Clara didn't stop him. Perhaps she was too shocked. Perhaps she knew there was nowhere for him to go.
The rain in Miller’s Hollow didn't wash things clean; it just made the grime slicker. It coated the cobblestones, the slate roofs, and the brim of Elias’s hat as he walked, turning the world into a blurred watercolor painting of grays and blacks. memories of a murderer
Elias was eighty-two. His hands, spotted with age, trembled slightly as he adjusted his collar. To the locals, he was just the old watchmaker who kept to himself, the man who wound the town clock every Sunday. But Elias carried a weight in his chest that had nothing to do with age and everything to do with a night forty years ago—a night the town had tried to forget, but which lived in vibrant, terrifying color behind his eyelids. Clara didn't stop him
"The third victim," Elias said. "Sarah. She dropped a locket. I kept it. I couldn't throw it away, and I couldn't give it back. It’s in a safety deposit box at the bank on Main Street. Box 402. It proves... it proves Thomas wasn't the only one there." The rain in Miller’s Hollow didn't wash things