for fifteen years! You're the best supervisor they have."

"He cut my hours a little, Daisy," he said, voice flat. "Just for a few weeks, till people forget. Nothing I can't handle."

Nothing I can't handle. My father's answer to everything, his whole life, and it broke something in me every time he said it, because I knew exactly how much he was handling and exactly how much of it was because of me.

"I'll fix this," I told him, the tears finally burning behind my eyes. "I'll get a job downtown. I'll pay you back for the lost shifts, I'll pay for the groceries, I'll—"

"Daisy." He reached across the table and put his hand over mine. It was calloused, rough, and completely warm — the same hand that used to carry me on his shoulders through this same kitchen when I was small enough to fit there. "Stop. You don't owe me a thing. You hear me? Not one single thing."

"But they're punishing you because of me," I whispered.

"Let them talk," he said, his grip tightening around my fingers, steady and firm. Then, quieter, like he'd been waiting for the right moment to say it: "I haven't just been sitting here taking it, you know. I called Principal Davis myself, the week you got home from Kingston."

I blinked, staring at him. "You called the high school?"

"I did," he said, a spark of stubborn pride flickering in his tired eyes. "He remembers your real transcript same as I do. He knows how hard you worked for those top marks. He told me himself, whatever they showed that university committee, it wasn't the truth, and it wasn't from his office. Someone changed those papers, Daisy. Not you."

That was the first time since the hearing that anyone had said it out loud without me having to ask — that my father, at least, had gone looking for proof instead of just believing what he was told. It didn't fix anything. But it steadied something in me that had been shaking ever since I'd come home.

I applied for seven jobs that week. Most of them blurred together — a warehouse, a call center, a place that never called back to say what it even was. But four stuck with me. Grocery store. Diner. A daycare that needed an assistant. A little bookstore downtown with a hand-lettered HELP WANTED sign in the window that made me think, foolishly, that maybe this one place hadn't heard yet.

It had heard. They'd all heard.

I stood at the counter of the bookstore, my fingers gripping the strap of my purse while the manager reviewed my paperwork. She was a middle-aged woman with kind eyes, which somehow made the rejection even worse.

She looked up from the page, her expression falling into a look of deep pity. "Daisy Bennett, right?"

"Yes, ma'am," I said, forcing a polite smile. "I can start immediately. Evenings, weekends, whatever you need."

She sighed, sliding the application back across the counter toward me. She used just the tips of her fingers, like the paper itself was coated in something dirty that might stain her skin. "I'm sorry, dear. We can't hire you."

"Is there something wrong with my references?" I asked, though I already knew the answer. "I have character letters from my high school teachers."

"We ran a quick search this morning, after you dropped off your application," the manager said, her voice dropping to a quiet, gentle murmur. "The Kingston University fraud case. It popped right up. I'm sure there's more to the story, hon, truly I am. But this is a small shop. I can't have that kind of — attention — around the business right now. People are talking."

"I see," I said, the words tasting like ash.

"I really am sorry," she added, looking away. "I hope things clear up for you."