10. The Committee’s Judgement #2
“From what?” I press, dropping into my chair. “Or should I ask—from who?”
“From Lyle Garrow.” His voice hardens as he speaks the name. “The current situation in town is… more complex than you yet understand.”
“Then help me understand.” I gesture to the chair opposite mine. “No more half-truths or mysterious notes. I need to know what I’m really involved in here.”
He nods once, then settles into the chair with careful deliberation.
“Lyle Garrow is not like his predecessors,” he begins, his hands resting lightly on the chair arms. “The original Garrow family believed their power came from supernatural sources, that controlling the town brought them mystic benefits, protection from aging, and prosperity.”
“They thought they were making some kind of sacrifice to dark gods?” I ask, unable to keep the skepticism from my voice.
Silas’s mouth quirks in what might almost be a smile.
“Something like that. Superstition mixed with greed. They had rituals, ceremonies in the old town hall basement.” His expression darkens.
“But Lyle is different. He knows it’s all mythology.
For him, there is only power itself, the pleasure of watching people bend to his will, of controlling every aspect of town governance, of breaking those who resist.”
“And these three people, they resisted somehow?”
“Thomas Webb discovered financial irregularities in the town’s emergency management fund.
Money allocated for disaster preparation is being funnelled into private accounts.
” Silas’s voice remains measured, but his fingers tap once, twice against the chair arm, a tell I’m beginning to recognize as contained anger.
“Ellen Mercer witnessed Lyle assaulting a woman behind the Harvest Festival tent. And Maria Guthrie refused to sell her family’s historic farmland for Lyle’s new ‘town improvement’ project. ”
My stomach twists as I connect the dots. “And they all would have faced consequences if they’d stayed.”
“Webb would have been framed for the very embezzlement he uncovered. Mercer would have been discredited, possibly harmed. And Guthrie…” He pauses, something haunted flickering across his features. “The Garrows have arranged accidents before.”
The casual way he says it sends ice through my veins. “Jesus. And this is the man who’s summoned me to a council meeting tomorrow.”
Silas rises suddenly, moving toward the far corner of the library. “There’s something you need to see.”
He runs his hand along a section of wood panelling where two carved roses meet, applying pressure in a specific pattern.
A soft click, and a panel slides back, revealing a narrow cabinet built into the wall itself.
Inside, illuminated by the soft lamp light, lies an extremely organized collection of evidence, file folders, photographs, journals, and small boxes of personal effects.
“For generations,” Silas says, his voice low with controlled intensity, “my family has documented Garrow’s activities.
Not just helping people escape, but gathering evidence of their crimes.
” He extracts a leather-bound portfolio and places it carefully on the table between us. “This is Lyle’s section.”
I open the portfolio with fingers that aren’t quite steady.
Inside, page after page of damning evidence, photographs showing Lyle meeting with known criminals in neighbouring counties; financial documents tracing money from town resources to offshore accounts; transcripts of conversations where he threatens business owners, all noted with dates and contexts.
“Most of these were taken by my father,” Silas explains, standing close enough that I can smell the faint cedar scent that clings to his clothes. “Some by me, after I took over as guardian. The documentation is continuous, stretching back nearly forty years.”
I flip through the pages, my mind categorizing and connecting information with the precision that made me good at my previous research job.
“This is… comprehensive.” I pause at a particularly disturbing photograph showing a much younger Lyle standing over a bleeding man, a satisfied smile on his face.
“With this evidence, you could destroy him. Why haven’t you? ”
Silas shakes his head, retrieving another folder from the cabinet.
“The town’s power structure is designed to protect its leadership.
” He opens the folder to reveal a hand-drawn map of interconnected names and positions, like a corporate org chart from hell.
“Every key position is filled by someone indebted to or threatened by Garrow. The police chief is his second cousin. The county judge owes his position to Garrow’s campaign contributions.
The newspaper editor’s gambling debts were quietly paid off three years ago. ”
His finger traces lines connecting dozens of names, institutions, and businesses. “This is what we’re truly fighting, not one corrupt man, but an entire system designed to insulate him from consequences.”
“So exposure wouldn’t work,” I murmur, following the connections with growing unease.
“It would be buried, evidence discredited, witnesses pressured into silence.” He closes the folder with careful precision.
“And those who spoke out would face severe repercussions. We tried once, fifteen years ago. The man who came forward was found dead in his garage, having suffered carbon monoxide poisoning. Ruled accidental.”
I swallow hard, the implications settling like lead in my stomach. “So instead, you help people disappear.”
“We extract those in immediate danger and establish them elsewhere with new identities.” He returns to the cabinet and extracts a small wooden box.
“This belonged to Maria Guthrie, a locket containing her mother’s hair.
She couldn’t take it with her; it was too identifiable.
She asked me to keep it safe until it’s time. ”
He places the locket in my palm, a simple gold oval, warm from being held in his hand. I turn it over, imagining the woman who valued it enough to want it preserved even though she couldn’t keep it herself.
“And the council meeting tomorrow?” I ask, returning the locket to its box. “What does Garrow want with me?”
Silas’s expression grows grim. “The estate has been a thorn in his side for generations, the one property his family has never controlled, the sanctuary that undermines his power. He’s tried buying it, claiming it through taxes, and having it condemned.
” His eyes meet mine. “Now he’ll try intimidation, using your lack of alibi for these disappearances as leverage. ”
My head spins as I take in everything I’m learning. I reach for my leather-bound journal, open it next to the evidence folders, and start writing down connections, questions, and possible plans.
“He’ll try to make me look unstable,” I muse aloud, thinking through the tactics. “The paranoid woman living alone in the haunted house where people keep disappearing.”
I tap my pen against the page, mind racing. “Then I need to flip the script. Present as completely rational. Documented. Prepared.” I look up at Silas, a plan forming. “And I need to understand exactly how deep his control goes before I walk into that meeting.”
Silas returns to the cabinet and extracts a final, thicker folder.
“This contains profiles of every council member, their connections to Garrow, their vulnerabilities, and their pressure points.” He places it before me.
“Study it tonight. Memorize their faces, their weaknesses. In that room tomorrow, knowledge will be your only weapon.”
I open the folder. Page after page of secrets—affairs, debts, bribes—all in Silas’s tight script. People I’ve passed on the street, now stripped bare on paper.
“How do you know all this?” I ask, looking up from a particularly damning page about the council treasurer’s tendency for very young escorts.
Something almost like pride flashes across Silas’s face. “I’ve been watching this town for twenty-three years. Nothing happens that I don’t eventually learn about.” His voice softens slightly. “This house has always been a sanctuary, Elara. But it’s also a watchtower.”
I nod, turning back to the documents. Tomorrow I face Garrow armed with decades of Silas’s intelligence. I may look like I’m walking in alone, but I’ll carry the full weight of Merrick vigilance with me.
The town hall towers over the square, all red brick and Victorian style, with a spire that seems to judge me.
I stop at the bottom of the granite steps, straightening my charcoal blazer and pencil skirt—professional, but not too formal.
My leather-bound journal is under my arm, filled with notes from Silas, covered in my rushed handwriting from last night.
I won’t pull it out, but just having it feels like carrying protection into enemy territory.
Inside, the main chamber smells of polish and authority.
Dark oak panels and brass fixtures shine under stained-glass windows, where portraits of town founders seem to glare down at me.
My table sits alone in the center, making me look up at the committee members on their raised platform.
The gallery seats curve around, so everyone can watch what happens next.
I take my seat and arrange my notebook and pen with deliberate calm, aware that several pairs of eyes are already tracking my movements.
According to Silas’s files, the silver-haired woman to Garrow’s right is Helen Pritchard, whose son’s college tuition was mysteriously covered after she voted to approve Garrow’s controversial rezoning plan.
The balding man with wire-rimmed glasses is Douglas Fleming, whose gambling debts were erased following his appointment to the historical preservation committee.
I recognize each face, connecting it to the web of corruption Silas outlined for me.
Knowledge is power, I remind myself. Or at least, it’s better than walking in blind.