Page 14 of Silent Watch
She sat back, her neck aching from hunching over the table, her eyes gritty from studying faded ink and cramped signatures.None of this was proof of anything illegal.Buying property wasn't a crime.Hiding your involvement through shell companies wasn't a crime by itself.
But it was a map—and somewhere on this map was the connection Isak had died trying to find.The link between local real estate and the larger syndicate network.
She checked her phone.Almost eleven.She'd been in this room for nearly two hours.Long enough for the wrong person to notice a writer spending her morning in the archives instead of photographing storefronts for her book.
She was reaching for the next folder when footsteps approached the door.Heavy.Deliberate.Not Geri's soft shuffle.
Harper's hand stilled on the folder.Her pulse kicked up.
"Ms.Warren?"
A man's voice.Deep, pleasant, with the easy confidence of someone used to being listened to.
Harper looked up.
He filled the doorway.Tall, broad-shouldered, maybe fifty, with dark hair going silver at the temples and a tan that spoke of golf courses or boat decks.Khakis, a polo shirt, and a Rolex that caught the light when he moved.The uniform of coastal Florida wealth.
"I'm sorry to interrupt."He didn't sound sorry."Geri mentioned we had a writer visiting.I'm on the library board—I like to welcome people who take an interest in our history."
He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation.The room felt smaller with him in it.
"Douglas Sattler."He extended his hand.
Harper stood.Her pulse spiked, but she'd trained herself years ago to keep her hands steady when her body wanted to shake.She shook his hand—firm grip, just short of too tight.A grip that said: I want you to know I'm strong.
"Holly Warren.Nice to meet you."
"The pleasure's mine."His smile was practiced, warm without being genuine.His eyes dropped to the papers spread across the table—his property records, his deeds, his corporate filings—and lingered there a beat too long before coming back to her face.
"Unusual angle for a book about small-town life."
"Real estate tells you a lot about a community.Who's invested, who's leaving, how the economy's changing."
"Very insightful."He pulled out a chair and sat without asking, crossing one ankle over his knee.The posture was casual, but his eyes weren't."Most writers who come through want to talk about the beach, the restaurants, the charming downtown.You're interested in something different."
"I'm interested in the truth."
Too sharp.She heard it as soon as it left her mouth.His eyes narrowed—a fraction, for half a second—before the pleasant mask resettled.
"The truth about what?"
"About how places like this actually work."She forced a laugh, trying to soften it."Sorry.I used to be a journalist.Old habits."
"A journalist."He leaned back, studying her."For which outlet?"
"Freelance.Travel and lifestyle pieces, mostly.Nothing you would have read."
"Try me.I read widely."
"Regional tourism boards.Gulf Coast bed-and-breakfasts.Nothing exciting."
"And now a book."
"Trying to.It's harder than I expected."
"Most things worth doing are."The smile again, empty and practiced."What brings you to Blossom Springs specifically?There are a lot of small towns on this coast."
"A friend recommended it.Said the people were friendly."
