He'd deal with it. The way he dealt with everything.
One piece at a time.
Chapter One
The town hall was exactly what Ronan had expected from the satellite imagery and historical records: Southern beach town architecture, a clock tower that had been maintained with obvious care. The kind of building that appeared on postcards and tourism websites.
What the photos hadn't captured was the feeling of the place. The worn spots on the marble stairs where generations of feet had climbed. The smell of old wood and lemon polish. The way the light fell through tall windows, dust motes drifted in the golden beams.
Ronan had been in buildings like this before. Government offices in a dozen countries, most of them hiding secrets behind their respectable facades. The architecture of civic trust was built to make citizens feel safe while the people inside did whatever they wanted.
He found Lila Bennett's office on the second floor—the one that looked like a paper supply store had exploded, exactly as the woman at Mae's Bakery had warned him yesterday. The door was open. Lila was at her desk, phone pressed to her ear, one hand making agitated gestures at the air.
"No, I understand that, but the contract specifically states—" She paused, listening. She pressed her lips together and turned back to the phone. "Right. Right. I'll have to check the original paperwork. Can you give me until end of day?"
She hung up and dropped her head into her hands.
Ronan knocked on the doorframe.
Lila looked up, and the frustration in her expression smoothed into something more professional. Recognition flickered—she'd seen him at the bakery yesterday, even if only briefly.
"You're early. The security consultant?"
"Ronan Cross. Should I come back?"
"God, no. Please. Rescue me from vendor disputes." She gestured at the chair across from her desk. "Sit. Sorry about the mess. I keep meaning to organize, and then someone needs something, and—" She waved a hand. "You know how it goes."
He didn't, actually. His spaces were always organized. Precise. A place for everything, everything catalogued and controlled. But he nodded like he understood and took the offered seat.
Her office was chaos, but it was intentional chaos. Color-coded files in a system that probably made sense to her. A massive corkboard covered in notes, timelines, and photographs of past town events. A desk calendar with every square filled with tiny, meticulous handwriting.
She followed his gaze to the corkboard. "Three days of celebration. Seventeen separate events. Four hundred and thirty-two individual details that could go wrong." She smiled, but there was exhaustion underneath it. "I haven't slept properly in about six months."
"The committee couldn't have hired more help?"
"The committee thinks I'm doing a wonderful job and doesn't want to interfere with my process." The way she said it suggested this was a frequent point of contention. "Which is their way of saying they don't want to spend money on additional staff. But that's fine. I like having control. Control is good."
"Control is very good."
Something in his tone made her look at him more closely. "You sound like you mean that."
"I do."
The moment stretched. Lila broke it first, reaching for a folder on her desk. "Okay, so. The centennial. Let me walk you through what we've got planned, and you can tell me all the ways we're going to get everyone killed."
"That's not usually how I phrase it."
"But it's what you're thinking." She handed him the folder. "I've worked with security consultants before. You're all very polite about it, but what you're really doing is looking at my beautiful plans and imagining worst-case scenarios."
"That's literally my job."
"I know. And I appreciate it. I just also kind of hate it." She leaned back in her chair. "Three days. Parade on Saturday morning. Historical reenactments on Saturday afternoon. Concert in the park Saturday night. Sunday is the Harbor Festival—boat races, seafood vendors, fireworks after dark. Monday is the formal stuff. Dedication ceremony for the new memorial, dinner for the founding families, closing remarks by the mayor."
"That's a lot of moving pieces."
"Thus, the seventeen separate events and four hundred and thirty-two details." She tapped the folder. "Crowd estimates are in there. Venue layouts. Emergency contact lists. Previous years' incident reports—which, I should tell you, mostly involve drunk tourists and one memorable occasion when someone's dog got loose and ate an entire table of hot dogs."
"Dangerous dog."
