The town had no idea. Not yet.
"I thought I'd cry," Lila said without turning around. "I've imagined this moment for years. Played it out in my head a thousand times. Warren in handcuffs. Fielding exposed. All of them finally paying for what they did."
"And?"
"Nothing." She turned to face him. Her eyes were dry, her expression strange—not sad, not triumphant, but something harder to name. "I watched the man who killed my father get arrested, and I didn't feel anything. What does that make me?"
Ronan considered the question. He'd asked himself versions of it for twelve years—after every mission, every target neutralized, every operation that ended in justice or violence or both. The honest answer wasn't comforting.
"Human," he said. "It makes you human."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I've got." He moved to stand beside her, watching a family set up lawn chairs across the street. Two kids. A cooler. American flags on wooden sticks. "The feelings come later. Sometimes weeks later. Sometimes years. Right now, your brain is doing what it needs to do to keep you standing."
"And when it stops doing that?"
"Then I'll be there."
A parade float rolled past on a flatbed truck—papier-mâché lighthouse, slightly listing to one side—and someone honked a horn in celebration.
"The mayor called while we were watching the feeds." Lila pulled out her phone, checked the screen, and put it away. "Warren was supposed to give the opening remarks at the dedication ceremony. Obviously, he won't be doing that now."
"Who's taking his place?"
"She asked me."
Ronan studied her face. The exhaustion was still there—the shadows under her eyes, the tightness around her mouth—but something else was emerging beneath it. Something that looked like resolve.
"Are you going to do it?"
"I spent six months planning this event. I'm not going to let them take that, too." She squared her shoulders. "Besides, someone should say something true today. Something that matters. Before the news breaks and everything turns into chaos."
"What are you going to say?"
"I have no idea." A ghost of a smile crossed her face. "I've got three hours to figure it out."
The dedication ceremony began at eleven.
Ronan stood at the back of the crowd, close enough to see the stage but far enough to watch the perimeter. Old habits. The park was packed—families on blankets, seniors in folding chairs, kids running between vendor booths while their parents sipped lemonade from paper cups.
She showered and changed while Ronan made coffee. Stood in front of her closet longer than she needed to. "You don't have to go," he said from the doorway.
"I know." She pulled out the blue dress — the one her mother would have approved of. "But this is my town. My father's town. He spent thirty years making sure the property lines matched what was real." She turned to face him. "I'm not going to let Warren Caldwell have the centennial, too. Not even from a federal holding cell."
Mitch DeMario appeared at his elbow.
"Hell of a morning."
"You heard."
"Hard not to. One-third of the town's law enforcement just got arrested." Mitch scanned the crowd with the same practiced awareness Ronan recognized from his own training. "Lila knew. About all of it."
It wasn't a question. Ronan didn't answer.
"She's tougher than she looks." Mitch's voice held something like admiration. "Carrying that weight for years, waiting for the right moment. Her father would be proud."
"I think so too."
