12. Echoes of the Past #2
Rhea steps to the microphone next. “Local priority sounds good in a meeting. What does it mean when rent numbers come out?”
Ian inclines his head. “It means we structure leasing conversations with local businesses first, and we explore rent models that make participation realistic.”
“Explore,” Rhea says.
A murmur runs through the room.
Ian keeps his smile. “I would rather be precise tonight than theatrical.”
Rhea smiles back. “A rare preference.”
A few people laugh again, softer this time. Ian absorbs it without losing the room.
Questions keep coming. Parking. Traffic. Construction noise. Whether the old signage can stay. Whether the town will be on the hook for utility improvements. Ian answers with polish and enough humility to be difficult to dislike.
I wait until the room begins to tire. Until the first layer of skepticism has been soothed. Until Mayor Ford looks ready to thank everyone and send them home believing no damage has been done.
“Any other questions?” he asks.
I step into the aisle.
Faces turn. Pens stop. Ian sees it.
Ian sees me.
And the recognition is immediate.
“What happens if the project stalls?” I ask.
His expression stays pleasant.
His eyes sharpen.
“If financing changes,” I continue, “or permitting takes longer than projected, or restoration costs exceed estimates, what protection does the town have once work begins?”
The room hears caution.
Ian hears a problem.
He rests one hand on the podium. “That is a necessary question.”
I know his necessary. It means he would like the question buried.
“Any responsible development agreement includes safeguards,” he says. “Performance milestones, bonding requirements, financing disclosures, and municipal oversight can all be part of that structure. We would expect those conversations before final contract approval.”
“Would expect,” I say.
His smile changes. “Would welcome.”
Enough people catch the exchange to make the room alert.
Ian turns back to them. “No community should take a project like this on blind faith. You deserve documentation and accountability. You deserve time to examine both.”
Ian finishes the answer with a small nod toward me, polite enough for the room, precise enough for me to understand.
“Thank you for raising it.”
I don’t answer.
Blind faith.
A few people murmur at that. Not approval exactly. Something close enough to make my stomach tighten.
He would like that. He would like to know that he reached under my ribs and got to me in front of a room full of people and ripped the old damage off intact.
Mayor Ford scans the room. “Any final questions?”
Nothing. Blessedly.
The mayor thanks him and he steps off the stage into the crowd. And it receives him.
That’s the part that hurts.
A crowd that hates an idea leaves with its coat on. A crowd that wants to believe stays and talks itself into things.
Mrs. Dorsey reaches me first. “You asked the right question.”
“I asked the first one.”
“That answer sounded good.”
“It was supposed to.”
Her mouth presses together. “I’ll wait to see the written proposal.”
“That’s the safest thing anybody has said tonight.”
She pats my arm and moves away.
Rhea passes behind Louise with Erin and Ellie beside her. The girls look relieved the meeting is over. Rhea waves good-bye.
Doc stands nearby, listening to Mr. Hanley’s last comment with polite attention. His gaze moves to me.
“Annie,” Mayor Ford calls from near the front. “I’ll make sure you get the full packet once we have it.”
“Send it to the clinic email and my personal one.”
Mayor Ford nods. “I will.”
“Thank you.”
I start toward the side aisle. Three steps. Maybe four.
Ian slithers towards me at the same time, leaving Mayor Ford with a handshake and an easy smile. He reaches me near the hallway.
“Miss.”
Not Annie. Public face first.
I stop, not wanting to draw any attention.
“Mr. Danvers.”
“Thank you for the question,” he says. “It’s clear people value your judgment.”
His voice is smooth for anyone nearby to hear if they drift close. Cordial. Respectful.
“My judgment wasn’t the subject of the meeting.”
“No,” he says. “But it may become relevant to the process.”
I look past him to the front table, not at his face. “The process needs documents.”
He lowers his voice and leans in. “You always did prefer paper when trust wasn’t available.”
My blood chills.
I look into his soulless eyes then.
He has me alone enough to say it. Not alone enough for me to react.
“You have mistaken me for someone who wants to reminisce.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t make that mistake.”
“Good.”
“I remember what you’re like when you’re cornered.”
I keep my expression level. “Then you should stop standing this close.”
A man from the historical society walks past us carrying two paper cups. Ian gives him a pleasant nod. I wait until he moves on.
Ian lowers his voice. “I didn’t expect to find you here.”
“That must be inconvenient.”
“Actually, it may simplify things.”
“You’re respected,” he says. “That was obvious.”
“People here ask questions.”
“They look at you before deciding how worried to be.”
I say nothing.
He lets the silence work for him. “That makes you useful.”
There’s confidence in his voice.
“I am not helping you.”
“You already did.”
I hate that my face turns red.
He smiles with satisfaction.
“You asked the question everyone should have asked,” he says. “Now they think I’m prepared. They think you’re cautious but fair. That is a better start than I expected.”
“You do not get to put my name anywhere near yours again.”
“I don’t need to put it there. The town already does.”
The words sit between us.
Behind him, Mayor Ford laughs softly at something Louise says. Doc remains by Ellie and the cookies, but he looks over.
He can stand close enough to threaten my life and look like he is thanking me for public participation.
“You’re going to help shape this project,” he says.
“No. I will not.”
“You are. You’ll ask for documents. You’ll review terms. You’ll push for safeguards. People will see you taking it seriously, and by the time you realize you’ve made me safer to support, it will already be done.”
“You always did confuse access with permission.”
His eyes flash.
“I have a viable project,” he says. “You have influence and a history that you obviously have not shared with your little town. And by the looks of it, you don’t want it to be, either.”
I don’t move.
“Now, I don’t see any reason that needs to be brought up,” he says. “I mean as long as you cooperate and stay practical.”
The knife without fingerprints.
“As long as I behave.”
“Exactly. And who knows, Kitten, maybe we can work out something a little more. I know what you like.”
My throat tightens and the thought becomes vile.
He steps back before anyone can decide the conversation has lasted too long.
“I’ll make sure Mayor Ford has the packet by the end of the week,” he says, louder now. Public again. “I look forward to hearing your thoughts.”
“My thoughts will come at a price.”
“Oh Kitten, I’m hoping they do.”
He heads for the front door and I duck out the side, before anyone can reach me.
I want to throw up, and I feel like I need a shower just talking to the son of a bitch.
Ian found me.
Ian found my town.
Portland has followed me home.