Lila looked down at her hands. They were still flat on her thighs. Still not shaking.
"Can I have a copy of the report?"
"Of course." Sarah slid the folder across the desk. "Take your time. And Ms. Bennett—if you need anything. Counseling referrals, victim advocacy services. We have resources."
"Thank you."
She picked up the folder and walked out of the office, down the hallway with its humming water cooler and ringing phones, through the lobby with its metal detectors and bored security guards, into the parking garage where her car sat waiting in a pool of fluorescent light.
She got in. Put the folder on the passenger seat. Started the engine.
And then she drove to the one place she hadn't planned to go.
Her father's grave was in the old cemetery on the edge of town, the one that dated back to Blossom Springs' founding.
She hadn't been here since the funeral. Five years of avoiding this place, driving past on her way to somewhere else, telling herself she'd visit when she was ready. She'd never been ready.
The headstone was simple gray granite. Daniel James Bennett. Beloved husband and father. The dates that bookended a life that had ended too soon.
Someone had left flowers recently. White roses, still fresh enough that the petals hadn't begun to curl. Lila knelt in the grass and touched the stone. It was warm from the afternoon sun.
"I know what happened," she said. "I know what they did to you."
The wind moved through the live oaks overhead. Spanish moss swayed. A mockingbird called from somewhere in the branches.
"You never told me. All those late nights in your office, all those surveys you kept redoing, all those times Mom asked what was bothering you and you said it was nothing." Her voice cracked. "It wasn't nothing. You found something. Something big enough to get you killed. And you never said a word."
She pressed her palm flat against the granite.
"Were you protecting me? Protecting Mom? Or did you just think you could handle it alone?" The anger surprised her. She hadn't expected anger. "I could have helped. I was young, but I wasn't stupid. I could have?—"
She stopped. Breathed.
"No. That's not fair. You didn't know what you were dealing with. You didn't know they'd kill you for it." She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "You were just a surveyor who noticed the lines didn't add up. You probably thought you'd file a report, someone would investigate, and that would be the end of it."
The mockingbird called again. The wind stirred the roses on the grave.
"I found your files. After you died. Took me three years to understand what I was looking at, and another two to build a case. And now Warren Caldwell is going to prison. Tray Fielding already pleaded guilty. The medical examiner is testifying against all of them."
She pressed her palm harder against the stone, feeling its warmth, the solidity.
"I finished it, Dad. Whatever you started, I finished it. I just wish you'd told me. I wish I'd known what you were carrying. I wish you hadn't been so alone."
And somewhere in the silence, Lila felt something shift. Not peace—she wasn't sure she'd ever have peace about this. But clarity. Understanding. Her father had kept his secrets to protect the people he loved. She couldn't be angry at him for that. She could only make sure his death meant something.
She stood up. Brushed the grass from her knees. Looked at the headstone one more time.
"There's someone I want you to meet," she said. "His name is Ronan. He's complicated. You'd probably have a lot of questions about his past. But he's good, Dad. He's good in the ways that matter."
She touched the stone once more. Then she walked back to her car.
Ronan wasn't at the cottage when she arrived.
His truck was gone. The dock stood empty, the new boards gleaming pale in the fading light. She let herself in with the key he'd given her—still strange, that weight in her pocket, that assumption of belonging—and found a note on the kitchen counter.
Sid needed help at the garage. Back by seven. There's leftover pasta in the fridge.
She stood in the empty kitchen, holding the note. The refrigerator hummed. The clock on the wall ticked. Outside, the frogs were starting their evening chorus.
