"Ronan."
"Yeah."
"Then what?” Her voice was soft. Uncertain. "After Warren is exposed. After the centennial. After Shadow Ops disappears like you always do."
He'd been asking himself the same question all day. All week. Every time he looked at her and felt something shift in his chest that had nothing to do with the mission.
"I don't know," he said. Honest. "I've never let myself think that far ahead."
"And now?"
He pulled her closer. Pressed his lips to her hair.
"Now I can't stop."
Chapter Twelve
Warren Caldwell was already seated when Lila arrived at the hotel restaurant.
He stood as she approached, his smile warm and familiar, and pulled out her chair with the old-fashioned courtesy she remembered from childhood. The same Warren who had bounced her on his knee at town picnics. The same Warren who had held her mother's hand at her father's funeral.
The same Warren who had ordered her father's death.
"Lila." He kissed her cheek. His lips were dry, papery. She forced herself not to wipe the spot where they'd touched. "You look lovely. Thank you for making time for an old man."
"You're not old, Warren." The words came out smooth, rehearsed. She'd practiced them in Ronan's bathroom mirror this morning, watching her own face for cracks. "And I always have time for you."
She sat. Unfolded her napkin. Placed it in her lap with hands that wanted to tremble but didn't. The linen was crisp and white, and she smoothed it twice, focusing on the texture against her palms.
The restaurant was nearly empty—just before the lunch rush, when the businessmen had finished their meetings, and the tourists hadn't yet wandered in from the beach. Warren had chosen the time deliberately. Fewer witnesses.
"I ordered us iced tea," he said. "I remember it used to be your mother's favorite."
"It still is."
"How is Margaret? I haven't seen her since she moved into Blossom Gardens."
"Her hip has been bothering her."
"I'm sorry to hear that. Please give her my best."
The waiter appeared with the tea. Lila wrapped her fingers around the glass and focused on the cold—the condensation slick against her palm, the chill seeping into her bones. She was aware of her heartbeat, too fast, and the tightness in her chest that made each breath feel shallow.
"You mentioned on the phone that you wanted to discuss something important," she said. "About my future."
Warren's expression shifted. Concerned. Avuncular. The face of a man who only wanted what was best.
She wanted to throw the tea in it.
"I've been thinking about your father lately," he said. "About the work he did for this town. The way he cared about getting things right."
"Dad was thorough."
"He was more than thorough. He was principled. Dedicated." Warren leaned forward, lowering his voice. "And he trusted the wrong people."
Lila's pulse spiked. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that Daniel was asking questions, toward the end. Questions that made certain people uncomfortable." Warren's eyes were steady on hers. Pale blue, like faded denim. Like something that had been washed too many times. "I tried to warn him. Tried to tell him that some things in this town are better left alone. But he wouldn't listen."
