Page 11 of In the Shadows
Tray leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. The wood creaked under his weight.
"Lila. You've known me your whole life. So I'm going to be straight with you." He paused. "Warren Caldwell carries a lot of weight in this town. Always has. If he vouched for this guy, there's a reason."
"That's what worries me."
The words came out sharper than she intended. Tray's eyebrows rose slightly, but he didn't respond.
She took a breath. Steadied herself.
"I'm sorry. I'm just—the centennial is in three weeks. Everything has to go perfectly. And when things feel off, I need to understand why."
"Things feel off how? Beyond the consultant?"
She could tell him. Right now, in this office, she could lay out everything she'd noticed over the past two years. The permit applications with missing documentation. The property transfers that didn't add up. The names that appeared on too many forms, connected in ways that shouldn't exist.
But Tray had been in Blossom Springs longer than she'd been alive. If something was wrong—really wrong—he'd have noticed. Unless he hadn't wanted to.
"Nothing specific." She gathered her files and stood. "Just stress, probably. Forget I said anything."
"Lila."
She paused at the door.
"I'll make those calls. About Cross." His voice was careful, measured. "But do me a favor. Don't go digging on your own. If there's something off about this guy, let me handle it."
"Of course." She forced a smile. "That's why I came to you."
She walked out of the station and didn't look back.
The walk to her car felt longer than it should have. Lila kept her pace steady, her shoulders straight, even though everything inside her wanted to run. To get in her car and drive somewhere—anywhere—where the questions in her head might quiet down.
She reached the parking lot and paused, keys in hand. A bench sat in front of the VFW hall, occupied by a man with a newspaper. Dark hair. Broad shoulders. Even from this distance, she recognized the way he held himself—alert, contained, like he was ready to move at any moment.
Ronan Cross.
He wasn't looking at her. His attention appeared fixed on his newspaper, a coffee cup beside him on the bench. But something about the angle of his head, the stillness of his posture, made her skin prickle.
She got in her car and pulled out of the lot, turning left onto Second Street. In her rearview mirror, she watched him fold his newspaper and stand.
Coincidence. Had to be a coincidence.
She drove toward Main Street, her hands tight on the wheel. Tray's words echoed in her head.
Don't go digging on your own. If there's something off about this guy, let me handle it.
She'd heard variations of that her entire life. Let the men handle it. Don't worry your pretty head. Stay in your lane.
Her father had never talked to her that way. He'd taught her to ask questions, to follow evidence, to trust her instincts. He'd been the one who'd first shown her how to read a property record, how to trace ownership chains, how to spot the gaps that meant someone was hiding something.
"Look for what's missing," he used to say. "The truth isn't always in what people show you. Sometimes it's in what they leave out."
He'd also been dead for five years, and whatever he'd known about the things happening in Blossom Springs had died with him.
She parked behind Town Hall and sat in her car for a long moment, staring at the building where she'd spent the last eight years of her life. Filing permits. Organizing events. Keeping her head down and her questions to herself.
That was the smart play. The safe play. The play that kept you employed, unfired, and uninvolved in things that could get complicated.
But her father hadn't raised her to play it safe. And the questions weren't going away.
