Ruth Palmer, meanwhile, had already pulled a pen from her purse. “I just don’t want to be scared anymore,” she murmured to the woman beside her, signing her name at the bottom of the form before she’d even finished the sentence. A few seats down, Bill Sorenson watched Cory approach with another pamphlet and waved him off politely. “I appreciate it, son,” Bill said. “But I think I’ll pass tonight.” “You sure?” Cory pressed the way he’d been trained to press. “A lot of folks are signing up. Wouldn’t want you left out if something happened.” Bill just smiled, unbothered. “I walked this town for thirty-seven years without a scratch. I think I’ll take my chances a little longer before I sign anything with a cancellation fee attached.” Cory moved on without much argument. He’d learned that some people couldn’t be moved, and there wasn’t much point wasting breath on them. Better to spend that energy on the ones already leaning forward in their seats, the ones whose hands were already shaking slightly around their purse straps.
Dorothy Kline sat two rows behind Ruth, turning her own pamphlet over slowly, her reading glasses perched low on her nose. She looked up once toward her daughter sitting beside her, who gave a small shrug that could have meant anything. “I don’t know, Mama,” her daughter said quietly. “Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to have something for your own peace of mind.” Dorothy chewed on that for a long moment, then reached for her pen, too.
There’s something worth understanding here. Something that happens in towns just like Cedar Falls more often than people realize. Fear makes people move faster than sense does. A person who spent months lying awake, listening for footsteps on the porch, doesn’t always stop to read the fine print. They just want the fear to stop. And there is always someone standing nearby, ready to sell them an answer, whether or not that answer is honest.
Emily watched this from the back of the room, a stack of folded tablecloths in her arms, and something tightened in her chest. Not anger exactly, something closer to worry. She’d seen tactics like this before. A long time ago, in a different life, she’d learned to recognize the shape of a con dressed up as confidence. The trouble was, she had no proof of anything, just a feeling. And feelings didn’t stop desperate people from signing contracts. She thought briefly of her father and how he used to say the same thing about fighters who talked more than they trained. The loudest promises usually cover the thinnest ground underneath them. She wondered what he’d make of Derek Vance, standing up there in his pressed white gi, selling fear back to the very people who’d already had enough of it. She set the tablecloths down and kept working, telling herself it wasn’t her place to say anything more tonight. She’d already learned that lesson once an hour earlier in front of a room full of people who’d laughed at her for trying to help. She was wrong about one thing, though. It was about to become very much her place.