Town council. A seat at the table where decisions were made. Where permits were approved, budgets were allocated, and land-use policies were set.
It could be exactly what it seemed—a powerful mentor offering a hand up to someone he'd known since childhood.
Or it could be something else entirely.
Mitch DeMario was waiting for her at the town hall when she returned.
He was leaning against the front desk, chatting easily with the receptionist, who was laughing at something he'd said. He straightened when Lila walked in, offering a professional nod.
"Ms. Bennett. I was hoping to catch you. Do you have time to go over the parade route one more time?"
"Now?"
"If it's convenient. I've got some questions about sight lines and crowd barriers that I'd like to walk through on-site."
She glanced at her watch. Two-thirty. She had a vendor call at four and approximately forty-seven unread emails. But Mitch was looking at her with the steady patience of someone who knew his request was reasonable and was prepared to wait.
"Sure. Let me grab my bag."
They walked the parade route together, starting at the park and moving down Main Street toward the harbor. Mitch had a clipboard with diagrams and notes, and he stopped every few blocks to mark something or ask a question.
"The floats will stage here?" He pointed to the parking lot behind the fire department.
"Yes. They'll line up starting at seven, parade begins at nine."
"And the viewing stands are along Main Street?"
"Three locations. In front of the courthouse, at Main Square, and at the intersection before the harbor."
Mitch made a note. "VIP seating?"
"Main Square. Town council, founding families, major donors. Warren Caldwell is giving the opening remarks from the bandstand."
"Security for the VIP section?"
"Two officers. Plus whatever you recommend."
He nodded, still writing. "I'd suggest adding a perimeter check before guests arrive. And a credential system—wristbands or badges—so we can easily identify who belongs in the restricted area."
"That sounds reasonable."
They continued walking. Past the shops and restaurants, past the spot where she'd met Ronan two days ago, past Hendricks' office with its brass plaque gleaming in the afternoon light.
"Can I ask you something?" Mitch's voice was casual, but his eyes were sharp.
"Of course."
"How long have you lived in Blossom Springs?"
"My whole life, except for college. I came back eight years ago."
"So you know everyone."
"Pretty much."
"And everyone knows you."
"That's how small towns work."
