Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Lila's phone buzzed at six-fifteen the next morning.
She reached for it without opening her eyes, knocking over the half-empty water glass on her nightstand. The cold splash against her wrist woke her faster than the alarm would have.
"Wonderful." She grabbed a t-shirt from the floor and mopped up the water, then squinted at her phone screen. Three missed texts from Delia. One voicemail from Mayor Weston. And an email from the county clerk's office, flagged urgent.
She opened the email first.
Ms. Bennett, this is to inform you that three permit applications associated with your office have been flagged for documentation review. Please contact our office at your earliest convenience to discuss.
She read it twice. Then threw back the covers and headed for the shower, her mind already racing through the implications.
Someone at the county clerk's office had noticed. Three permit applications flagged for review. All three were tied to properties along the waterfront, all three with documentation gaps she'd been quietly tracking for months.
She'd been careful. So careful. Making margin notes instead of official queries. Keeping her questions to herself. And now, three weeks before the centennial, someone had decided to dig.
Coincidence. It had to be a coincidence.
She turned the water as hot as she could stand and let it pound against her shoulders. The old pipes groaned in protest—her grandmother's, then her parents’, house needed updating she couldn't afford—but the heat helped loosen the tension that had settled at the base of her skull.
The centennial. The permits. The security consultant with the watchful eyes who asked questions that felt like they went three layers deeper than the words themselves.
Every place has secrets, he'd said. And then: I'm more interested in the ones that hide in plain sight.
She shut off the water and wrapped herself in a towel. Stood dripping on the bath mat while she stared at her reflection in the foggy mirror.
Ronan Cross was going to be a problem. She could feel it in her bones.
The Blossom Springs Police Station sat on Second Street, a squat brick building wedged between the VFW hall and a supper club that had seen better decades.
Lila parked in the small lot behind the station and checked her reflection in the rearview mirror.
Professional. Composed. Not at all like someone who'd spent the last hour catastrophizing about permit irregularities.
She gathered her files and headed inside.
The front desk was empty, which meant Nancy had stepped out for her mid-morning cigarette. Lila bypassed the counter and walked down the narrow hallway toward the back office, her heels clicking against linoleum that had been old when she was in elementary school.
Chief Tray Fielding looked up from his desk when she knocked on the open door.
He was a big man, broad-shouldered and thick through the middle in a way that suggested former muscle gone soft.
His hair had gone silver at the temples, and the lines around his eyes had deepened since she'd seen him last, but his gaze was sharp as ever.
"Lila." He set down his pen and leaned back in his chair. "Didn't expect you until this afternoon."
"Change of plans. Do you have a minute?"
"For you? Always." He gestured to the chair across from his desk. "What's on your mind?"
She settled into the chair and set her files on her lap. The office smelled like burnt coffee and old paper, comforting in a way that reminded her of her father's study. Tray had been her father's fishing buddy for thirty years. He'd been at the funeral. He'd been at every birthday since.
"I wanted to talk about the security assessment. For the centennial."
"The consultant from Charleston." Tray nodded slowly. "Warren mentioned he'd be coming in early. Cross, right?"
"Ronan Cross. He arrived yesterday. We did a walkthrough of the venues."
"And?"
She hesitated. This was the tricky part. How to express concern without sounding paranoid. How to ask questions without revealing how much she already suspected.
"He's thorough. Professional. But there's something about him that doesn't quite fit."
Tray's expression didn't change. "Doesn't fit how?"
"I don't know. He asked a lot of questions about the town. Not just security questions. About the people. The history. How things work."
"That sounds like due diligence."
"Maybe." She ran her thumb along the edge of her file folder. "He also showed up three weeks early. Said he wanted to blend in before the event."
Tray was quiet for a moment. He picked up a pen, turned it over in his fingers, and set it down again.
"You think he's not who he says he is?"
"I think I don't know who he is. Warren recommended his firm, but Warren recommends a lot of things. It doesn't mean I shouldn't do my homework."
Tray picked up a pen, turned it over in his fingers, and set it down again. The pen was a prop. She’d watched him use it in a hundred conversations—buying himself time to decide what his face should do. "What kind of homework did you have in mind?"
"I was hoping you could make some calls. Check his references. See if his company has the track record Warren claims."
Tray leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. The wood creaked under his weight.
"Lila. You've known me your whole life. So I'm going to be straight with you." He paused. "Warren Caldwell carries a lot of weight in this town. Always has. If he vouched for this guy, there's a reason."
"That's what worries me."
The words came out sharper than she intended. Tray's eyebrows rose slightly, but he didn't respond.
She took a breath. Steadied herself.
"I'm sorry. I'm just—the centennial is in three weeks. Everything has to go perfectly. And when things feel off, I need to understand why."
"Things feel off how? Beyond the consultant?"
She could tell him. Right now, in this office, she could lay out everything she'd noticed over the past two years. The permit applications with missing documentation. The property transfers that didn't add up. The names that appeared on too many forms, connected in ways that shouldn't exist.
But Tray had been in Blossom Springs longer than she'd been alive. If something was wrong—really wrong—he'd have noticed. Unless he hadn't wanted to.
"Nothing specific." She gathered her files and stood. "Just stress, probably. Forget I said anything."
"Lila."
She paused at the door.
"I'll make those calls. About Cross." His voice was careful, measured. "But do me a favor. Don't go digging on your own. If there's something off about this guy, let me handle it."
"Of course." She forced a smile. "That's why I came to you."
She walked out of the station and didn't look back.
The walk to her car felt longer than it should have. Lila kept her pace steady, her shoulders straight, even though everything inside her wanted to run. To get in her car and drive somewhere—anywhere—where the questions in her head might quiet down.
She reached the parking lot and paused, keys in hand. A bench sat in front of the VFW hall, occupied by a man with a newspaper. Dark hair. Broad shoulders. Even from this distance, she recognized the way he held himself—alert, contained, like he was ready to move at any moment.
Ronan Cross.
He wasn't looking at her. His attention appeared fixed on his newspaper, a coffee cup beside him on the bench. But something about the angle of his head, the stillness of his posture, made her skin prickle.
She got in her car and pulled out of the lot, turning left onto Second Street. In her rearview mirror, she watched him fold his newspaper and stand.
Coincidence. Had to be a coincidence.
She drove toward Main Street, her hands tight on the wheel. Tray's words echoed in her head.
Don't go digging on your own. If there's something off about this guy, let me handle it.
She'd heard variations of that her entire life. Let the men handle it. Don't worry your pretty head. Stay in your lane.
Her father had never talked to her that way. He'd taught her to ask questions, to follow evidence, to trust her instincts. He'd been the one who'd first shown her how to read a property record, how to trace ownership chains, how to spot the gaps that meant someone was hiding something.
"Look for what's missing," he used to say. "The truth isn't always in what people show you. Sometimes it's in what they leave out."
He'd also been dead for five years, and whatever he'd known about the things happening in Blossom Springs had died with him.
She parked behind Town Hall and sat in her car for a long moment, staring at the building where she'd spent the last eight years of her life. Filing permits. Organizing events. Keeping her head down and her questions to herself.
That was the smart play. The safe play. The play that kept you employed, unfired, and uninvolved in things that could get complicated.
But her father hadn't raised her to play it safe. And the questions weren't going away.
She spent the rest of the morning at her desk, trying to focus on centennial logistics while her mind kept circling back to the conversation with Tray.
Her email sat open on her screen, the message from the county clerk glowing like an accusation. She typed a response, deleted it. Typed another.
A knock on her office door made her jump.
Ronan Cross stood in the doorway, looking entirely too awake for mid-morning. He'd changed since she'd glimpsed him on the bench—different shirt, same watchful eyes.
"Sorry to interrupt. You have a minute?"
"That depends on what you need." She didn't stand. Didn't smile. Let him feel the coolness in her voice.
He stepped into the office, and the space immediately felt smaller. "I stopped by the police station this morning. Chief Fielding was helpful. But I had a few follow-up questions about the venue layouts."
"You were at the police station."