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Hemlock Veils, even though he stayed out of most. Never had she seen him out and about with the rest of the folks in this close-knit town, and tonight was no different. He was probably in that mansion of his, sleeping in a big bed made of silk.
    Mr. Clayton did make his appearance in the diner every morning, though, and only in the morning. Regina looked over Brian’s grease-ball hair and eyed Mr. Clayton’s corner booth now, darkened, empty, and polished for sunrise. It stayed vacant for him all the time, as though he’d walk through that midnight door and join the rest of them in talk of town gossip.
    But that would never happen. It would be only in the morning, his suit darkened by the shadows rising sunlight created as he sat in that booth and sipped on Regina’s sorry excuse for a cup of coffee while keeping his nose in the Portland Newspaper. He might fool other folks, but Regina knew he paid the paper no mind. He came to keep an ear out. Whether to make sure his shoddy diner was running the way he saw fit or to keep up on Hemlock Veils residents, she didn’t know.
    Because Mr. Clayton never said a word. Regina guessed, from doing the math, he had to be in his forties by now, though that just didn’t seem right. He didn’t look a day older than he had ten years ago, when he’d first shown up in town. And what a looker he was—fifty times more so than the young and naïve Brian Dane. Mr. Clayton was the very definition of tall, dark, and handsome. He was huge really, reminding Regina of one of the gigantic trees in this forest. But that man had classic charm: somehow rugged and suave at the same time, and always dressed in fancy suits. And though Mr. Clayton had come to this town young, his soul was older than most—even older than Eustace Bathgate, who’d been here longest. Everyone knew Mr. Clayton was in charge, whether due to his arrogance or the way one didn’t speak to him unless spoken to .
    At this moment, listening to Brian going on and on, Regina wished she could command that kind of respect. Or, in Mr. Clayton’s case, fear.
    Fear aside though, some folks came to the diner in the early hours just to satisfy their curiosity about the richest man in Hemlock. But as soon as his traditional half-hour passed, he was off to Portland to run a business no one in town knew a lick about. Then he’d come back by nightfall and disappear into his mansion, with Arne Randolph as his only companion. Arne was Mr. Clayton’s driver, butler, and personal assistant all wrapped into one. He’d lived here as long as Regina could remember, since she’d moved here with her mama forty years ago. Only then, the mansion—and even Arne Randolph—had belonged to Mr. Clayton’s father, Mr. Henry Clayton Senior. When Regina was just a girl, she’d seen the older Mr. Clayton only a few times; it seemed being a recluse was a trait passed from father to son.
    Hell, no one even knew Henry Sr. had had a son until he’d passed away ten years ago and Henry Jr. came to town, taking over everything his father had owned. It was strange the way they owned the town but had no part in it. Mr. Clayton let things run the way the residents wanted them run, even let Sheriff Taggart take the reins. Yet still, the unspoken air about this place said they all answered to Mr. Clayton.
    Those invisible reins took hold of Regina especially, since one of the only things he insisted on in this town was keeping the Hemlock Diner open until midnight. Why, she didn’t know. He’d never been in that late himself. Maybe he wanted someplace for his fellow Hemlock residents to converse, to stay out of trouble. The residents, including her, might be intimidated by Mr. Clayton, but she did get the inkling he had their best interests at heart. She would never forget the one afternoon, five years ago, when Mr. Clayton came into the empty diner. Regina had been the only one working and she’d stood there half-frozen when he entered, the bell jingling