Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Lila drove past her house twice before she pulled into the driveway.
The bungalow sat quiet in the late afternoon light, its white shutters and neat front porch looking exactly the way she'd left it that morning.
Nothing out of place. Nothing wrong. But warnings echoed in her head—professionals don't usually stop at one visit—and suddenly, home didn't feel safe anymore.
She sat in her car with the engine running, scanning the street. Mrs. Delacroix was watering her roses two houses down. A pickup she didn't recognize was parked at the curb near the corner, but pickups were common enough in Blossom Springs. Nothing to worry about.
Except she was worried. About everything.
Her phone buzzed.
Don't go inside yet.
Ronan. She looked around but didn't see him.
Where are you?
Parked on Magnolia, one block over. I've been watching your house for the past hour. Someone drove by three times in a gray sedan. Circled the block, slowed in front of your place, kept going.
Her hands tightened on the steering wheel.
They're watching me.
They're deciding whether to move on your house. Back out of the driveway. Meet me at Sarge's in twenty minutes. We need to talk.
She didn't want to back out. She wanted to go inside, grab her father's files, and get out before anyone could stop her. But Ronan was right. If they were watching, going in now would confirm that she had something worth protecting.
She put the car in reverse and pulled back onto the street, forcing herself to drive at a normal speed, to look like a woman who'd simply forgotten something at the store.
In her rearview mirror, the gray sedan turned onto her street.
Sarge's Sandbar was already filling up with the after-work crowd when Lila arrived.
She found a booth in the back corner, away from the bar where the bartender was mixing drinks and the tables where locals were settling in for happy hour. Jace Marriott waved at her from behind the bar—he'd owned the place for about three years now—but she just nodded and kept moving.
Ronan slid into the booth across from her five minutes later. He'd come in through the back, she noticed. Always watching exits, always thinking three moves ahead.
"The sedan followed you halfway here, then turned off toward the highway."
"So they know I didn't go home."
"They know you're being careful. That's actually useful." He leaned forward, keeping his voice low. "It means they're not sure what you have or where you keep it. If they were certain, they wouldn't be watching. They'd be acting."
"That's supposed to make me feel better?"
"It's supposed to give us time." He pulled out his phone and showed her a grainy image—a man in dark clothes exiting a vehicle.
"Caleb pulled this from the hotel security footage.
The break-in at your office happened at 3:47 a.m. This guy spent eleven minutes inside, then left through the same side door you used this morning. "
"You can't see his face."
"No. But the vehicle registration traces back to a shell company that traces back to another shell company that traces back to Coastal Property Services."
Warren Caldwell. Everything kept circling back to Warren.
"So what do we do?"
"First, we assume your office is compromised. Not just searched—bugged. They didn't just take your files, Lila. They wanted to know who you talk to, what you're planning, whether you're working alone."
She felt the blood drain from her face. "I called Delia from my office this afternoon. Told her I'd be late for dinner."
"That's fine. Normal conversation, normal life.
That's what they expect to hear." He reached across the table and touched her hand briefly.
"What matters is that you don't discuss anything sensitive in that building.
Not on the phone, not in person. Act like someone's always listening, because they probably are. "
"And my house?"
"That's the problem." His chin lifted. Not defiance. Preparation. "The files they took from your office were copies. Eventually, they're going to figure that out. When they do, your house becomes the next target."
"The originals are in my father's study. In a locked drawer."
"A lock won't stop these people."
"I know." She pulled her hand back and pressed her palms flat against the table. "So we move them. Tonight."
"Where?"
"I don't know yet. Somewhere they won't think to look." She met his eyes. "Somewhere that isn't connected to me."
Ronan was quiet for a moment. "My cottage. It's a rental under a cover name. No paper trail linking it to the real me, and no connection to you."
"If they find out—"
"They won't. And even if they did, those files would be evidence of my investigation, not yours. It gives you deniability."
She didn't like it. Handing over everything her father had built, everything she'd spent two years compiling—it felt like giving up control. But control was an illusion right now. The only thing that mattered was keeping the evidence safe until they could use it.
"Okay. But I'm making copies first. Digital ones, stored somewhere they can't touch."
"Caleb can help with that. Encrypted cloud storage, multiple backups, nothing traceable." He checked his watch. "The centennial is two weeks out. That gives us time to build the case properly, document everything, make sure when this goes public, there's no way Caldwell can squirm out of it."
"Two weeks." She let out a breath. "Two weeks of pretending everything is normal. Two weeks of smiling at Warren Caldwell and acting like I don't know he had my father killed."
"Can you do it?"
She thought about her father—his careful notes, his methodical documentation, the way he'd quietly gathered evidence for years without ever letting anyone see what he knew.
"I learned from the best."
They waited until after dark.
Ronan drove, taking a circuitous route through the residential streets before doubling back toward Lila's neighborhood. She watched the mirrors, looking for headlights that stayed too long, vehicles that matched their turns. Nothing.
"The sedan's gone," she said.
"For now. They'll be back." He pulled into the alley behind her house and killed the headlights. "How much time do you need?"
"Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen."
"I'll wait out here on lookout. If anything looks wrong, text me one word—anything—and I'll be at the back door in thirty seconds."
She nodded and slipped out of the car. The grass was damp under her feet as she crossed the backyard, and the familiar creak of the porch steps made her wince. Inside, the house was dark and still. She didn't turn on any lights.
Her father's study was at the back of the house, a small room lined with bookshelves and cluttered with the tools of his trade—surveying equipment, rolled maps, reference books. She'd left everything exactly the way he'd had it, unable to pack away the last pieces of his life.
The locked drawer was in the old oak desk. She'd kept the key on her keychain for five years, a small brass reminder of everything she'd lost and everything she was fighting for.
The files were thick—manila folders stuffed with documents, photographs, handwritten notes in her father's precise script.
Years of evidence, gathered piece by piece.
Property records that didn't match county files.
Survey discrepancies that should have been caught.
Permits were approved without proper inspection.
A paper trail that led straight to the heart of Blossom Springs and the men who controlled it.
She loaded everything into a canvas bag and added her own files—the timeline she'd built, the connections she'd mapped, the questions she still couldn't answer. The bag was heavy when she lifted it, weighted with truth.
On her way out, she paused in the hallway. A photograph hung on the wall—her parents on their wedding day, young and hopeful, standing in front of the house that would become their home. Her father's smile was wide and unguarded, the smile of a man who believed good things lasted.
"I'm close, Dad," she whispered. "I'm so close."
She slipped out the back door and crossed the yard to where Ronan waited. The car pulled away without headlights, silent as a ghost.
Ronan's cottage was small and sparse, the kind of rental that came furnished and impersonal.
Lila set the bag on the table and watched him lock the door behind them.
"You live like you're ready to leave at any moment."
"Because I usually am." He moved to the windows, checking the blinds. "It's not a life that encourages putting down roots."
"Is that what you want? To keep moving forever?"
He turned to look at her. The lamp in the corner cast half his face in shadow, but she could see his eyes clearly. The tightness around his mouth eased.
"I used to think so."
"And now?"
"Now I'm not sure." He crossed to the table and began unpacking the files, laying them out in careful rows. "There's a lot of material here. Your father was thorough."
"He was a surveyor. Details were his life.
" She moved to stand beside him, looking down at the familiar documents.
"He started noticing discrepancies about eight years ago.
Small things at first—boundaries that didn't match recorded plats, easements that appeared and disappeared between filings. He thought they were clerical errors."
"When did he realize they weren’t?"
"About six years ago. He found a pattern—every property that showed discrepancies eventually changed hands, and every sale benefited the same small group of buyers.
" She picked up one of the files. "He traced it to Coastal Property Services.
That's when he started keeping copies at home instead of in his office. "
"He knew they were watching him."
"He suspected." Her voice caught. "He never told me. Never said a word about any of this. I found the files after he died, hidden in that drawer like he knew someone would come looking eventually."