Chapter Seven
Cracks Beneath the Surface
The first sign of trouble arrived in the form of a bright orange notice taped to the lamppost outside the bookstore.
Norelle carried it inside one Tuesday morning.
“What is a zoning variance?” she asked.
I took the paper from her.
The notice announced a public hearing concerning a mixed-use redevelopment proposal along Morrow Avenue.
“It could be anything,” I said.
Norelle looked through the front window toward the businesses across the street. “They put notices on every corner.”
By lunchtime, rumors moved through the neighborhood.
Branson Market had received an inquiry about selling.
The laundromat’s owner claimed a development company had offered him twice the building’s value.
The old pharmacy had already closed.
I called Mr. Dillingham.
He did not answer.
That evening, LaKeith arrived carrying dinner.
I placed the zoning notice in front of him.
“Have you heard about this?” I asked.
He read it carefully.
“I’ve heard developers are interested in the block,” LaKeith answered.
“That sounds vague.”
“Because I don’t know the full plan.”
“Would my building be involved?”
“It could be.”
My stomach tightened. “I have four years left on my lease.”
LaKeith’s jaw shifted slightly. “I know.”
The response felt strange.
I studied him. “Why do you sound worried?”
“I don’t like redevelopment plans that remove the businesses already serving the neighborhood.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
LaKeith reached across the table for my hand. “I’m looking into it.”
“You’re looking into what?”
“Who owns the proposed development and which properties they’re targeting.”
“Why?”
“Because it matters to you.”
His answer should have comforted me.
Instead, a quiet uneasiness formed in my chest.
Before I could question him again, Miss Clevonne entered complaining that the city intended to replace every useful business with “a coffee shop that sells six-dollar air.”
The conversation changed.
The uneasiness remained.
Two days later, Norelle called me into the office.
Her laptop sat open on my desk.
“I found the development application,” she said.
“How?”
“I searched the city planning website.”
“You voluntarily visited a government website?”
“I love you.”
“That must be love.”
Norelle clicked through several documents.
“Harrow Urban Development submitted the initial application,” she explained. “They want luxury apartments, retail space, and a parking garage.”
“Which buildings?”
“Most of this block.”
My pulse quickened as she enlarged a map.
Between the Lines sat inside the proposed demolition area.
“No,” I whispered.
Norelle scrolled through the application. “There are preliminary contractor bids attached.”
A familiar company name appeared halfway down the page.
Vance Restoration and Development Services.
I stared at it.
The letters blurred.
“That could be old,” Norelle said quickly. “Maybe Harrow contacted LaKeith before he knew what they planned.”
“He said he was looking into it.”
“He may be.”
“He knew enough to bid on the project.”
Norelle clicked another attachment.
The proposal was dated two months earlier.
My chest went cold.
The bell above the front door chimed.
Remell Frazier walked into the store.
He wore a navy suit, expensive loafers, and the same smile he used whenever he was preparing to explain something that made no sense.
My body recognized danger before my heart had time to react.
Norelle stood. “You have got to be kidding me.”
Remell approached the office doorway. “Hello, Yandy.”
“What do you want?”
“I came on business.”
“That makes the situation worse.”
His gaze landed on the laptop screen.
“You found the public documents,” Remell said.
“How are you involved?”
“I’m consulting for Harrow.”
“Of course you are.”
Remell adjusted his cuff. “Harrow is prepared to offer relocation assistance to businesses affected by the development.”
“I’m not relocating.”
“This neighborhood is changing.”
“This neighborhood is being sold.”
“Development creates opportunity.”
“For people who can afford it.”
Remell sighed. “You always make business personal.”
“You stole from my business. You made it personal.”
Norelle covered a laugh with a cough.
Remell glanced at her. “This conversation is private.”
Norelle pointed toward the café. “This establishment has open seating. Purchase something or continue your public humiliation.”
I turned the laptop toward Remell.
“Why is Vance Restoration listed here?”
Remell studied my face before answering.
“I assumed LaKeith told you.”
“Told me what?”
“That Harrow contacted his company months ago.”
“Did he accept the contract?”
“He submitted a preliminary bid.” Remell paused. “He withdrew recently.”
“Why?”
“You should ask him.”
I stood. “What else do you know?”
Remell picked up the zoning notice from my desk.
“Your landlord has been entertaining offers for the building,” he said. “Harrow isn’t the only interested buyer.”
My heart began pounding.
“Who else made an offer?”
Remell placed the notice back on the desk. “LaKeith.”
The room tilted.
Norelle stepped beside me. “When?”
“Last week,” Remell answered.
I stared at him.
Remell’s expression held too much satisfaction.
“You came here to stir up trouble,” I said.
“I came to discuss relocation.”
“You knew exactly what you were doing.”
“I’m telling you facts.”
“You have always enjoyed facts when you could arrange them into a lie.”
His smile faded.
I pointed toward the door. “Leave.”
“Yandy—”
“Get out.”
Remell straightened his jacket.
At the entrance, he looked back at me.
“For what it’s worth, I did love you.”
“For what it’s worth, you were terrible at it.”
The door closed behind him.
Norelle moved closer. “LaKeith may have a reasonable explanation.”
“He submitted an offer last week.”
“Call him.”
I picked up my phone.
LaKeith didn’t answer.
I called again.
Voicemail.
Every unanswered call became evidence inside my frightened mind.
By six that evening, I had convinced myself that history was repeating itself with a different beard.