Chapter 4 #2
"It's possible when you're the only attorney people trust with waterfront transactions." Ronan kept his gaze forward, scanning the street as they walked. "Or the only one they're allowed to use."
"Allowed by whom?"
"That's what I'm trying to figure out."
They passed a clothing boutique, a gift shop, and an office that advertised notary services and tax preparation. Then Ronan stopped in front of a two-story building with a brass plaque beside the door. Hendricks & Associates. Est. 1962.
"What are we looking for?" Lila asked.
"Patterns. Connections. Anything that doesn't fit." He studied the building—the windows, the entrance, the alley that ran along the side. "Has Hendricks ever handled any of your family's legal work?"
"No. We use a firm in Tampa for anything major. My dad always said—" She stopped.
"What did your dad say?"
"He said it was better to keep business outside of town.
That people know too much about each other here.
" She'd never thought about it before—just accepted it as one of her father's quirks.
But now, standing in front of Hendricks' office with a federal agent beside her, it took on a different meaning.
"He knew something was wrong. Even back then. "
"Probably. Your father was a smart man." Ronan's voice was matter-of-fact, not unkind. "Smart enough to keep his family at a distance from whatever he was investigating."
"But not smart enough to stay alive."
The words came out harder than she intended. Ronan turned to look at her, and for a moment, the careful blankness dropped from his expression. Something else was there—understanding, maybe. Or recognition.
"Being smart doesn't always protect you," he said. "Sometimes the people running the game are smarter. Or have more resources. Or are willing to do things you're not."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
"It's supposed to make you careful." He held her gaze. "Your father was investigating alone. He didn't have backup. He didn't have anyone watching his back. You do."
"You."
"Me. And the people I work with."
She wanted to ask about those people. Wanted to know who they were, where they came from, what authority they had to be here doing whatever it was they were doing. But she could see in his face that he wouldn't tell her. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
"So what now?" she asked instead. "We can't exactly walk in and start asking questions."
"No. But we can establish patterns." He pulled out his phone and typed something quickly. "My partner is running a financial analysis on the firm. Client lists, fee structures, anything that looks unusual. In the meantime, I want to know who visits this office and when."
"You want me to watch him."
"I want you to notice. You already do—you noticed the permits, the property transfers, the names that didn't add up. Keep noticing. But don't do anything that would draw attention."
"I've been doing this for two years without drawing attention."
"You've been doing it for two years without anyone catching you," he corrected. "That's not the same thing. Someone flagged those permits at the county clerk's office. Someone noticed you were asking questions. The fact that they haven't acted yet doesn't mean they won't."
A chill ran down her spine despite the afternoon heat. "You think they're watching me?"
"I think they're watching everyone who might be a problem." He rolled his shoulders once and went still. "Which is why you need to be careful. Normal routine. Normal behavior. Nothing that suggests you're doing anything other than planning a centennial celebration."
"And meeting secretly with federal agents on street corners."
"That too." The corner of his mouth lifted. "We should go. Separate directions. You first."
She nodded and started to turn away. Then stopped.
"Ronan."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Thank you. For—" She gestured vaguely. "Whatever this is. For not just disappearing with my files and leaving me in the dark."
He blinked once, slow, the way people do when they’re absorbing something big. "You trusted me with something important. I don't take that lightly."
"I noticed."
She walked away before she could say anything else. Before she could acknowledge the warmth spreading through her chest, or the way his voice sounded when he dropped the professional distance, or the fact that for the first time in two years, she didn't feel entirely alone.
She was halfway back to Town Hall when her phone buzzed again.
Delete this number after you read this. If you need to reach me, leave a note under the third bench from the fountain in Main Square. I'll check it twice daily.
She read it twice, memorized it, and deleted it.
Spy games. Secret messages. Dead drops in public parks.
Her father would have been either horrified or impressed. Probably both.
The rest of the afternoon was uneventful. Emails. Phone calls. A brief meeting with Mayor Weston about the dedication ceremony. The mundane business of small-town event planning, now overlaid with a constant, low-level awareness that made everything feel slightly unreal.
She locked up her office at 5:30, later than she'd intended. The town hall was quiet, most of the staff already gone for the day. Her footsteps echoed on the marble floors as she walked toward the exit.
Something made her stop.
She turned and looked back at her office door. Closed. Locked. Exactly the way she'd left it.
But something felt wrong. Off. Like a picture hanging slightly crooked, noticeable only because everything else was so perfectly aligned.
She walked back. Unlocked the door. Stepped inside.
Everything was where she'd left it. Files stacked on the desk. Corkboard covered in notes and timelines. Computer monitor dark, keyboard pushed in, chair tucked under the desk.
Except.
She moved to the desk and looked more closely.
The stack of centennial files was in the same place.
But the edges weren't aligned the way she always aligned them.
The top folder was tilted slightly to the left.
The sticky note on the second folder was peeled up at the corner, like someone had lifted it to see what was underneath.
Small things. Things no one else would notice. But Lila had spent two years training herself to see what was wrong, and something was wrong here.
She checked her desk drawer. Locked. She opened it with her key and checked the contents. Everything present. Everything in order.
But the file with her father's notes—the one she'd shown Ronan yesterday—wasn't quite where she'd left it. It was pushed an inch farther back, like someone had pulled it out and returned it in a hurry.
Her hands started to shake.
She pulled out her phone and started to text Ronan. Then remembered. Delete the number. Leave a note under the bench.
She couldn't wait until tomorrow to tell him.
She locked up her office again, her movements careful and controlled despite the adrenaline flooding her system. Walked out of the town hall at a normal pace. Got in her car and drove to Main Square.
The fountain was still running, the water catching the golden light of the setting sun. A few people sat on benches nearby—a mother with a toddler, an elderly man reading a newspaper, a young couple holding hands.
She sat down on the third bench from the fountain. Pretended to check her phone. Slipped a folded piece of paper from her pocket and tucked it under the seat.
Someone searched my office. Files disturbed. Nothing missing, but they know I have something. Need to meet. Tomorrow. Same place, same time.
She stood up and walked away, her heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat.
The game had changed. Whoever was running it knew she was playing.
And they were starting to make moves of their own.