Benjamin doesn’t blink.
“Can you guarantee,” Judge McDowell asks, “that no residual affiliations or outside influences will impact operations at The Hollow?”
“I can guarantee,” I say carefully, “that The Hollow operates within the law. That it will continue to do so. And that any threat to it will be handled through appropriate legal channels.”
Benjamin’s mouth curves at the edges. “Handled how, exactly?”
He wants me to say something that coincides with a promise of violence.
He wants the room to hear the edge and fill in the rest.
“Through law enforcement,” I answer calmly. “Through the courts. Through the same systems we’re using tonight.”
Mayor Hartwell shifts in her seat.
Judge McDowell studies me, looking for something unsaid.
“Do you deny that individuals connected to your former organization may seek you out here?” she asks.
No one in the room breathes.
I feel Finn go still somewhere behind me.
“I can’t control the actions of other adults,” I say. “But I can control how I respond. And I can assure this council that I did not come to Coyote Glen to import drama. I came here to build something lawful and lasting.”
Mayor Hartwell clears her throat again. “The council will deliberate and reconvene next week with a formal decision.”
Which means this stays alive.
Benjamin gathers his folder slowly. He’s a man who believes he just placed the first brick in a wall.
As he steps away from the podium, his shoulder brushes mine.
“Transparency builds trust,” he murmurs quietly, low enough that only I hear it.
“Truth does,” I shoot back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Aurora
Ifyou ever want to feel emotionally destabilized in a charming, community-approved way, I highly recommend attending a town council meeting where a man in a blazer says the phrase “temporary compliance measures” like he’s offering complimentary mints.
Afterward, naturally, you get coffee.
Because caffeine is the socially acceptable coping mechanism for watching someone try to professionally suffocate your favorite bar.
Coyote Cup is warm and bright and aggressively normal when I walk in, which feels mildly offensive considering that thirty minutes ago I was sitting on a folding chair under a Wildcats banner while Ryder Hayes was being politely interrogated about his past.
Lani takes one look at me and doesn’t even ask.
“Large latte,” she says, already reaching for a mug. “And something with frosting.”
“I appreciate you,” I reply, sliding into a booth like a woman who has Seen Things.
The place smells of espresso and sugar, and the kind of safety that pretends the world outside isn’t currently plotting paperwork-based doom.
I wrap my hands around the cup and try not to replay Benjamin Wren’s voice in my head.
