Bree snorted softly behind him.
“We can’t promise nothing bad will ever happen on Bay Street,” he said. “Nobody can. But I can promise you we’re not coming here to tear it up and move on. We’re buying a building. We’re under contract on a house. My business partners are looking at real estate listings instead of race calendars. We’re in. And if you give us this permit, we’ll spend the next twenty years proving you didn’t make a mistake.”
He looked at the board, at Susan, at the collection of neighbors and officials and friends who’d somehow become part of this life he wanted.
Then he stepped back from the mic.
Diaz rose. “Sergeant Marisol Diaz, Copper Moon PD,” she said at the podium. “I’m not here to tell you how to vote. That’s your job. I’m here to give you my perspective on what they’ve already done for this town.”
She outlined it simply: their cooperation with the investigation, the way Hank and his crew had made themselves available for questions about the racing world, and the incident at the test day.
“You all know we’ve had outside actors sniffing around,” she said. “People who see small towns as easy pickings. What I need, as your cop, are more locals who pay attention and care, not fewer. These four pay attention. They call when something’s wrong. They also talk to the kids I can’t always reach in uniform. That matters. From a safety standpoint, a well-run business on a dark block is almost always a net positive.”
She stepped back. Public comment closed.
The board retreated into a short deliberation, though it did not feel short. Hank sat again, Bree’s hand crushed in his.
“You did good,” she whispered. “Even the part about sticky floors.”
“Truth is a powerful tool,” he murmured.
Colby leaned forward. “You hit the ‘we’re buying, not renting’ line exactly right,” he said quietly. “People up there like commitment.”
Brian nodded. “Plus, Diaz looked like she wanted to adopt you,” he added. “Should play well.”
The door to the small side room opened sooner than Hank expected. The board members filed back to their seats.
Elaine cleared her throat. “After reviewing the updated materials and listening to public comment, the board finds that the proposed use is consistent with the comprehensive plan, provided certain conditions are met,” she said. “We’re prepared to vote on approval of the special use permit with conditions attached.”
Bree’s fingers froze in his.
“Conditions,” Brian muttered. “Here we go.”
Elaine read them: adherence to submitted hours, limits on amplified outdoor sound, cooperation with the parking plan Liz had outlined, and coordination with the civic center for overflow lots on event nights. Annual review for the first two years.
Nothing fatal. Nothing they hadn’t already planned to do.
“All those in favor?” Elaine asked.
Hands rose around the table. One, two, three. Four.
“All opposed?”
One hand lifted, the board member who’d glared hardest at the word “events” in the packet.
“Motion carries,” Elaine said. “Special use permit ZB-24-16 is approved with conditions.”
For a second, the words didn’t quite penetrate. Then they did.
"Approved."
Bree exhaled like she’d been kicked. Her shoulders sagged, then straightened.
Hank leaned in, pressed his mouth to her temple. “We did it,” he whispered.
Her eyes shone. “We did it,” she repeated.
Behind them, Brian let out a whoop that he tried to smother into a cough. Colby clapped once, hard, like he was sealing the moment.
