Page 7 of In the Shadows
Instead, he said, "They matter to me."
A beat of silence. Then Lila laughed, and the tension broke. "Fair enough. I'll stop interrogating you. For now." She stood, reaching for her bag. "I need to show you the venues. The concert space, the harbor setup, the parade route. It'll take a couple of hours, if you have time."
"I have time."
"Great. And on the way, you can tell me all the horrible things that could go wrong, and I'll try not to have a stress-induced breakdown."
She moved past him toward the door, and he caught a hint of something—not perfume, something softer. Vanilla, maybe. The same scent he'd noticed when she'd breezed past him at Mae's yesterday.
He followed her out of the office, down the stairs, into the September sunshine.
The town spread out before them, picture-perfect. Harbor glinting in the distance. Tree-lined streets. Tourists wandering past antique shops and ice cream parlors. A church steeple rising above it all, the kind of image that belonged on a calendar.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Lila caught his expression. "I know what you're thinking. Too perfect. Like a movie set."
"I wasn't thinking that."
"Liar." But she said it without heat. "Everyone thinks it when they first see it. And honestly? It kind of is. The entire downtown is a preserved historical district. There are codes about paint colors, signage, and which streetlights we're allowed to use. Some people think it's charming. Others think it's oppressive."
"Which do you think?"
She considered the question as they walked, her stride brisk enough that he had to adjust his pace to match. "I think it's home. Which means I see all the cracks that the tourists don't notice. The building on Fourth Street that's been empty for three years because the owner can't afford the renovation requirements. The families who've been here for generations but can barely make rent because property values keep climbing." She shrugged. "It's beautiful, it's broken, and it's mine. That's how I think of it."
They'd reached the town square. A bandstand in the center, surrounded by manicured grass and benches occupied by elderly couples and young mothers with strollers.
Lila gestured toward the bandstand. "The mayor's welcome speech happens here on Saturday morning. Then the parade starts at eleven. Route goes down Main Street, turns at Harbor Road, ends at the waterfront."
Ronan scanned the square automatically. Sight lines. Cover points. The narrow alley between two buildings that would be perfect for someone who wanted to disappear. The second-floor windows of the shops that faced the square—any one of them could be a vantage point.
"How many people are you expecting?"
"For the welcome speech? Maybe a thousand. For the parade?" She blew out a breath. "Three thousand. Maybe more. It's the biggest parade we've ever done."
"What's your crowd control plan?"
"Barriers along the route. Volunteers at the intersections. The police will be on patrol, plus whatever additional support you recommend."
"Two officers can't manage three thousand people."
"I know." She sounded tired. "That's why you're here."
They walked the parade route together. Lila knew every building, every corner, every business owner who waved at her through their shop windows. She introduced him to the woman who ran the antique store, the man who owned the hardware shop, and the teenager behind the counter at the ice cream parlor.
This is Ronan. He's doing security for the centennial. Be nice to him.
They were nice. Friendly, curious, exactly what you'd expect from small-town residents meeting an outsider. But Ronan noticed the way some of them looked at him—evaluating, assessing. Trying to figure out what he was really doing here.
They turned onto Harbor Road, and the breeze picked up, carrying salt and the distant sound of boat rigging clanking in the wind.
"The harbor festival is Sunday," Lila said. "Everything happens on the waterfront. Food vendors, boat races, and fireworks at nine. It's always our biggest crowd."
"And your highest risk."
"Because of the water?"
"Because of everything. Open space. Multiple entry points. Fireworks involve pyrotechnics, which means controlled explosions in a crowd of people. You've got food vendors, which means propane tanks and cooking equipment. You've got boats, which means?—"
"Okay, okay." She held up a hand. "I get it. Everything is a potential disaster."
