She thought about her father—his careful notes, his methodical documentation, the way he'd quietly gathered evidence for years without ever letting anyone see what he knew.
"I learned from the best."
They waited until after dark.
Ronan drove, taking a circuitous route through the residential streets before doubling back toward Lila's neighborhood. She watched the mirrors, looking for headlights that stayed too long, vehicles that matched their turns. Nothing.
"The sedan's gone," she said.
"For now. They'll be back." He pulled into the alley behind her house and killed the headlights. "How much time do you need?"
"Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen."
"I'll wait out here on lookout. If anything looks wrong, text me one word—anything—and I'll be at the back door in thirty seconds."
She nodded and slipped out of the car. The grass was damp under her feet as she crossed the backyard, and the familiar creak of the porch steps made her wince. Inside, the house was dark and still. She didn't turn on any lights.
Her father's study was at the back of the house, a small room lined with bookshelves and cluttered with the tools of his trade—surveying equipment, rolled maps, reference books. She'd left everything exactly the way he'd had it, unable to pack away the last pieces of his life.
The locked drawer was in the old oak desk. She'd kept the key on her keychain for five years, a small brass reminder of everything she'd lost and everything she was fighting for.
The files were thick—manila folders stuffed with documents, photographs, handwritten notes in her father's precise script. Years of evidence, gathered piece by piece. Property records that didn't match county files. Survey discrepancies that should have been caught. Permits were approved without proper inspection. A paper trail that led straight to the heart of Blossom Springs and the men who controlled it.
She loaded everything into a canvas bag and added her own files—the timeline she'd built, the connections she'd mapped, the questions she still couldn't answer. The bag was heavy when she lifted it, weighted with truth.
On her way out, she paused in the hallway. A photograph hung on the wall—her parents on their wedding day, young and hopeful, standing in front of the house that would become their home. Her father's smile was wide and unguarded, the smile of a man who believed good things lasted.
"I'm close, Dad," she whispered. "I'm so close."
She slipped out the back door and crossed the yard to where Ronan waited. The car pulled away without headlights, silent as a ghost.
Ronan's cottage was small and sparse, the kind of rental that came furnished and impersonal.
Lila set the bag on the table and watched him lock the door behind them.
"You live like you're ready to leave at any moment."
"Because I usually am." He moved to the windows, checking the blinds. "It's not a life that encourages putting down roots."
"Is that what you want? To keep moving forever?"
He turned to look at her. The lamp in the corner cast half his face in shadow, but she could see his eyes clearly. The tightness around his mouth eased.
"I used to think so."
"And now?"
"Now I'm not sure." He crossed to the table and began unpacking the files, laying them out in careful rows. "There's a lot of material here. Your father was thorough."
"He was a surveyor. Details were his life." She moved to stand beside him, looking down at the familiar documents. "He started noticing discrepancies about eight years ago. Small things at first—boundaries that didn't match recorded plats, easements that appeared and disappeared between filings. He thought they were clerical errors."
"When did he realize they weren’t?"
"About six years ago. He found a pattern—every property that showed discrepancies eventually changed hands, and every sale benefited the same small group of buyers." She picked up one of the files. "He traced it to Coastal Property Services. That's when he started keeping copies at home instead of in his office."
"He knew they were watching him."
"He suspected." Her voice caught. "He never told me. Never said a word about any of this. I found the files after he died, hidden in that drawer like he knew someone would come looking eventually."
