Jeremy Falls remembered when he first came to Roaring Ridge (where there was no roaring and no ridge to speak of). It was a clear and cloudless Tuesday. The first person he’d met was the sheriff. The second person he’d met was the owner of the town’s only diner. The first impression he’d made was as a decent enough fella, passing through town on his way to the mountains. The second impression he’d made, after settling in as the town’s newest resident, was as a conspiracy theorist, and the town crazy.
The screen faded in to a view of the dark dripping stain on the first floor ceiling. Water from the burst pipe in the upstairs bathroom had bled through. The camera eye swung down, glided up and over other personnel and bobbed as it followed Agent Gary Takita, who dodged his head from the drops as he marched toward the woman on the sofa. The camera eye veered away to the fireplace mantle for a moment to scan framed pictures of the family that lived there. The glass covers of most had shattered. Only a few had survived the calamity. The camera eye whipped back to Agent Takita’s point of view. He was looking straight ahead at the person who was tagged as the primary witness.