"We adapt. You continue your normal routine. Centennial planning, office work, whatever you'd be doing if none of this were happening. Don't change anything that would signal you're aware of the search."
"And you?"
"I dig deeper. There's another security consultant coming in—guy named Mitch DeMario. Legitimate operation right here in Blossom Springs. He'll be handling the visible security work for the centennial."
"I heard. The council hired him last week." Her brow furrowed. "Is that a problem?"
"It's an opportunity. He's the public face of event security. I can step back from the day-to-day coordination, which gives me more flexibility to investigate without raising questions about why I'm spending so much time at town hall."
"Won't that look strange? You were hired first."
"My firm does assessments. His firm does implementation. Different skill sets. Warren Caldwell will understand the distinction." He paused. "Speaking of Caldwell—has he contacted you recently?"
"He called yesterday. Wanted to confirm the venue timeline for the dedication ceremony." She searched his face. "Why?"
"His name keeps appearing. Not directly connected to anything illegal, but adjacent to everything. Foundation donations. Board memberships. Social connections to everyone who matters in this town."
"That's not unusual. Warren's family helped found Blossom Springs. He's involved in everything."
"Which makes him either the hub of a long-running criminal operation or the perfect cover for one."
She was quiet for a moment. They'd stopped at the corner of a residential street, standing in the shade of an old oak tree. The afternoon light filtered through the leaves, dappling her face with shadows.
"I've known Warren my entire life," she said finally. "He held me when I was a baby. He wrote my college recommendation letter. He—" She broke off. "I don't want to believe it."
"Neither did I, at first. Believing the worst about people you know is harder than believing it about strangers." He held her gaze. "But the evidence leads where it leads. And right now, it's leading somewhere you're not going to like."
He didn't let her walk home alone. She argued about it — said she was fine, said she lived four blocks away, said she'd done it a thousand times. He walked her anyway, staying half a step behind, watching the street. When she closed her front door, he stood on the sidewalk until the lights came on inside. Then he pulled out his phone.
Need eyes on Lila's house tonight. Her office was searched. She doesn't know how much they know about her. He typed the address and sent it to Caleb before he could second-guess it.
Ronan met Mitch DeMario for the first time that evening at Sarge's Sandbar.
The bar sat on the water, just past the boat slips, a weathered building with a deck that extended over the sand. Locals gathered there after work, drinking cheap beer and watching the sunset. It was the kind of place where information flowed as freely as the alcohol, and Ronan had been making a point of showing up every few days to listen.
DeMario was easy to spot. Former military showed in the way he carried himself—alert, balanced, ready to move. He was maybe forty, with close-cropped dark hair going gray at the temples and the kind of quiet confidence that came from knowing exactly what he was capable of.
He was talking to the bartender when Ronan walked in. Ronan ordered a beer and took a seat at the bar, two stools down. Close enough to be friendly, far enough to not be pushy.
DeMario glanced over. Assessed. Filed.
"You're the other security consultant."
"Ronan Cross." He extended his hand. "You must be DeMario."
"Mitch." The handshake was firm, professional. "I've heard good things about your firm. Charleston event a few years back—that was you?"
"My company, yes." The cover story held. Caleb had done good work. "I heard you're handling implementation for the centennial."
"Crowd control. Access management. Coordination with local law enforcement." Mitch took a pull from his beer. "You did the initial assessment?"
"Venue security. Risk analysis. Recommendations for the committee." Ronan kept his tone casual. "Different lanes."
"Works for me. Too many cooks spoil the soup."
"Agreed."
They drank in silence for a moment. The bar was filling up as the sun dropped toward the horizon, casting long golden light across the water.
