Chapter 5
Chapter Five
He'd developed the habit of walking through Main Square twice a day—once at dawn, once at dusk—ostensibly for coffee at Mae's Bakery, which sat on Main Square between the post office and the library.
In reality, the walks gave him regular opportunities to check the dead drop without drawing attention.
The third bench from the fountain was empty except for a few fallen leaves. He sat down, pulled out his phone like any tourist killing time, and slipped his hand beneath the seat.
Paper. Folded tightly.
He palmed it smoothly, stood, and continued toward Mae's. Didn't unfold the note until he was inside the bakery, seated at a corner table with his back to the wall and a clear view of both entrances.
Someone searched my office. Files disturbed. Nothing missing, but they know I have something. Need to meet. Tomorrow. Same place, same time.
Something behind his ribs pulled tight. He read it again, memorizing the words, then folded the paper into his coffee napkin and let it dissolve in the dregs of his cup.
Someone had searched her office. Which meant someone knew she was asking questions. Which meant the timeline had just accelerated in ways he hadn't anticipated.
He pulled out his phone and texted Caleb.
Asset compromised. Local source's office searched. Files accessed but not taken. They're watching her.
The response came in under a minute.
How compromised?
Unknown. She noticed a disturbance. Nothing missing. Could be recon or warning.
Could also be them laying groundwork. If files go missing later, she's the obvious suspect for leaking.
Ronan hadn't considered that angle. But Caleb was right. If whoever was running this operation wanted to neutralize Lila without drawing attention, framing her for document theft would be cleaner than anything more direct.
Need to increase surveillance on her. Can you get me eyes on the town hall?
Already working on it. Building has security cameras, but the system is ancient. I can access the feed, but quality is garbage. Better option: get someone inside.
I'm already inside.
You're the security consultant for an event three weeks away. You can't justify daily presence in the permits office without raising flags.
He was right about that, too. Ronan's cover gave him access to Lila, but not unlimited access. Showing up every day would draw exactly the kind of attention they were trying to avoid.
Suggestions?
The town council is bringing in additional security for the centennial. Legitimate firm right in Blossom Springs. DeMario Security. A guy named Mitch DeMario runs it.
Ronan frowned at the screen.
Competition?
Complement. He handles the visible layer—crowd control, access management, and coordination with local law enforcement. You handle the assessment side. Two consultants, different roles, neither one stepping on the other's toes.
What do we know about him?
Former military. Solid reputation. No connections to anything we're tracking. He's clean.
Clean can be useful.
Clean can also complicate things if he starts noticing inconsistencies. Keep your distance but stay aware. He's good at his job.
Ronan pocketed his phone and stared out the window at Main Square. The fountain was running, catching the early morning light. A jogger passed by. An elderly man walked a small dog. The town was waking up, oblivious to the chess game being played beneath its surface.
Lila's note had been clear and calm. No panic. No demands. Just information and a request to meet. She was handling this better than most civilians would, but that didn't mean she understood what she was dealing with.
Someone had been in her office. Someone who knew what to look for and how to look for it without leaving obvious traces. That wasn't amateur hour. That was professional.
Which meant the people running this operation had resources. Training. The kind of infrastructure that didn't develop overnight.
He finished his coffee and left Mae's, walking the long way back to his cottage on Beach Road. Thinking.
The meeting with Lila was set for 2 pm at the corner of First and Main. Same place they'd met yesterday. Ronan arrived fifteen minutes early and positioned himself across the street, in the doorway of a shop selling tourist trinkets.
She appeared at 1:58, walking from the direction of the town hall. Her stride was quick but controlled, her shoulders set with the kind of tension that came from carrying too much alone.
He crossed the street to meet her.
"Walk with me."
They fell into step together, heading away from the main commercial district toward the quieter residential streets. He kept his voice low.
"Tell me exactly what you found."
"The files on my desk were moved. Not much—maybe half an inch—but I keep everything aligned.
Force of habit." She kept her eyes forward as she talked.
"The sticky note on one folder was peeled up at the corner.
The drawer with my father's files was locked, but it looked as though someone had scratched the wood around the lock trying to get in.”
"Anything taken?"
"No. I checked everything twice. All the documents are there."
"Including the copies you gave me?"
"Those aren't in my office. I keep the originals at home now. What's in the office is a subset—enough to look like active work, not enough to expose the full picture."
Smart. Smarter than he'd expected. She'd been doing this long enough to develop operational instincts.
"Who has access to your office?"
"Anyone in the town hall during business hours. The cleaning crew after five. Building security has keys." She hesitated. "And the police, if they had a reason to request access."
"Chief Fielding."
"He wouldn't—" She stopped. Took a breath. "A week ago, I would have said he wouldn't. Now I don't know what to believe."
They turned onto a tree-lined street. Old houses with wraparound porches. Carefully maintained gardens. The quiet heart of Blossom Springs, where families had lived for generations.
"I ran a check on Fielding's property holdings," Ronan said. "Three waterfront parcels in the past five years. All were purchased below market value. All with surveys certified by the same county surveyor who replaced your father."
Lila's face went pale. "You think he's involved."
"I think he's benefited from whatever's happening here, one way or another. Whether he's an active participant or just someone who learned to look the other way—that I don't know yet."
"He was my father's friend. He came to every birthday. Every holiday." Her voice cracked slightly. "He told me not to dig. That if there was something wrong with you, he'd handle it."
"And you came to me instead."
"Because my father trusted his instincts, and my instincts say that something is wrong with Tray Fielding." She stopped walking and turned to face him. "Tell me I'm not crazy. Tell me I didn't just blow up my entire life because I couldn't let go of a conspiracy theory."
He wanted to touch her. Wanted to put his hands on her shoulders and tell her she was the bravest person he'd met in years. That her father would be proud of her. That whatever happened next, she wasn't alone.
Instead, he kept his hands at his sides and his voice steady.
"You're not crazy. The patterns are real. The falsified surveys, the adjusted property lines, the attorney who handles most of the coastal transfers—it's all connected. Your father saw it. You see it. And now, apparently, someone else knows you see it."
"So what do we do?"
"We adapt. You continue your normal routine. Centennial planning, office work, whatever you'd be doing if none of this were happening. Don't change anything that would signal you're aware of the search."
"And you?"
"I dig deeper. There's another security consultant coming in—guy named Mitch DeMario. Legitimate operation right here in Blossom Springs. He'll be handling the visible security work for the centennial."
"I heard. The council hired him last week." Her brow furrowed. "Is that a problem?"
"It's an opportunity. He's the public face of event security. I can step back from the day-to-day coordination, which gives me more flexibility to investigate without raising questions about why I'm spending so much time at town hall."
"Won't that look strange? You were hired first."
"My firm does assessments. His firm does implementation. Different skill sets. Warren Caldwell will understand the distinction." He paused. "Speaking of Caldwell—has he contacted you recently?"
"He called yesterday. Wanted to confirm the venue timeline for the dedication ceremony." She searched his face. "Why?"
"His name keeps appearing. Not directly connected to anything illegal, but adjacent to everything. Foundation donations. Board memberships. Social connections to everyone who matters in this town."
"That's not unusual. Warren's family helped found Blossom Springs. He's involved in everything."
"Which makes him either the hub of a long-running criminal operation or the perfect cover for one."
She was quiet for a moment. They'd stopped at the corner of a residential street, standing in the shade of an old oak tree. The afternoon light filtered through the leaves, dappling her face with shadows.
"I've known Warren my entire life," she said finally. "He held me when I was a baby. He wrote my college recommendation letter. He—" She broke off. "I don't want to believe it."
"Neither did I, at first. Believing the worst about people you know is harder than believing it about strangers." He held her gaze. "But the evidence leads where it leads. And right now, it's leading somewhere you're not going to like."
He didn't let her walk home alone. She argued about it — said she was fine, said she lived four blocks away, said she'd done it a thousand times.
He walked her anyway, staying half a step behind, watching the street.
When she closed her front door, he stood on the sidewalk until the lights came on inside. Then he pulled out his phone.