Chapter 12 #3
The cold spread. She thought about Tray Fielding, who'd known her since childhood. Who'd come to her father's funeral in his dress uniform. Who'd patted her shoulder and promised they'd find out what happened.
"Mitch. I need to tell you something."
"I'm listening."
"Chief Fielding owns three properties in the coastal restriction zone. All purchased through shell companies connected to Coastal Property Services." She heard her own voice, calm and flat. "He's been on Warren Caldwell's payroll for years. Maybe decades."
Silence.
"How do you know this?"
"Because I've been investigating Warren Caldwell since my father died. And I'm not the only one."
More silence. When Mitch spoke again, his voice was different. Harder.
"Who else?"
"People who have the resources to do something about it. Federal resources." She gripped the phone. "The FBI is executing search warrants tonight. Arrests are coming. By Saturday, this whole thing could be over."
"Saturday. The parade."
"Yes."
"Christ, Lila." Mitch let out a breath. "You've been sitting on this the whole time? While I've been running security for an event that's about to turn into a federal crime scene?"
"I couldn't tell you. Not until now. Not until we were sure."
"And you're sure now?"
"I'm sure that Warren Caldwell killed my father. I'm sure he's stolen millions from this town. And I'm sure that Tray Fielding helped him cover it up." Her voice cracked. "I'm sure that the man who promised to find out what happened to my dad was probably the one who helped make it happen."
Mitch opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again. "What do you need from me?"
"Keep doing your job. Run security for the centennial like nothing's changed. And if Fielding asks you any more questions, tell him you're focused on the parade and nothing else."
"You want me to lie to the police chief."
"I want you to stay alive long enough for the FBI to arrest him."
A long pause before Mitch spoke. "Twenty-two years as a cop in this town.
He coached my nephew's baseball team." His voice was flat and careful — the voice of a man choosing words to avoid saying worse ones.
"Was he ever actually a good cop, or was he dirty from the start?
" Lila didn't have an answer for that. She wasn't sure anyone did.
Another pause. Then: "Okay. I can do that."
"Thank you."
"Lila." His voice softened. "I'm sorry about your father. And I'm sorry about Fielding. I know what it's like when someone you trusted turns out to be..." He didn't finish.
"Yeah," she said. That's good to know.
After she hung up, she sat on the porch and watched the last sliver of sun disappear beneath the water. The sky was streaked with orange and pink, the kind of sunset that usually made tourists reach for their phones.
She thought about Tray Fielding. About the night he'd come to her house after her father died, his hat in his hands, his face grave. How he'd held her mother while she sobbed. He'd known. The whole time, he'd known.
The screen door creaked, and Ronan came out onto the porch. He didn't say anything. Just sat down beside her and took her hand.
"Fielding," she said.
"I heard."
The night her father died, Tray Fielding had sat at her kitchen table for two hours.
He had drunk two cups of coffee that Lila made because she needed something to do with her hands.
He had told them that Daniel was one of the finest men he had ever known, that the town was less without him.
Her mother had leaned into his shoulder and wept, and he had let her.
"He came to my house the night my father died. He looked me in the eye and said he was sorry." Her voice was steady, but something inside her felt like it was breaking. "He'd probably already helped cover it up. And I thanked him. I hugged him and thanked him for caring."
Ronan squeezed her hand.
"You didn't know."
"I should have. I should have looked harder, asked more questions, not just accepted—" She stopped.
Breathed. "All these years, I thought I was the only one who suspected the truth.
He was perfectly healthy one day and had a heart attack the next.
I was the only one who wasn't getting paid to ignore it. "
"You weren't the only one who cared. Your father cared. And he paid for it." Ronan turned to face her. "The difference is that you're going to finish what he started. And you're going to survive."
"You can't promise that."
"No. But I can promise that anyone who tries to hurt you is going to have to come through me first." He lifted her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles.
"And I can promise that forty-eight hours from now, Warren Caldwell and Tray Fielding and everyone else who helped destroy your family will be answering to federal prosecutors instead of running this town. "
She leaned into him. Let herself rest against his shoulder. The evening air was warm, and somewhere down the beach, music was playing—someone's radio, or maybe the sound check for Saturday's concert.
"Then what happens?" she asked.
"After the arrests?"
"After all of it. After the FBI, the trials, and the newspapers. After everyone finds out what's been happening in their town for the past thirty years."
"I don't know." He was quiet for a moment. "I've never stayed anywhere long enough to see the after."
"But you're thinking about staying now."
It wasn't a question.
"I'm thinking about a lot of things." He pulled her closer. "Mostly about you."
She closed her eyes. Let herself have this moment—the warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart, the sound of the waves against the shore.
Tomorrow would bring the FBI. Saturday would bring the arrests. And after that, whatever was left of Blossom Springs would have to find a way to rebuild.
The phone call came at 11:47 that night.
They were on the couch at his cottage—she was at one end, he was at the other, a foot of space between them. He’d insisted on staying upright because lying down made his ribs feel worse. She’d insisted on staying because she wasn’t leaving him alone.
Her phone buzzed on the coffee table. Unknown number.
She looked at Ronan. He nodded.
She answered.
Silence. Three seconds. The connection hissing softly.
Then a voice. Male. Calm. Pleasant, even.
“Your father asked a lot of questions, too. Look how that turned out.”
The line went dead.
Lila sat with the phone pressed against her ear, the man’s voice still ringing. Your father. A lot of questions. Look how that turned out.
Ronan took the phone from her hand. She let him. Her fingers had gone numb.
“What did they say?”
She told him. Word for word. Her voice sounded strange—flat, detached.
He typed the number into his phone and sent it to Caleb. Then he set both phones on the table.
“You’re not going back to your house. Not tonight. Not until this is over.”
“Ronan—”
“This isn’t a discussion.” He wasn’t raising his voice. The force was in his eyes. “They came into your house. They searched your office. They hit my car. And now they’re calling you at midnight to remind you what they did to your father.”
“I know what they did to my father.”
“Then you know what they’ll do to you.” He moved closer. His hand found hers on the couch cushion. “Stay here. With me. Let me do the one thing I’m actually good at.”
“What’s that?”
“Keeping the people I care about alive.”
She laced her fingers through his. His hand was warm. His grip was careful—aware of the bruised ribs, the cut above his eye.
“I’ll stay,” she said. “But I’m not hiding. I’m going to work tomorrow. I’m going to run the centennial. And when this is over, I’m going to stand in front of this town and tell them who Warren Caldwell is.”
His thumb moved slowly over her knuckles. Back and forth. Outside, the inlet whispered against the dock. The frogs sang.
She didn’t let go. Neither did he.