“Yup,” Don says nonchalantly, already growing bored of the topic, leaning forward and rifling through some of the papers on his desk. “When the council wouldn’t play along, we went over their heads. We’ve made an offer to the State already, on hold for when they put the property up. Nobody else is even going to have a chance at it.”
“Very clever,” I say, though the words are coming out through my teeth. “All your idea?”
“Sure was,” Don says, though I have no idea if he’s lying. If it was someone else’s idea, he’d definitely take credit for it. He fixes me with that predatory smile. “Stick around longer, keep working up that ladder, and you’ll get to learn from the best, Callaghan.”
“I plan to, sir,” I lie. Don goes on to tell me about my new position and calls his assistant to set up a meeting with HR for me, so I can review the job description and sign all the proper papers.
I nod and smile, thanking him and getting up to shake his hand for the last time. When I walk out of his office, I have absolutely no intention of going back.
Stumbling out to the street, I turn the corner and pull my phone out of my pocket, my shaking hands fumbling to unlock it.
It’s still recording.
The relief that floods through me is closely followed by another wave of nausea, but this time, I don’t make it to a trash can.
As I vomit into the bushes, I think it’s the least McKay deserves for all the harm it has caused. And I’m not going to stand by any longer and watch it happen—not going to be a bystander to the stealing and blatant corruption.
CHAPTER 29
EVAN
The way everyone reacts to me walking into the theater is like I have returned from the dead. Blue revels in the attention, but I want to shrivel up and die.
“Good to see you’re alive,” Beverly mutters, looking behind me. “Did you bring Amy? We’re following her plan, but I wanted to ask her…”
Carp must be making a gesture over my shoulder, because Beverly’s eyes dart over that way, then back to me, her face going slightly pale. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did the two of you break up?”
“O-kay,” Carp says, laughing and stepping up beside me, putting his hand on my shoulder and shooting a glance at Beverly. “Let’s get down to work before this woman can make you retreat back into your little hole.”
Beverly rolls her eyes at him, and we all scatter, moving to different areas of the building. I fall into the rhythm of carrying out tasks—stocking the coffee bar with milk and beans, unpacking reusable totes for the bookstore, touching up thepaint on a part of the door to the theater that was scraped when they brought in the equipment.
As much as I really didn’t want to leave my room at the lodge, I realize now that this is exactly what I needed to feel better—to do something with my hands.
And the pressure is on to finish it before the first of May—the real push for wildflower viewing. According to Beverly, they’ve already done all the marketing for this tourist season, and it includes the renovated theater. If it’s not up and running next week when the real hordes of tourists arrive, we’ll miss out on the chance to recoup a lot of the money for the project.
Halfway through the day, I stop and head behind the welcome counter to grab a bottle of water from the package on the floor. As I’m reaching down, I catch sight of the open binder on the counter.
Amy’s careful, tidy handwriting is in the margins and across several printed spreadsheets, detailing when tasks should begin and to whom each of them should fall. There are plans for what to do if someone doesn’t show up, and on the next page, I find a list of phone numbers associated with the project.
She poured her heart into this.
Not for the first time, I think that all this was a lot of work to go to. That if she wanted to get me out of the cabin and into town, she didn’t have to actually help with the renovation.
Didn’t have to start forming friendships, to the point where people are asking for her. She could have distracted me without helping with the pizza oven, without going fishing with me.
Guilt bubbles in my stomach.
I love her—or, at least, that’s what I was telling myself. But does it really look like love if I believed she could betray me at a moment’s notice? I didn’t even give her a chance to defend herself, beyond asking her to define our relationship right then and there.
Even I can admit that it wasn’t entirely fair asking her to have that conversation in front of everyone when she wasn’t even comfortable having it in private.
But—no. I push those thoughts away. The ones I’ve been going around and around with since the moment she left. Maybe I should have given her a chance to talk to me, but she left, and she hasn’t come back.
Not so much as a text. Not a single sorry.
What does that say? The only thing I can think is that shewasinvolved in it and got a little caught up in the whole thing. Maybe she actually started to have feelings for me without meaning to.
“Evan?”
