They sat on the library floor for another hour, going through books she’d been reading since childhood. She showed him photographs of her parents’ wedding. The groundbreaking for the hospital. The 1975 centennial, which apparently featured a parade float shaped like a giant shrimp that had caught fire halfway down Main Street.
“No one was hurt,” she said. “But my grandmother never forgave the volunteer fire department for getting foam on her display.”
He laughed. She looked at him like she’d won something.
When they finally left the library, the afternoon light was long and golden. She handed the books back to the librarian—a woman in her sixties who looked at Lila, then at Ronan, with undisguised curiosity.
“New friend, dear?”
“Something like that.”
They walked out into the sunlight together. At the bottom of the steps, she stopped.
“Thank you. For coming. For looking at all those old photographs and pretending to be interested.”
“Who said I was pretending?”
She studied his face. Whatever she found there made her reach out and brush her fingers against his wrist—a touch so light he might have imagined it. Except he didn’t imagine things. He cataloged them.
“Same time tomorrow?” she asked.
“I’ll be here.”
She walked toward the town hall. He watched her go, the way he always did, and felt the weight of the old photographs still in his mind—the harbor at sunset, the grandmother at the podium, the father with his survey maps. A family’s worth of history, laid out on a library floor. Trusted to a man who had never stayed anywhere long enough to become part of anyone’s story.
Until now.
Chapter Ten
Lila drove past her house twice before she pulled into the driveway.
The bungalow sat quiet in the late afternoon light, its white shutters and neat front porch looking exactly the way she'd left it that morning. Nothing out of place. Nothing wrong. But warnings echoed in her head—professionals don't usually stop at one visit—and suddenly, home didn't feel safe anymore.
She sat in her car with the engine running, scanning the street. Mrs. Delacroix was watering her roses two houses down. A pickup she didn't recognize was parked at the curb near the corner, but pickups were common enough in Blossom Springs. Nothing to worry about.
Except she was worried. About everything.
Her phone buzzed.
Don't go inside yet.
Ronan. She looked around but didn't see him.
Where are you?
Parked on Magnolia, one block over. I've been watching your house for the past hour. Someone drove by three times in a gray sedan. Circled the block, slowed in front of your place, kept going.
Her hands tightened on the steering wheel.
They're watching me.
They're deciding whether to move on your house. Back out of the driveway. Meet me at Sarge's in twenty minutes. We need to talk.
She didn't want to back out. She wanted to go inside, grab her father's files, and get out before anyone could stop her. But Ronan was right. If they were watching, going in now would confirm that she had something worth protecting.
She put the car in reverse and pulled back onto the street, forcing herself to drive at a normal speed, to look like a woman who'd simply forgotten something at the store.
In her rearview mirror, the gray sedan turned onto her street.
