Chapter 2 #2
"For about twenty minutes. Fielding gave me the incident reports from previous years. Wanted to understand the local protocols."
She watched him settle into the chair across from her desk, moving with that same controlled ease she'd noticed yesterday. Like every motion was deliberate. Calculated.
"When did you get there?"
"About ten-thirty. Why?"
After she'd left. He'd gone in after she'd left, which meant he hadn't been sitting on that bench to intercept her. He'd been waiting for her to leave so he could talk to Tray without her there.
Or he'd been watching her. Cataloging her movements. Noting who she talked to and for how long.
"No reason." She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. "What questions do you have about the venue layouts?"
"The harbor setup. You mentioned the boat races start at the south end, but the spectator viewing area is on the north side. That's a lot of open water in between."
"The races loop around. The viewing area gives the best sightlines for the finish."
"And emergency boat access?"
"Coast Guard coordinates. They've done it for years."
He nodded, but his attention wasn't on her answers. His gaze had drifted to her desk, to the stack of files beside her keyboard. She'd been careless—left the county clerk’s email visible on her screen, the flagged permit applications sitting in plain sight.
"Busy morning?"
"Always." She minimized the email with a deliberate click. "Three weeks until the centennial. Every morning is busy."
"I can imagine." He met her eyes, and something in his expression shifted. "You look tired."
"Excuse me?"
"Not an insult. An observation. You've got a lot on your plate, and it shows." He paused. "I've seen it before. People carrying more than they should, trying to hold it all together alone."
"I'm fine."
"I'm sure you are." He didn't look convinced. "But if there's anything making your job harder—anything beyond normal event stress—I'd want to know about it. Part of my assessment."
"Your assessment is about security. Crowd control. Emergency protocols."
"My assessment is about understanding the environment." He tilted his head slightly. "All of it. Including the things people don't want to talk about."
The silence stretched between them. She could feel him watching her, reading her, looking for the cracks in her composure. It should have felt invasive. Threatening, even.
Instead, it felt like being seen. Like someone was finally paying attention to the questions she'd been asking alone for two years.
"What makes you think there are things people don't want to talk about?"
"There always are." His voice dropped, losing some of its professional polish. "Places that look the most perfect are usually hiding the biggest problems."
"And you think Blossom Springs looks perfect?"
"I think it looks very carefully maintained."
She almost laughed. Carefully maintained. That was one way to put it. The historical preservation codes. The paint colors, streetlights, and approved signage. The way everyone smiled and waved and pretended everything was fine, even when it wasn't.
"You're good at this," she said. "The questions that aren't really questions. The observations that are actually accusations."
"I'm not accusing you of anything."
"No. You're just watching. Waiting for me to slip up and tell you something useful."
His eyebrows lifted a fraction. Not much. On a face that disciplined, it was practically a standing ovation. "Is that what you think I'm doing?"
"Isn't it?"
"I'm trying to do my job. Which is easier when people are honest with me."
"I've been honest with you."
"You've been professional. Cooperative. Helpful." He leaned forward slightly. "But you haven't been honest. Not completely."
Her heart kicked against her ribs. "And what exactly do you think I'm hiding?"
"I don't know yet." He held her gaze. "But I will. That's what I do."
She should tell him to leave. End this conversation before it goes somewhere she can’t control. He was a stranger, an outsider, someone she had no reason to trust and every reason to suspect.
But he was also the first person in two years who'd looked at her like he knew she was carrying something heavy. Like he might actually help her carry it.
"I saw you this morning." The words came out before she could stop them. "On the bench in front of the VFW. Before you went into the station."
He didn't flinch. Didn't look away. "I know."
"You were watching me."
"I was watching the town." His mouth curved slightly. "You happened to be part of it."
She should be angry. She should tell him to leave, report him to Warren, and demand to know what kind of security consultant spied on people he was supposed to be working with.
Instead, she said, "And what did you conclude? From watching?"
"That you're worried about something. That you went to Chief Fielding hoping he'd help, and he didn't give you what you needed." He paused. "And that whatever you're worried about, it's bigger than logistics for the centennial."
The air between them felt charged, electric with things unsaid. She could lie. Dismiss his observations. Send him away and figure out her next move alone, the way she'd been doing for two years.
Or.
She glanced at the door, still open. Then back at him.
"Close that, would you?"
He rose without comment and pushed the door shut. The click of the latch sounded louder than it should have.
She opened her desk drawer and pulled out a file—not the centennial files, but the other one. The one she kept locked away, out of sight.
"I'm probably going to regret this." She set the file on the desk between them. "But my father always said that sometimes you have to trust your gut, even when your gut is telling you something crazy."
"What's crazy?"
"I think something is wrong in this town. Something that goes back years. And I think—" She took a breath. "I think you're not really here for the centennial. Are you?"
He looked at the file. Then at her. The mask he'd been wearing shifted slightly—not dropping, exactly, but thinning. She could see something else underneath. Something sharp and careful and very, very interested.
"Tell me what you've found."
She opened the file.