Chapter 7 #2
She stepped out from under the awning into the last of the rain, his jacket wrapped around her, and walked toward the town hall without looking back. Her shoes squelched on the wet sidewalk. She left a trail of footprints that the sun would erase in minutes.
He watched her go. Watched until she disappeared through the town hall doors.
Watched for a while after that, because the image of her in his jacket was something he wanted to remember clearly.
Every detail. The way the sleeves hung past her fingers.
The way she’d tucked her chin into the collar and breathed in.
His phone buzzed. He ignored it.
Whatever Caleb needed could wait five minutes.
Sarge's Sandbar was more crowded than the last time he'd been there.
A group of fishermen occupied the corner booth, loudly debating something about bait.
A young couple sat at the bar, leaning into each other.
An older man with weathered skin and sharp eyes sat alone near the window, nursing a whiskey.
Mitch was already there, at the same spot along the bar where they'd met before. He raised a hand in greeting as Ronan approached.
"Cross. Thanks for coming."
"Thanks for the invite." Ronan took the stool beside him and signaled the bartender. "Beer. Whatever's local."
They sat in comfortable silence while the drinks were poured. Mitch had a folder on the bar beside him—probably the security plan he'd mentioned.
"I met your wife today," Ronan said.
"Izzy mentioned." Mitch's tone was neutral. "She said you were asking questions."
"I ask a lot of questions. Occupational hazard."
"She also said you seemed more interested in Lila Bennett than in flowers."
Ronan took a slow drink of his beer. "I'm working closely with Ms. Bennett on the centennial. Makes sense, I'd want to understand the people around her."
"Does it?"
"In my experience, security isn't just about physical threats. It's about relationships. Networks. Who trusts whom, who has grudges, who might have reasons to cause problems."
Mitch studied him for a long moment. Then he nodded, something in his posture relaxing slightly.
"Fair enough. I do the same thing." He opened the folder and spread out several pages of diagrams and notes. "Here's what I've got for the parade route. Officer positions, crowd barriers, emergency exits. I'd like your input on a few of the chokepoints."
They spent the next hour going through the security plan. Mitch was thorough—more thorough than Ronan had expected. Every venue had been assessed. Every potential vulnerability had been noted and addressed. The man knew his job.
"This is solid work," Ronan said, meaning it.
"I take it seriously. This town matters to me." Mitch gathered the papers back into the folder. "Izzy's family has been here for generations. We're building a life here. A future." He paused. "Whatever problems Blossom Springs has, I'd rather fix them than run from them."
"What problems?"
Mitch tilted his bottle, studying the label like it contained the answer to a question he hadn’t asked yet. "You've been here, what, a week? You notice things. I know you do—I can see it in the way you watch people. So don't pretend you haven't noticed that something's off about this place."
Ronan said nothing. Waited.
"I've been doing security work for a long time," Mitch continued.
"Private sector, government contracts, everything in between.
I know what normal looks like. And this town—" He shook his head.
"On the surface, it's perfect. Too perfect.
Underneath, there are currents. Money moving in ways that don't quite add up.
People who have more influence than their positions should give them. Questions that nobody wants to answer."
"You've looked into it?"
"I've noticed. That's different from looking into it.
" Mitch finished his beer and set the empty bottle on the bar.
"I'm not a cop. I'm not a federal agent.
I'm a guy who runs a security company and wants to keep his community safe.
So I notice things, and I file them away, and I wait to see if they matter. "
"And if they matter?"
"Then I figure out who to tell." Mitch met his eyes.
"You strike me as someone who knows things.
Someone who might be here for more than a security assessment.
I'm not asking you to confirm or deny that.
I'm just telling you—if there's something going on that affects this town, I want to help. Even if I can't know the details."
It was as close to an offer of alliance as Ronan was likely to get. And it was dangerous—bringing a civilian into an active operation, even peripherally, created vulnerabilities.
But Mitch DeMario wasn't a typical civilian. He was trained. He was local. He had access and credibility that Ronan didn't.
"If something comes up that affects your security work," Ronan said carefully, "I'll let you know. Anything beyond that—"
"Isn't my business. I understand." Mitch extended his hand. "But the offer stands. If you need local eyes and ears, you've got them."
Ronan shook his hand. "I appreciate that."
They parted outside the bar, Mitch heading toward Main Square and Ronan turning toward Beach Road. The night was warm, humid, thick with the salt smell of the Gulf.
His phone buzzed. Caleb.
David Webb. The surveyor. Found something.
Go.
Those three missing years? He was working for a private surveying firm in Georgia. Firm was called Coastal Land Services.
Ronan stopped walking.
Coastal. Like Coastal Ventures LLC?
Different company. But the same word. Could be coincidence. Could be a pattern.
What happened to the Georgia firm?
Dissolved in 2017. Two years before Webb took the county job in Blossom Springs. All records sealed. I'm working on accessing them, but it's going to take time.
Who owned Coastal Land Services?
That's where it gets interesting. The firm was a subsidiary of a larger holding company. Want to guess which one?
Ronan didn't need to guess.
Coastal Ventures.
Give the man a prize. It's all connected, Ronan. The surveys, the permits, the shell companies, the property transfers. Someone built a system. And that system has been operating for at least a decade, probably longer.
Warren Caldwell?
Still no direct link. But he's on the board of the foundation that funds the intermediary company. He recommended you for this job, which means he wanted someone looking at security—or he wanted to control who was looking. And his name appears in Daniel Bennett's notes from five years ago.
Bennett's notes mentioned Caldwell?
Not by name. But there's a reference to 'W.C.' in connection with a property transfer that Bennett flagged as suspicious. Same initials. Same timeframe.
Ronan stood in the darkness, the Gulf breeze warm against his face, and felt the weight of what they were uncovering settle onto his shoulders.
Warren Caldwell. Beloved philanthropist. Pillar of the community. The man who'd held Lila as a baby and spoken at her father's funeral.
If he were the architect of this operation, the revelation would destroy her.
We need more evidence. He typed. Enough to be certain before we move.
Working on it. But Ronan—if Caldwell is the hub, we have to consider the possibility that he knows about Lila's investigation. Her father's notes. Everything.
He offered her a seat on the town council yesterday.
A long pause before Caleb's response.
That's not good.
No. It's not.
If he's trying to bring her inside, it means he either wants to use her or neutralize her. Either way, she's in more danger than we thought.
Ronan pocketed his phone and stared out at the dark water. Somewhere out there, boats moved through the night. Some of them carried fishermen. Some of them carried tourists.
And some of them, maybe, carried things that weren't supposed to be seen.
He thought about Lila. About the promise he'd made to find answers. About the look in her eyes when she'd asked if he trusted her.
He was running out of time. And so was she.
Whatever happened next, he needed to be ready to protect her. Even if it meant blowing his cover. Even if it meant compromising the mission.
Even if it meant admitting that somewhere along the way, keeping her safe had become more important than anything else.