They called her Orla the next morning like she was a rumor with legs—slick hair, smile like a closed fist, an elegance that cut. She arrived in town the way a summer storm does: slow at first, then all at once. Nobody expected her to be the kind of woman who held grudges like a tax bill; everybody underestimated the way old hurts will choreograph new violence.
I met her first behind the florist’s, where she leaned against the brick like she’d tagged the entire street as hers. She introduced herself with the softest voice and the hardest teeth.
“You’re Brie Carter?” she asked. She already knew. Everyone knew our names now. Her hand was cool when she took mine.
“I am,” I said, because what else do you say when a stranger holds your hand like a ledger? “And you are?”
“Orla Finch,” she rep
