She walked away before she could say anything else. Before she could acknowledge the warmth spreading through her chest, or the way his voice sounded when he dropped the professional distance, or the fact that for the first time in two years, she didn't feel entirely alone.
She was halfway back to Town Hall when her phone buzzed again.
Delete this number after you read this. If you need to reach me, leave a note under the third bench from the fountain in Main Square. I'll check it twice daily.
She read it twice, memorized it, and deleted it.
Spy games. Secret messages. Dead drops in public parks.
Her father would have been either horrified or impressed. Probably both.
The rest of the afternoon was uneventful. Emails. Phone calls. A brief meeting with Mayor Weston about the dedication ceremony. The mundane business of small-town event planning, now overlaid with a constant, low-level awareness that made everything feel slightly unreal.
She locked up her office at 5:30, later than she'd intended. The town hall was quiet, most of the staff already gone for the day. Her footsteps echoed on the marble floors as she walked toward the exit.
Something made her stop.
She turned and looked back at her office door. Closed. Locked. Exactly the way she'd left it.
But something felt wrong. Off. Like a picture hanging slightly crooked, noticeable only because everything else was so perfectly aligned.
She walked back. Unlocked the door. Stepped inside.
Everything was where she'd left it. Files stacked on the desk. Corkboard covered in notes and timelines. Computer monitor dark, keyboard pushed in, chair tucked under the desk.
Except.
She moved to the desk and looked more closely. The stack of centennial files was in the same place. But the edges weren't aligned the way she always aligned them. The top folder was tilted slightly to the left. The sticky note on the second folder was peeled up at the corner, like someone had lifted it to see what was underneath.
Small things. Things no one else would notice. But Lila had spent two years training herself to see what was wrong, and something was wrong here.
She checked her desk drawer. Locked. She opened it with her key and checked the contents. Everything present. Everything in order.
But the file with her father's notes—the one she'd shown Ronan yesterday—wasn't quite where she'd left it. It was pushed an inch farther back, like someone had pulled it out and returned it in a hurry.
Her hands started to shake.
She pulled out her phone and started to text Ronan. Then remembered. Delete the number. Leave a note under the bench.
She couldn't wait until tomorrow to tell him.
She locked up her office again, her movements careful and controlled despite the adrenaline flooding her system. Walked out of the town hall at a normal pace. Got in her car and drove to Main Square.
The fountain was still running, the water catching the golden light of the setting sun. A few people sat on benches nearby—a mother with a toddler, an elderly man reading a newspaper, a young couple holding hands.
She sat down on the third bench from the fountain. Pretended to check her phone. Slipped a folded piece of paper from her pocket and tucked it under the seat.
Someone searched my office. Files disturbed. Nothing missing, but they know I have something. Need to meet. Tomorrow. Same place, same time.
She stood up and walked away, her heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat.
The game had changed. Whoever was running it knew she was playing.
And they were starting to make moves of their own.
Chapter Five
Ronan found the note at 6:47 the next morning.
