It doesn't feel like home, but then nothing ever does. She's bounced around her whole life. Childhood in the system, twenties in school, everything since chasing the cases people who had roots were reluctant to do. Needing only hotel rooms, good books and coffee cups to keep her going.
Doing the good work. Taking care of people. Stopping bad things from happening.
But Haven isn't like that. It's slow, like molasses. Everything they do. They way they order files or decide to tell you where the bakery is or where not to park, cross the road, what not to wear. How no one really decides to say good morning back until they've given you that look. You know, the one where they're appraising you first, like somehow they didn't see you yesterday or the day before or call you in for this case this morning.
They thaw slower than frozen ice caps, and sometimes the one thing Audrey can't figure out, in her frustration, is why. Not why they are doing it. Why she cares, suddenly, twenty seven years later, after twenty-seven years of not caring, not minding, about why this little town won't open it's arms and ears to her. Why even though no other part of her life ever has, she takes it personally here, with them.
Not depressed, but rising to a surge of challenge. Feels even more driven, to push her foot in the door, to smile even as she frowns and calls them on it. Refusing to take their crap, or be scared off, or too put off. Like somehow it's the punchline to a joke she never heard, but feels coming back from hers two hundred percent, five hundred percent, with all of her that can be mustered, anyway.