She lifts a shoulder, the corner of her mouth tugging up. “I’ve seen you do harder things than this. You just forget sometimes.”
I squeeze Miller’s shoulder as I pass, trying to borrow a little of her confidence, like maybe it’ll soak into my skin.
“I’m gonna go see if he’s here yet,” I say, already halfway to the door.
She nudges me gently as I go by. “Don’t forget you’re terrifying when you want to be. I’ll be right here if you need backup. Or bail money.”
I shake my head, lips tugging into something close to a grin, and step out onto the floor.
The Bluebell is already filling up with the breakfast crowd, plates clattering from the kitchen, Dawn shouting for someone to grab the damn toast before it burns. I scan the room, but I don’t see him. Not yet.
I take a seat in a corner booth, back to the wall, facing the door. My heart’s moving a little too fast, but my hands are steady. I pull up the folder Sawyer sent me and start scrolling. Dates, payments, names that mean nothing until you line them up and see the patterns. It’s all here. I just have to show him I see it now.
Less than five minutes later, the bell above the door jingles.
Wendell Tate walks in with his hands in the pockets of his jeans, boots scuffed just enough to look like he works harder than he does, eyes sweeping the specials board like he hasn’t already memorized it. His cowboy hat tips low as he murmurs something to Josie behind the counter.
I wait until he turns, ready to head to his usual spot.
“Wendell,” I call, loud enough to cut through the hum of conversation.
He looks over, surprised. Tugs his hat just slightly, polite as ever. “Lark.”
“I want a word.”
It isn’t a question.
He follows me as I stand and I lead him to a booth near the back, one that feels quiet but not too hidden, like maybe he should still be on his best behavior.
He slides in across from me. I set my phone on the table, screen down.
He leans back, stretches an arm across the back of the booth like this is his damn living room. His smile is all patience and polished charm.
“I figured you’d come around,” he says, glancing toward the counter like he’s already planning what kind of pie he’ll order when this is done. “Takes time sometimes, swallowing a hard pill. But I knew you’d get there eventually.”
I laugh once, short and sharp. “You really think that’s why I asked you to sit down?”
His eyes flick to mine. “Didn’t think you called me over to compliment my boots.”
“No,” I say, settling back into the booth, hands folded neatly in front of me. “I wanted to see how nervous you’d get when you realized that I’m not an idiot.”
He stills, just slightly. Barely noticeable.
“I’ve got a copy of the original health inspection from the week we were shut down,” I continue. “The one that passed us. The one that magically disappeared.”
He stops playing with the sugar packet.
“The report that cleared us? That was signed by Rose Weaver. Same inspector who came back two weeks later and shut us down.” I fold my hands on the table. “Same kitchen. Same equipment. Not a single change.”
Tate doesn’t flinch, but I can feel the shift—the stillness that creeps in when someone starts listening for real.
“She gave us a passing grade. Wrote it up herself. I have the timestamped copy. And then, just fourteen days later, suddenly we’re a hazard to the public?” I tilt my head slightly. “Unless someone offered her a reason to come back.”
His jaw tightens.
“There’s a deposit, Wendell. Shows up in her account the morning she shut us down. It didn’t come from her paycheck, and it sure as hell didn’t come from the county.” I pause, then let it land. “It came from one of your ghost companies.”
Tate shifts in his seat like it’s too warm in here now. “That’s a bold accusation.”
