Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Ronan couldn't stop thinking about the way she'd leaned into his touch.
He sat in his cottage on Beach Road, laptop open, coffee cold beside him, and replayed the moment in his mind. Her face in his palm. The tear on her cheek. The way she'd looked at him when she said she understood he was trying to protect her.
If something happens between us, it will be because I chose it.
She was stronger than he'd expected. More direct. Most civilians he'd worked with wanted to be protected, wanted someone else to take charge of the dangerous parts. Lila wanted a partnership. Honesty. Agency.
It terrified him.
His phone buzzed. Caleb.
Hendricks’ financial records just came through. You're going to want to see this.
Ronan pulled up the secure file share and started scrolling. Bank statements. Transaction records. A web of transfers that bounced through three different states before landing in accounts held by shell companies.
He typed back.
Walk me through it.
Hendricks receives payment for legal services from approximately 40 different clients per year. Standard stuff. But 12 of those clients are holding companies registered in Delaware, and all 12 share the same registered agent.
Who's the agent?
A firm called Coastal Ventures LLC. Which is itself owned by another holding company. Which is owned by another. I traced it back four layers before the trail went cold.
But?
But one of the intermediate companies has a board member who also serves on the Caldwell Charitable Foundation board.
Ronan stared at the screen. Warren Caldwell. The name kept circling back, no matter which thread they pulled.
That's not proof.
No. It's a connection. Proof requires documentation that directly ties Caldwell to illegal activity. Right now, all we have is proximity.
What about the surveys? Daniel Bennett's notes mentioned discrepancies.
I'm working on that. The county surveyor who replaced Bennett—guy named David Webb—has some interesting gaps in his employment history. Three years unaccounted for before he took the county job.
Military?
No record of it. Private sector, maybe. Or something he doesn't want on his resume.
Keep digging. And cross-reference Webb with the properties that changed hands after the surveys were certified.
Already running. I'll have something by tonight.
Ronan closed the laptop and rubbed his eyes. The pieces were coming together, but slowly. Too slowly. Every day that passed was another day for whoever was running this operation to notice the investigation. Another day for Lila to be in danger.
He needed to move faster. But moving faster meant taking risks, and risks meant potential exposure.
His phone buzzed again. Different number this time. Local.
Cross. It's Mitch DeMario. Got time for a beer tonight? Want to compare notes on the security plan.
Ronan considered. DeMario was sharp—too sharp to dismiss, but potentially useful if managed correctly. The man had deep roots in Blossom Springs. His security company, DeMario Security, was local. His wife owned the flower shop on Main Square. He knew this town in ways Ronan never could.
He typed back.
Sarge's? Seven o'clock?
See you there.
The flower shop sat on the corner of Main Square and Main Street, its windows bright with arrangements of tropical blooms and greenery. Ronan paused outside, watching through the glass as a blonde-haired woman helped a customer select a bouquet.
Izzy Payton DeMario. He'd looked her up after Caleb's initial briefing on Mitch. She'd grown up in Blossom Springs, left for a while, and came back. Married Mitch about a year ago, according to the local paper's announcement. The shop was called Petal Pushers, because of course it was.
He wasn't here for flowers. He was here to understand the terrain.
The customer left with her purchase, and Izzy looked up as the bell chimed. Her smile was warm; professional.
"Can I help you find something?"
"Just looking." He moved along the display cases, noting the exits, the back room, and the security camera mounted above the register. "Nice shop."
"Thank you. Are you in town for the centennial?"
"Working it, actually. Security assessment."
Her expression shifted slightly. Recognition without surprise. "You must be Ronan Cross. Mitch mentioned you."
"Good things, I hope."
"He said you seemed competent." Her mouth curved. "From Mitch, that's high praise."
"I'll take it." He picked up a small succulent in a ceramic pot, examining it without really seeing it. "How long have you had the shop?"
"Three years. It was my parents’ before me, actually. They ran it for years." Izzy moved behind the counter, straightening a display of ribbon. "Blossom Springs is good for flower shops. Lots of weddings. Lots of funerals. Lots of people who like to apologize with roses."
"And you grew up here?"
"Born and raised. Left for a while, but—" She shrugged. "The town has a way of pulling you back."
"I've heard that."
"From Lila?"
He looked up. Izzy's expression was innocent enough. She had the look of a woman who’d been raised in a small town and had learned to wrap her opinions in pleasant smiles. The smile was there. The pleasantness was negotiable.
"We've talked. She's coordinating the event."
"She's been doing all the flowers for the centennial. Worked with me for months on the arrangements for the dedication ceremony, the dinner, the memorial." Izzy tilted her head. "She's good people. I've known her since we were kids."
"Is that a warning?"
"It's information." Her smile was still pleasant, but her eyes had gone cool. "Lila's been through a lot. Her dad, her engagement falling apart, and taking care of her mom before she went into the nursing home. She doesn't need any more complications."
"I'm just here to do a job."
"I'm sure you are." Izzy held his gaze for a beat too long. "Let me know if you need any arrangements while you're in town. We deliver."
He set down the succulent and nodded. "Thanks for your time."
The bell chimed again as he left. He could feel her eyes on his back all the way across Main Square.
Mitch DeMario's wife was protective of Lila. Observant. Not someone who missed much.
He filed that information away and kept walking.
The storm came out of nowhere.
One minute, the sky was clear. The next, the clouds rolled in from the Gulf like a curtain being pulled, and the rain hit Main Street hard enough to empty the sidewalks in seconds.
Ronan was halfway between the flower shop and his car when it started. He ducked under the awning of the hardware store and waited, watching the rain turn the street into a river.
Lila came around the corner at a full sprint.
She was soaked. Her blouse was plastered to her shoulders, her hair streaming water, the canvas bag over her arm heavy with whatever she’d been carrying. She spotted him under the awning and changed direction, arriving in a spray of water and breathless laughter.
“Where did that come from?” She shook her head like a dog, and water flew in all directions. Some of it hit him. She didn’t apologize.
“Gulf squall. They blow through fast.”
“You sound like a weather channel.” She leaned against the storefront wall and wrung out the hem of her blouse. Water pooled around her shoes. “This is a disaster. I have a meeting in twenty minutes, and I look like I went swimming fully clothed.”
“Cancel it.”
“I can’t cancel a meeting with the fire chief because of rain. He’ll think I’m made of sugar.”
“Reschedule, then.”
“To when? I’m booked solid until Thursday.” She peeled a wet strand of hair off her forehead. “I’ll just go like this. The drowned-rat look is very professional.”
He took off his jacket. It was dry—he’d made it under the awning before the worst of it. He held it out.
She looked at the jacket. At him. Back at the jacket.
“That’s very chivalrous.”
“It’s practical. You’re cold.”
“How do you know I’m cold?”
“You’re shivering.”
She was. She took the jacket and pulled it on over her wet blouse. It was too big—the shoulders drooped past hers, the sleeves covered her hands. She rolled the cuffs twice, then tucked her chin into the collar and breathed in.
She didn’t say what she smelled. She didn’t have to. He watched her face soften, watched the tension in her shoulders ease, and felt something crack open in his chest that he’d been keeping sealed shut for a very long time.
“Better?”
“Much.” She looked up at him from inside the jacket’s collar. Her eyes were bright, rain-washed. “You realize Izzy can see us from the flower shop window.”
He glanced across the street. The flower shop’s lights were on, and through the glass, he could see Izzy at the counter, watching them with naked interest.
“She’s going to tell Delia.”
“Delia’s going to tell everyone.”
“And that doesn’t bother you?”
Lila pulled his jacket tighter around her.
“Two weeks ago, it would have. I had a very clear policy about not giving this town anything to gossip about.” She paused.
The rain drummed on the awning above them, steady and loud.
“But two weeks ago, I was trying to do everything alone. And you know what alone got me? An office full of stolen files.”
“Lila—”
“I’m not saying this is smart. I’m saying I’m tired of smart.
” She reached out and adjusted the collar of his shirt, which had gotten twisted when he took off the jacket.
A small, domestic gesture. Intimate in its casualness.
“Let Izzy watch. Let Delia talk. I’d rather be warm in your jacket and gossiped about than cold and alone and perfectly proper. ”
The rain was beginning to ease. Sunlight broke through the clouds in shafts, hitting the wet street and turning it to silver. The whole town glittered, dripping and new.
“Keep the jacket,” he said.
“I was planning to.”