THE LOBBY

People have always decided who I am faster than they should. I expected that to fade with age. It didn’t. Adults just do it with more confidence. They assign motive based on appearance, draw conclusions without evidence, and warn each other about a version of me they invented. I used to correct it. Now I don’t. Letting assumptions stand tells me more than defending myself ever did.

Stories are easy to tell. They adapt, soften, and explain just enough to sound believable. Patterns don’t do that. They repeat quietly, without concern for how they’re received. Over time, they reveal what stories try to smooth over — the habits, behaviors, and consistencies that don’t change no matter how the explanation does. When I write crime, it’s those repetitions I trust most. Not because they’re dramatic, but because they persist.

Case files are built on what can be recorded — dates, times, locations, statements that hold their shape. But real moments don’t always cooperate. There’s a space between what gets written down and what actually happens in a room. Pauses. Avoided answers. Shifts in tone after the recorder stops. Those moments aren’t evidence. They don’t belong in reports. And yet, they’re often the ones that stay with you long after a case is considered closed.

Small towns thrive on familiarity—routine, reputation, and silence. When nothing looks wrong, no one wants to ask hard questions. In places like East Texas, crime doesn’t announce itself; it hides in habits and unspoken agreements. This essay explores why familiarity can be more dangerous than anonymity, and why the quiet places we trust most often carry the heaviest secrets.