Chapter 21 Lance
Lance
The town square looks like something out of a campaign ad.
Red, white, and blue bunting stretches across the gazebo. The Verona County high school jazz band warms up off to the side, and a table near the fountain offers complimentary coffee and Penngrove for Progress buttons.
I fucking hate it here.
But Art’s not answering his phone, and I need to talk to him about everything with Genevieve.
Hopefully before that Rag article spreads further than it already has—or before he realizes Genevieve’s not at her apartment.
So here I am, standing at the edge of the square, scanning the crowd for his face.
He’s near the gazebo steps, shaking hands with an elderly couple who are looking at him like he’s their savior. His smile is easy and practiced. He laughs at something the woman says and touches her arm, and she practically melts.
That’s Art. The people’s prince.
His father Franklin stands a few feet away, working his own cluster of supporters, but even he glances at his son with pride, and though Art will never admit it, I know that approval feeds his soul.
Art’s the real draw here, and everyone knows it.
Franklin’s the name on the ballot, but Art’s the one who makes people believe in it.
He works the crowd, and people part for him, reach for him, want to be near him. Where I’m a shadow that clears rooms, Art fills them. He always has.
And twenty-four hours ago, I would have watched this without a single doubt in my mind about who he is.
But that was before Genevieve showed me an email in his desk that proved someone orchestrated her entire life. Before her father used an emergency code word on a phone he thinks is tapped.
I don’t want to believe any of it points to him. But I was trained to read people, and right now, I need to read him like my life depends on it, even if it guts me.
“Holy shit.”
I turn to find Juliette staring at me like I’ve grown a second head. She’s got a coffee cup in one hand and a Penngrove for Progress button pinned to her jacket.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
“Nice to see you, too.”
“No, seriously.” She steps closer, eyes narrowing. “I’ve seen you climb out a bathroom window to avoid these things.”
“Maybe I’m evolving.”
Roman appears at her shoulder, his hand settling on the small of her back. He raises an eyebrow at me.
“Lance.”
“Roman.”
“Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Seems to be the consensus.”
Juliette’s still studying me like I’m a puzzle she can’t solve. “Is everything okay? Are you sick? Did you hit your head?”
“I’m fine. I just need to talk to Art.”
Her expression shifts and she leans in conspiratorially. “About the Rag piece?”
Of course she’s seen it. Everyone’s probably seen it by now.
“It’s nothing,” I say.
“Well of course it’s nothing.” She laughs, leaning into Roman. “Can you imagine if we actually believed anything the Rag said? It’s a trash tabloid.”
I chuckle, but my gaze catches on Roman, who’s watching me with a knowing look. I don’t like it.
“You should still be careful,” he says. “Rumors have a way of spiraling.”
Before I can respond, a familiar voice cuts through the noise.
“Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in.”
My cousin Tyler’s moving toward us, and I have to work to keep my reaction neutral.
Both because I’m surprised to see him at a mayoral campaign, and also because he’s thinner than he used to be.
There’s a stiffness to his movements that tells me he’s in pain, even if he’d never admit it.
Seeing him now brings back the worst parts of that night a few months ago—the parts I can’t think about without my hands shaking.
I was right there, and I didn’t stop it. Couldn’t save him. Barely saved Juliette.
The memory of Freddy’s voice, right before he shot him, hits me. “You had one job, Tyler. One thing I ask of you, and I’d let Benjamin give her back…but you’re always causing problems.”
I hadn’t known Tyler was doing anything with Freddy, but now I don’t feel like I have the right to ask.
“Ty.” I nod at him. “You look like shit.”
He stops beside Juliette, his eyes scanning my face. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“You only show up to these things when you need something, or when you think one of us has done something stupid. Which is it?”
“Can’t I just support the democratic process?”
Tyler’s gaze slides to Roman, and his expression hardens. The tension between them is old and deep, rooted in things that happened long before Roman ever came back to Rosebrook.
Roman holds his stare, unbothered.
“I need to find Art,” I say, before either of them can turn this into something the crowd notices.
Juliette catches my arm. “Lance. Whatever’s going on with you… You know you can talk to me, right?”
“Yeah, Jules, I know.”
I pull away and push through the crowd toward the gazebo. Art spots me coming and excuses himself from the cluster of supporters and meets me halfway, clapping a hand on my shoulder.
“Holy shit, man. Did someone die?”
“Hilarious.”
“Seriously, what are you doing here?” He’s smiling, but there’s tension around his eyes.
“I need to talk to you.”
“About?”
“Genevieve.”
Art goes still, and there’s a flash I’d miss if I wasn’t looking for it. But I am looking. I’m looking at him the way I look at an opponent in the ring, scanning for the tell that says he knows what’s coming before the punch lands.
There’s fear in the way his brow dips and his mouth tightens. But I can’t tell if it’s fear for her or fear of being found out. He nods, glancing around.
“Not here. Come on.”
He leads me past the gazebo, down the street. We get stopped twice, and he charms them with practiced ease, thanking them for supporting his father. Then we’re behind the courthouse, the noise dimming to a muffled roar.
Art leans against the brick. “Is everything okay?”
“She’s staying with me.”
He blinks. “What?”
“Genevieve. She’s at my cabin.”
I watch his face the way Beverly taught me to watch opponents playing chess—not the expression, but the muscles underneath. The ones people can’t control.
“She was followed the other night.”
He stiffens. “What? Why didn’t she call me?”
“She was out by the cabin.”
“In the park?”
I nod. “I found her and got her away from him, then brought her to my place because I knew you’d be caught up in all this.” I jerk my chin toward the rally. “But dude… Shit’s not right.”
“Thank God you were there.” His shoulders drop, and he exhales a shaky breath.
“I’ve been so worried about her, Lance. It’s not like I could just call up Myrddin and ask him ‘Hey, you got someone following my girlfriend?’ And my dad’s been on my ass about the campaign, and I couldn’t—” He breaks off, running a hand through his hair. “Is she okay?”
“She’s fine. Pissed off and worried, mostly. But fine.”
He speaks about Myrddin like he doesn’t ever talk to him. And a month ago, I wouldn’t have questioned it. But a month ago, I didn’t know an email existed with his girlfriend’s life on it, sitting in his locked desk. I hadn’t seen him come downstairs and brief me for a hit job.
“Good. That’s good.” He nods, more to himself than to me. “You’re looking out for her?”
“Yeah.”
“Good,” he says again.
“Maybe she should stay with you. Your dad’s got security.”
I want him to say yes. I want him to step up, claim her, take her somewhere safe with his own hands. Because if he does that, it means he’s still the Art I know. The one I love.
He grimaces. “I can’t right now. Not with everything going on. You know my dad won’t go for that.”
“Who gives a fuck about your dad? This is a bit more serious, don’t you think? You either love her enough to keep her safe, or you don’t.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Then make it that simple, Art. You should tell her about her dad and let her have some goddamn agency.”
His shoulders droop and he kicks at a loose stone on the concrete. “Yeah…yeah, you’re right. I’ll tell her.”
The knot in my chest loosens, and part of me feels an obligation to tell him about the email with Genevieve. The code word she said her dad used. The way she had a panic attack and almost passed out and how she was so scared in her apartment she couldn’t sit without shaking.
I feel like the shittiest friend in the world for keeping his girlfriend’s secrets.
But I can’t tell him, because I’m not convinced he isn’t keeping secrets of his own.
“Fuck.” He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. “So she can stay at your place, then?”
“Absolutely the fuck not. This is your shit, Art.”
Truthfully, I’ve already resigned myself to letting her stay, to teach her how to defend herself so I can stop sleeping at night without imagining her being stolen away without a fighting chance. But I want to see Art’s reaction to everything, and the more I push, the more he gives away.
I need to see him beg for her safety, so I can have faith he’s not part of whatever fucked-up shit she’s in.
“Come on, man. I don’t trust anyone else but you, and I sure as hell don’t want her alone in that shitty studio.”
“So you still think this is Myrddin?”
He nods.
“You don’t think they’ll be suspicious if she disappears from her apartment? If Myrddin’s really watching her, she needs to act like everything’s normal.”
“I’ll handle that,” he says. “They can’t just expect me to let some guy follow her around and not do anything.”
My stomach drops like a lead weight. “Why would they expect anything from you?”
“I meant in general. What kind of a boyfriend would I be to not protect her? Just tell me you’ll watch out for her.”
“I’ve been watching out for her. But I can’t be there every second. You know that.”
“Well, who’s watching her right now?”
“Cavall.”
He palms his face. “Your dog?”
“He’s protection certified. She’s fine.”
Art’s eyebrows raise, and something softens in his face. “He likes her?”
“Ran up to her like I was chopped liver.”
“Yeah, well. She has that effect on people.” His expression flickers. “Can you please just do this for me? I’ll feel better knowing she’s with you and Cavall and not out there on her own.”
My teeth grit, and I nod.
“Blood brothers, Lance.” He holds my gaze. “Loyalty, always. That hasn’t changed.”
My palm aches where the scar sits, thin and faded but still there if you know where to look.
I used to press my thumb against it when I needed to remember why I was fighting.
Now I press it and wonder if the kid who made that promise still exists, or if the underground’s swallowing him the same way it swallowed me.
“I’ll come by the cabin soon,” he continues. “Talk to her myself. Explain what I can. She deserves that much.”
“Sooner rather than later, so she doesn’t try to kill me in my sleep.”
“Yeah.” He smiles, but it’s worn thin. “All this shit? I’m drowning, man. I’m barely keeping my head above water.”
“I know.”
And I do know. Better than anyone else. If I can get them both out before this thing eats them the way it ate me, then maybe all of it was worth something.
He claps me on the shoulder, squeezing once before letting go. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Then he’s gone, slipping back around the corner toward the rally, and I hear the crowd’s reaction when he reappears—a swell of warmth and welcome, the king returning to his people.
I’m not even sure who the opponent for Franklin is in the mayoral race, but it doesn’t matter.
Art’s enough to get him re-elected all alone.
I stay where I am, leaning against the brick.
He said all the right things. So why does something still feel wrong?
And we never even talked about the Rag piece. I meant to bring it up, but the second I said her name, it vanished like the gossip didn’t matter at all. And he didn’t bring it up, either. Which either means he still trusts me completely, or the article isn’t the thing he’s worried about.
I push off the wall and head back through the square, keeping to the edges.
Franklin’s up on the steps giving a speech about progress and community and the bright future of Rosebrook Falls.
I spot Paxton near the coffee table, talking to a council member.
He catches my eye and gives me a slight nod.
Near the fountain, I pass Tyler again. He’s standing alone, watching the crowd with an expression I can’t read. He doesn’t look at me as I pass, but he speaks.
“You never came to visit me in the hospital.”
I stop. The knot in my chest re-forms until it presses against my lungs.
“I didn’t know what to say.”
He’s still not looking at me, his eyes fixed on something in the distance. “Rosie didn’t come, either.”
I swallow.
“How is she?”
“She’s Rosalie,” I say.
The truth is I haven’t checked, and that makes me feel like shit.
She’s friendly enough with Genevieve and I see her at the tavern, but to her, I’m a family member who’s guilty by association.
She jumped ship from all of us years ago, and barely meets my eyes, unless she’s spitting an insult my way.
And she’s fucking the guy who’s always had one hand on my collar.
“Do me a favor,” he whispers. “Don’t let her become collateral damage in whatever shit this town is in.”
Her. He means Rosalie. But my brain lands on someone else entirely.
He walks away before I can respond, disappearing into the crowd, and I’m left standing by the fountain with the jazz band playing and the bunting swaying and the whole goddamn town pretending everything is the same as it’s always been.