I close the file. Slide it back onto the shelf. Step away from the records just as the door opens.
Marcus Webb walks in.
He stops when he sees me. Surprise flickers across his face. Then that smooth smile returns.
"Ms. Hale. What a coincidence."
"Not really." I keep my voice level. "Public records are public."
"Indeed they are." He glances at the shelf where I was standing. "Doing research?"
"Always."
He steps closer. Not threatening. Just present. "Find anything interesting?"
"Depends on your definition of interesting."
"I imagine we have different definitions of a lot of things." He pulls a file from a different shelf. Doesn't open it. Just holds it. "I meant what I said at the meeting. I'd still like to talk. Off the record. Just two people who care about this town's future."
"When?"
"Tomorrow. Lunch. There's a cafe in Millbrook. Neutral territory."
I should say no. Should walk away. But Mayor Elsie's words echo: Gather information. Find out what he really wants.
"Noon," I say, forcing the word out steady and firm.
"Perfect." He tucks the file under his arm with practiced ease, like this is all routine. Like we're scheduling a pleasant catch-up over coffee. "I look forward to it."
He leaves without another word. The door clicks shut behind him, the sound sharp in the quiet records room.
I count to thirty in my head. Slow breaths. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Making absolutely certain he's not coming back.
Then I grasp the rezoning file again.
My fingers move fast, flipping it open to where I'd left off. The survey map should be right there, tucked between the property assessment and the environmental impact forms.
It's gone.
I check the neighboring files, yanking them off the shelf with less care than I should. Flip through folders that have nothing to do with waterfront rezoning. Search the entire shelf, running my hand along the back of the space where documents sometimes slip.
Nothing.
He took it.
Right under my nose. While I was standing there trying to play it cool, he lifted the one piece of hard evidence I needed. Which means he knows I saw it. Knows exactly what I was looking at. Knows I have questions he doesn't want publicly answered.
And he's counting on lunch tomorrow to control the narrative. To spin whatever story he needs me to believe before I can tell anyone else what I found.
My phone shakes against my hip. A text from Rogan lights up the screen: "Kitchen emergency over. What's urgent?"
I type back with hands that aren't quite steady: "Meet me at the bistro. One hour. Don't talk to anyone before then."
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again like he's deleting and rewriting.
Finally: "Cryptic. Fine. See you soon."
I walk out of the records room, pulling the door shut behind me with deliberate quiet. Up the stairs, my boots echoing on the worn linoleum. Into the late afternoon light that slants through the town hall's tall windows, turning everything gold and deceptively peaceful.
