Page 66 of In the Shadows
"Thank you."
"I'm giving the keynote at the dedication ceremony. Working on my speech now."
"I'm sure it will be entertaining."
"I'm going to talk about legacy. About what it means to build something that lasts." He dabbed his mouth with his napkin. "About the sacrifices our founders made to create this place we call home."
Lila thought about the evidence in Ronan's cottage. The shell companies. The falsified surveys. The money trail leading to this man, talking about legacy while he rotted the town from the inside.
"I'm sure it will be a beautiful speech," she said.
"Think about my offer, Lila. The council seat would be a chance to really make a difference. To protect the things that matter."
"I'll think about it."
He signaled for the check. "And Lila? Be careful. The centennial is a busy time. Lots of strangers in town. Lots of confusion." He paused. "Accidents happen so easily when people aren't paying attention."
She smiled at him. The same smile she'd been practicing all morning.
"I'm always paying attention, Warren."
Ronan didn’t answer his phone.
Lila called twice from inside the hotel lobby after lunch with Warren. He’d said he would be parked across the street. His car was gone.
Her phone rang. Not Ronan’s number. A different number, one she didn’t know. She tapped the answer icon and put the phone to her ear.
“This is Caleb, Ronan’s co-worker. He’s okay,” Caleb said before she could speak. “Minor collision on Beach Road. Someone ran a stop sign and clipped his rear quarter panel. He’s at the cottage.”
The relief hit so hard her vision blurred. Then the fear caught up, and the fear was worse.
“How minor?”
“The truck took the worst of it. Bruised ribs and a cut on his forehead. Nothing that requires a hospital.”
“Did you say someone ran a stop sign?”
“Dark blue pickup, no plates. Didn’t stop.” Caleb’s voice was flat. “The damage pattern is consistent with a deliberate sideswipe. If they’d wanted him dead, they would have T-boned the driver’s side.”
She drove to his Beach Road cabin at five over the speed limit with both hands on the wheel.
Ronan opened the cottage door before she knocked.
The cut on his forehead was small but vivid—a two-inch gash above his left eyebrow, held together with butterfly bandages he’d applied himself. His left arm was pressed against his ribs in that careful way that said the bruising ran deep.
“It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“You have blood in your hair.”
She pushed past him. Found the first aid kit. Set it on the kitchen table hard enough to rattle the salt and pepper shakers.
“Sit down.”
“Lila—”
“Sit. Down.”
He sat. She pulled a chair in front of him, close enough that their knees touched, and peeled back the butterfly bandages. Cleaned the cut with an antiseptic. He didn’t flinch, though his shoulders lifted slightly.
