"That I'm a security professional doing my job. That holding company addresses on vendor applications raised flags." Another pause. "But Lila—the way he was asking. Like he already knew the answers and wanted to see what I'd say."
The cold spread. She thought about Tray Fielding, who'd known her since childhood. Who'd come to her father's funeral in his dress uniform. Who'd patted her shoulder and promised they'd find out what happened.
"Mitch. I need to tell you something."
"I'm listening."
"Chief Fielding owns three properties in the coastal restriction zone. All purchased through shell companies connected to Coastal Property Services." She heard her own voice, calm and flat. "He's been on Warren Caldwell's payroll for years. Maybe decades."
Silence.
"How do you know this?"
"Because I've been investigating Warren Caldwell since my father died. And I'm not the only one."
More silence. When Mitch spoke again, his voice was different. Harder.
"Who else?"
"People who have the resources to do something about it. Federal resources." She gripped the phone. "The FBI is executing search warrants tonight. Arrests are coming. By Saturday, this whole thing could be over."
"Saturday. The parade."
"Yes."
"Christ, Lila." Mitch let out a breath. "You've been sitting on this the whole time? While I've been running security for an event that's about to turn into a federal crime scene?"
"I couldn't tell you. Not until now. Not until we were sure."
"And you're sure now?"
"I'm sure that Warren Caldwell killed my father. I'm sure he's stolen millions from this town. And I'm sure that Tray Fielding helped him cover it up." Her voice cracked. "I'm sure that the man who promised to find out what happened to my dad was probably the one who helped make it happen."
Mitch opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again. "What do you need from me?"
"Keep doing your job. Run security for the centennial like nothing's changed. And if Fielding asks you any more questions, tell him you're focused on the parade and nothing else."
"You want me to lie to the police chief."
"I want you to stay alive long enough for the FBI to arrest him."
A long pause before Mitch spoke. "Twenty-two years as a cop in this town. He coached my nephew's baseball team." His voice was flat and careful — the voice of a man choosing words to avoid saying worse ones. "Was he ever actually a good cop, or was he dirty from the start?" Lila didn't have an answer for that. She wasn't sure anyone did.
Another pause. Then: "Okay. I can do that."
"Thank you."
"Lila." His voice softened. "I'm sorry about your father. And I'm sorry about Fielding. I know what it's like when someone you trusted turns out to be..." He didn't finish.
"Yeah," she said. That's good to know.
After she hung up, she sat on the porch and watched the last sliver of sun disappear beneath the water. The sky was streaked with orange and pink, the kind of sunset that usually made tourists reach for their phones.
She thought about Tray Fielding. About the night he'd come to her house after her father died, his hat in his hands, his face grave. How he'd held her mother while she sobbed. He'd known. The whole time, he'd known.
The screen door creaked, and Ronan came out onto the porch. He didn't say anything. Just sat down beside her and took her hand.
"Fielding," she said.
