10. The Committee’s Judgement #3
Mayor Lyle Garrow calls the meeting to order with three sharp raps of his gavel. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes as he scans the packed room.
“We gather this evening to address concerns regarding the historic Hale property,” he announces, voice pitched to carry without seeming aggressive.
“As stewards of this town’s heritage, the council has an obligation to ensure all historic properties meet appropriate standards of care and safety.
” His gaze lands on me with the subtle menace of a predator assessing a meal.
“We welcome Miss Elara Hale, who has recently taken residence in the estate, and appreciate her willingness to address our questions.”
Willingness. As if I had a choice when summoned by official parchment. I offer a tight smile and a single nod, channelling every business meeting where I’ve had to look pleasant while men explained my job to me.
“Miss Hale,” Garrow continues, “perhaps you could begin by sharing your plans for the property’s restoration. Our records indicate significant structural concerns that previous inspections identified.”
I lean slightly toward the microphone they’ve placed before me. “The estate’s structure is actually quite sound,” I reply, keeping my voice steady and professional. “I’ve had independent assessments conducted by qualified engineers. I’d be happy to provide those reports for council review.
Garrow’s eyebrow twitches slightly; the first attack deflected. “And these independent assessors, they were aware of the property’s… unique history?”
“I’m not sure what history would be relevant to a structural assessment,” I counter. “Foundation integrity doesn’t change based on who lived in a house previously.”
A few giggles from the gallery. Garrow’s smile tightens.
“I’m referring to the concerning pattern of mental instability among previous occupants,” he says, producing a folder with a theatrical flourish.
“We have documented cases spanning nearly a century of residents reporting paranoia, hearing voices, and becoming increasingly isolated. The most recent case before you was Julian Mercer in 2001, who claimed ‘presences’ were moving through the walls.”
Julian Mercer—a name I recognize from Silas’s files. A distant cousin of the Merrick family who’d served as an official “resident” while the actual guardians operated behind the scenes.
“I haven’t experienced anything similar,” I say, maintaining eye contact with Garrow rather than the papers he’s pretending to consult. “The house is old, so yes, it makes noise. That’s normal for a structure of its age.”
Garrow’s smile turns predatory. “And yet, Officer Peck reports you were speaking to an empty house yesterday morning. Addressing someone named ‘Silas’ while alone in your foyer.”
Ice water floods my veins. I’d forgotten about the open door when I called out to Silas. Rookie mistake.
“I was rehearsing a phone call,” I lie smoothly. “I often speak aloud when organizing my thoughts. It helps with clarity.”
“A curious habit,” Garrow presses, leaning forward. “Especially given the reports we’ve received about lights moving through the house at odd hours. About voices when you’re supposedly alone.”
Whispers ripple through the gallery. I feel the trap closing, see the satisfaction in Garrow’s eyes as he thinks he’s cornered me into either admitting to hallucinations or confessing to having someone else in the house, someone not on any official record.
“Are you suggesting I’m mentally unstable, Mayor Garrow?” I ask, injecting just enough edge into my voice to suggest this line of questioning borders on slander. “Because that’s a serious accusation to make in a public forum.”
Before he can respond, movement in the gallery catches my attention. Nora Voss rises from her seat, clutching a stack of yellowed documents to her chest. Her usual bubbly demeanour has been replaced with something steely I’ve never seen before.
“Mayor Garrow,” she calls out, her voice carrying clearly across the chamber. “I believe these documents are relevant to tonight’s discussion.”
Garrow’s face darkens. “Miss Voss, this is not the appropriate time—”
“Actually, it’s exactly the appropriate time,” Nora counters, moving toward the council table with purposeful strides. “Before we continue questioning Miss Hale about her mental state, the council should review these historical records from the town archives.”
She places the documents before Garrow with a thud that seems to reverberate through the suddenly silent room.
“These are property records and newspaper accounts dating back to 1873. They document how the Hale estate has always served as a sanctuary for those persecuted by certain elements in town leadership.”
“This is highly irregular,” sputters Councilwoman Pritchard, but her eyes betray a nervousness that wasn’t there before.
“What’s irregular,” Nora continues, now addressing the gallery directly, “is how every fifty years or so, this council suddenly develops ‘concerns’ about the Hale property. Always after it passes to new ownership, always with insinuations about mental instability.” She taps the top document meaningfully.
“The pattern is quite clear to anyone who cares to look.”
The council members exchange glances tinged with discomfort. Fleming adjusts his glasses with trembling fingers. Garrow’s face has gone rigid with controlled fury.
“We will need to review these materials before proceeding further,” he announces, voice tight as he bangs his gavel. “This portion of the meeting is adjourned. Miss Hale, you’ll be notified when we’re ready to continue our discussion.”
The abrupt dismissal sends a murmur of confusion through the crowd.
I gather my belongings with deliberate calm, though my heart is pounding so hard I’m surprised the microphone doesn’t pick it up.
Nora catches my eye from the side of the room, giving me a tiny nod before slipping out a side door, documents left pointedly splayed across the council table.
I’m halfway to the main exit when a hand clamps around my upper arm, pulling me into a shadowed alcove beneath the grand staircase. Garrow’s face hovers inches from mine, his expensive cologne failing to mask the sour tang of rage seething from him.
“You think you’re clever,” he hisses, grip tightening painfully. “But you have no idea what you’re involved in. That house belongs to this town—to me—by rights older than any deed.”
I wrench my arm free with enough force to send him staggering back a half-step, my skin burning where his fingers had dug in.
“Put your hands on me again,” I hiss through clenched teeth, my voice dropping to a register I barely recognize, “and I will break every one of those manicured fingers before I file assault charges.”
He laughs, a sound like glass breaking underfoot, and leans in until I can smell the coffee rotting on his breath.
“Against the mayor?” His eyes bulge with a feverish gleam.
“With whose police force?” His fingers twitch at his sides, as if already imagining them around my throat.
“Wake up, little girl,” he snarls, spittle hitting my cheek.
“You’re alone here. Completely. Fucking. Alone.”
I lean in, my voice dropping to a razor’s edge.
“If I disappear like Thomas Webb did, people will ask questions,” I whisper, the name hitting him like a physical blow.
His pupils dilate, nostrils flaring as the blood drains from his face.
For one perfect moment, raw fear replaces his smug superiority.
“So you do know something.” His voice drops further, barely audible over the departing crowd’s footsteps. “That makes you not just annoying but dangerous. Consider carefully what that means for your future in my town.”
He straightens his tie with manicured fingers, mask of civility sliding back into place. “Good evening, Miss Hale. I’d suggest you lock your doors tonight.” With a final smile that chills my blood, he rejoins the dispersing council members.
Outside, the evening air feels blessedly cool against my flushed skin. I’m halfway down the steps when someone collides with me, Marta Ellery, her thin frame nearly bouncing off mine, dark braid swinging with the impact.
“Sorry,” she mumbles loudly, eyes darting to the police officer stationed at the bottom of the steps. Her fingers press something into my palm, a folded slip of paper, before she hurries away, shoulders hunched defensively.
I wait until I reach my car to unfold the note, hands trembling slightly.
They’re coming tonight. Safety inspection. 11PM. Back entrance. Garrow has a warrant. LEAVE OR HIDE.
The handwriting is cramped and urgent, pressed so hard into the paper that it’s created ridges I can feel with my fingertips. I check my watch, 8:27 PM. Less than three hours to prepare for whatever Garrow has planned.
I start the engine with shaking hands, heart hammering against my ribs. Not enough time to pack, not enough time to think. Only enough time to race home and warn Silas before Garrow’s men descend on our sanctuary.
My tires squeal as I take the sharp turn onto Willow Creek Road, the longer route home, but one that loops behind farmland where Garrow’s watchdogs are less likely to follow.
The Volvo’s ancient engine protests as I push it harder than its Swedish engineers ever intended, my knuckles white on the steering wheel.
Every shadow between the trees looks like a lurking vehicle, every pair of headlights in my rear view mirror a potential tail.
Paranoid? Maybe. But it’s not paranoia when they’ve literally announced they’re coming for you.
Marta’s note burns in my pocket like a lit fuse, counting down to whatever “inspection” Garrow has planned.