Chairs creaked as board members flipped pages.
Hank knew exactly which letter sat on top. He’d watched Bree read it three times last night, tears drying on her cheeks, the laptop glow painting her skin.
“Dr. Charles Bennett,” Elaine read aloud, skimming. “Husband of the late Brynna Bennett. He’s quite eloquent.”
“He’s terrifying in academic debates too,” Bree muttered, voice thick.
Elaine cleared her throat. “We’ll move to public comment,” she said. “If you wish to speak, please come to the podium, state your name and address for the record, and keep your remarks to three minutes.”
There was a brief, awkward pause, then Lila stood. She smoothed her dress, walked to the podium, and smiled at the board.
“I’m Lila Owens,” she said. “I own Harbor Station Café on Main. I’m here because I like it when my morning regulars have somewhere else to walk after they finish their coffee.”
A ripple of chuckles moved through the room.
“I’ve read the packet,” Lila went on. “My main concern was parking, and the plan Mayor Harper mentioned covers that. The kind of business these four are proposing is exactly what we’ve all been saying we want more of, every time we complain about empty buildings. I want more lights on in my neighborhood after dark, not fewer. I want teens and tourists walking between a shop, a café, a marina, not slipping between warehouses. So I’m asking you to say yes.”
She stepped back. The marina manager took her place.
“I’m Tom Reyes,” he said. “I run the marina. As long as they don’t block the ramps or host heavy metal festivals at midnight, I’m fine. If their events bring more people down to see the boats and the water, even better. That’s it.”
He shrugged, but his signature on the letter had meant something. It said so on Elaine’s face as she jotted a note.
A few more speakers followed; the antique shop couple, talking about foot traffic and mutual benefit. An older man Hank didn’t know, who owned a small machine business two streets over, said he liked the idea of another shop that took safety seriously.
Then a woman in a floral blouse stood, expression pinched. “I’m Susan Meyers,” she said. “I live on Harbor View Court. I’m not against small businesses. But I remember the microbrewery mess. Cars lined up and down our street, drunk people yelling, trash on the sidewalks. We moved here for quiet. I see ‘events’ and ‘classes,’ and I worry we’re inviting that nightmare back.”
Bree’s shoulders tightened next to him.
Liz stepped to the side of the room, hands clasped loosely. Hank could practically feel her waiting to speak, to draw a line between their proposal and the nightmare in Susan’s mind.
Susan went on. “And there’s the racing,” she said. “We all got those bulletins from the track last week. Illegal parts, chemical stuff. That van business. I don’t want that element getting a permanent foothold on Bay Street.”
Now the room really stilled.
Hank felt Brian’s attention sharpen behind him. Colby’s breath came a little more slowly, the calm he used when someone on scene started to spiral.
He stood before he could overthink it.
Bree’s head jerked toward him. “Hank,” she whispered.
“I’ve got it,” he said quietly.
He made his way to the podium, aware of every step. The microphone squeaked when he adjusted it. He cleared his throat.
“I’m Hank James,” he said. “Current address is a hotel room on Harbor View, future address, if you’ll have us, is 412 Bay and my girlfriend and I have put an offer in on a farmhouse just out of town.”
A few soft laughs. Good.
“I’m also the guy in some of those bulletins,” he said. “Not the illegal part. The part where I called series officials when we found them.”
Susan’s mouth pursed. “You race,” she said. “You’re part of that world.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I am. I’ve also been the one calling next of kin after crashes. I’ve picked friends up off the asphalt. So when I saw those guys trying to sell dangerous shortcuts at a local test day, I didn’t shrug and walk away. I called Sergeant Diaz.”
He gestured toward the back of the room. Diaz sat by the door in plainclothes, sunglasses perched on her head, expression steady. She lifted a hand in acknowledgment, but didn’t move from her seat.
“I’m not interested in bringing that mess to Copper Moon,” Hank said. “Our shop is exactly the opposite. We want to be the place kids bring their bikes when they don’t know what they’re doing and don’t want to die figuring it out. We want to be the ones teaching them there’s a difference between fast and stupid.” He let that sit for a second. “As for events, you’ve got our proposed hours. You’ve got our parking plan. We’re talking evening workshops that wrap up by nine, not keg parties. I’m too old for keg parties, and she hates sticky floors.”
