Page 12 of In the Shadows
She spent the rest of the morning at her desk, trying to focus on centennial logistics while her mind kept circling back to the conversation with Tray.
Her email sat open on her screen, the message from the county clerk glowing like an accusation. She typed a response, deleted it. Typed another.
A knock on her office door made her jump.
Ronan Cross stood in the doorway, looking entirely too awake for mid-morning. He'd changed since she'd glimpsed him on the bench—different shirt, same watchful eyes.
"Sorry to interrupt. You have a minute?"
"That depends on what you need." She didn't stand. Didn't smile. Let him feel the coolness in her voice.
He stepped into the office, and the space immediately felt smaller. "I stopped by the police station this morning. Chief Fielding was helpful. But I had a few follow-up questions about the venue layouts."
"You were at the police station."
"For about twenty minutes. Fielding gave me the incident reports from previous years. Wanted to understand the local protocols."
She watched him settle into the chair across from her desk, moving with that same controlled ease she'd noticed yesterday. Like every motion was deliberate. Calculated.
"When did you get there?"
"About ten-thirty. Why?"
After she'd left. He'd gone in after she'd left, which meant he hadn't been sitting on that bench to intercept her. He'd been waiting for her to leave so he could talk to Tray without her there.
Or he'd been watching her. Cataloging her movements. Noting who she talked to and for how long.
"No reason." She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. "What questions do you have about the venue layouts?"
"The harbor setup. You mentioned the boat races start at the south end, but the spectator viewing area is on the north side. That's a lot of open water in between."
"The races loop around. The viewing area gives the best sightlines for the finish."
"And emergency boat access?"
"Coast Guard coordinates. They've done it for years."
He nodded, but his attention wasn't on her answers. His gaze had drifted to her desk, to the stack of files beside her keyboard. She'd been careless—left the county clerk’s email visible on her screen, the flagged permit applications sitting in plain sight.
"Busy morning?"
"Always." She minimized the email with a deliberate click. "Three weeks until the centennial. Every morning is busy."
"I can imagine." He met her eyes, and something in his expression shifted. "You look tired."
"Excuse me?"
"Not an insult. An observation. You've got a lot on your plate, and it shows." He paused. "I've seen it before. People carrying more than they should, trying to hold it all together alone."
"I'm fine."
"I'm sure you are." He didn't look convinced. "But if there's anything making your job harder—anything beyond normal event stress—I'd want to know about it. Part of my assessment."
"Your assessment is about security. Crowd control. Emergency protocols."
"My assessment is about understanding the environment." He tilted his head slightly. "All of it. Including the things people don't want to talk about."
The silence stretched between them. She could feel him watching her, reading her, looking for the cracks in her composure. It should have felt invasive. Threatening, even.
