“Violet?” Mayor Singh rises from her seat. “Ricci? I’m sorry, I didn’t realize we had an appointment. I’m in meetings for the next hour, but—”
“We don’t.” I heft up a stack of folders filled with the copies I made on the way over. “But you’re going to want to hear this.”
“Miss Pepperdine,” the mollusk blubbers, “if this is about the grant, we’ve already straightened out the clerical error with your—”
“Oh, thisisabout the grant,Brandt. And so much more.”
The fear in his eyes is real. The sense of power that comes with knowing I’m the one who put it there? Absolutely priceless. No wonder Devlin is so good at this sort of thing.
Ricci and I quickly distribute the folders.
“Take your time,” Ricci says as the committee members flip through the pages, brows knit, initial confusion quickly turning to anger. “There’s lots to digest.”
“I brought donuts,” comes the call of a familiar voice, and I turn to see my sister Emmie heading through the door, a whole gaggle of witches filing in behind her. Olivy, who’s got her laptop and another stack of folders. Darla and Fiona. My aunts, Josyln and Althea and Lorelei.
“We’re the three sisters of Three Sisters B&B,” Lorelei announces. “And we’re here to roast Brandt Remington’s nuts.”
Others crowd into the room as well. More friends and neighbors and fellow business owners. Members from other committees. A tidal wave of support that floods the meeting until it’s standing room only, all of us elbow-to-elbow.
“Was this your doing?” I whisper to Olivy.
She shrugs. “You said you needed help taking him down, so I called in the Calvary.”
“I’m going to kill you later. You know that, right?”
“Oh, I’m looking forward to it. After you thank me, of course.” Then, with a squeeze of my hand and a genuine smile, “You’ve got this, Vi. And we’ve got you.”
I nod. Clear the knot of emotion from my throat. And then…
“My name is Violet Pepperdine,” I begin. “I own Kettle and Cauldron. For a few more days, anyway.”
Tears fill my eyes. With a voice that trembles but doesn’t break, I tell them my story, admitting—for the first time in history—that I screwed up. That I’m in trouble. That I need help.
I tell them about the debts. Nathan’s eviction notice. The grant. Everything that led me to this, standing up in front of what feels like half the town and laying myself bare.
Everyone on the committee is watching me, their energy an overwhelming soup of confusion, compassion, anger, empathy, sadness, guilt.
“Miss Pepperdine,” Brandt tries again, but I hold up a hand, silencing him.
Not with magic. Not with a cup of hot tea to the ballsack, the idea of which delights me to no end.
But with my determination. My will. My refusal to back down just because someone else thinks I don’t deserve to be here. That I don’t have a right to take up space. To be loud.
“Remington Capital Group,” I continue, locking him in my gaze, “under the leadership of Brandt Remington the Third, along with realtor Nathan Pike and several of their college fraternity associates, have been conspiring with large out-of-state corporations to keep small businesses in Wayward Bay struggling through the use of several underhanded tactics, including charging significantly higher than average interest rates on business loans and credit cards, turning down new loans without cause, and sneaking in junk fees.”
“As businesses falter under the weight of these debts and fees,” Ricci says, “Nathan Pike comes in with high-pressure sales tactics, using fear and manipulation to convince struggling property owners to sell while raising rents and other costs on the properties he and his associates own.”
“We… we’ve done nothing of the sort,” Brandt stammers, all eyes on him. “Remington Capital is a small business as well, j-just like yours. We need to v-v-vet our clients for the best fit.”
“It’s all there in black and white,” I say. “Read the evidence—all of it can be verified. You’re charging double the rates for local clients, then offering low-interest loans to several companies registered out of state.”
“Funny thing about those companies,” Olivy says, passing around another set of copies. “They’re all owned by one Westfield Holdings, a company registered to Nathan Pike’s aunt, Beverly McKee.”
“Beverly is an investor,” Brandt insists, his face turning redder by the minute. “One of our best clients.”
“Really?” Olivy scratches her head. “Because I reached out to Beverly this morning, and she had no idea she owned these so-called businesses. Why? Because her nephew has been committing fraud in her name for years, all at the behest of Remington Capital. Not only that, but he and his so-called associates, including the CEO of Mean Beans and the owners of the other businesses who’ve recently relocated here, have a web of connections that spans the entire country—New York, Seattle, Boston, Miami, San Francisco. They’ve been picking off the surrounding small towns the same way they’re trying to do here—driving out small businesses, selling off the properties, bringing in the corporations to rebuild on the ashes.”
“And reaping the kickbacks,” I add. “Including half the grant money. Grants they awarded to out-of-state companies posing as local businesses, taking a healthy cut to line their own pockets.”
