"I heard."
The night her father died, Tray Fielding had sat at her kitchen table for two hours. He had drunk two cups of coffee that Lila made because she needed something to do with her hands. He had told them that Daniel was one of the finest men he had ever known, that the town was less without him. Her mother had leaned into his shoulder and wept, and he had let her.
"He came to my house the night my father died. He looked me in the eye and said he was sorry." Her voice was steady, but something inside her felt like it was breaking. "He'd probably already helped cover it up. And I thanked him. I hugged him and thanked him for caring."
Ronan squeezed her hand.
"You didn't know."
"I should have. I should have looked harder, asked more questions, not just accepted—" She stopped. Breathed. "All these years, I thought I was the only one who suspected the truth. He was perfectly healthy one day and had a heart attack the next. I was the only one who wasn't getting paid to ignore it."
"You weren't the only one who cared. Your father cared. And he paid for it." Ronan turned to face her. "The difference is that you're going to finish what he started. And you're going to survive."
"You can't promise that."
"No. But I can promise that anyone who tries to hurt you is going to have to come through me first." He lifted her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles. "And I can promise that forty-eight hours from now, Warren Caldwell and Tray Fielding and everyone else who helped destroy your family will be answering to federal prosecutors instead of running this town."
She leaned into him. Let herself rest against his shoulder. The evening air was warm, and somewhere down the beach, music was playing—someone's radio, or maybe the sound check for Saturday's concert.
"Then what happens?" she asked.
"After the arrests?"
"After all of it. After the FBI, the trials, and the newspapers. After everyone finds out what's been happening in their town for the past thirty years."
"I don't know." He was quiet for a moment. "I've never stayed anywhere long enough to see the after."
"But you're thinking about staying now."
It wasn't a question.
"I'm thinking about a lot of things." He pulled her closer. "Mostly about you."
She closed her eyes. Let herself have this moment—the warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart, the sound of the waves against the shore.
Tomorrow would bring the FBI. Saturday would bring the arrests. And after that, whatever was left of Blossom Springs would have to find a way to rebuild.
The phone call came at 11:47 that night.
They were on the couch at his cottage—she was at one end, he was at the other, a foot of space between them. He’d insisted on staying upright because lying down made his ribs feel worse. She’d insisted on staying because she wasn’t leaving him alone.
Her phone buzzed on the coffee table. Unknown number.
She looked at Ronan. He nodded.
She answered.
Silence. Three seconds. The connection hissing softly.
Then a voice. Male. Calm. Pleasant, even.
“Your father asked a lot of questions, too. Look how that turned out.”
The line went dead.
Lila sat with the phone pressed against her ear, the man’s voice still ringing. Your father. A lot of questions. Look how that turned out.
Ronan took the phone from her hand. She let him. Her fingers had gone numb.
