"Sometimes change is for the best," I say, letting my voice carry the easy acceptance of someone who's moved around enough to understand business decisions. "Especially if it puts a little extra coin in your pocket. That's what brought me here, after all."
Garron's face lights up with relief, grateful to find someone who understands the practical realities of making a living. "Exactly! You get it. Business is business, right? Can't let sentiment keep you from taking care of your family."
"Of course." I nod, already moving toward the shed's entrance. "Well, we'll reach out again to set up a time to talk about those renovations. It was nice meeting you, Garron."
Calla follows my lead, her professional mask sliding back into place. "Thanks for your time. We'll be in touch soon."
We make our way back down the garden path, past the contented chickens and the herb garden that releases fresh scents with each step. But I can feel the tension radiating from Calla like heat from a forge, her controlled movements barely containing whatever storm is building inside her.
The moment we clear the property line and step onto the cobblestone street, the carefully maintained composure Calla has been holding finally shatters like glass hitting stone.
"How could he?" The words burst out of her in a low, fierce whisper that cuts through the afternoon air. Her voice trembles with a mixture of betrayal and anger that I haven't heard from her before. "How could Garron go behind Thornak's back like that? They've worked together for years!"
She stops walking abruptly, turning to face me with eyes that blaze with an intensity I'm beginning to realize runs much deeper than professional concern. Her hands clench into tight fists at her sides, knuckles white against the structured fabric of her blazer. The polished editor who never lets her guard slip is nowhere to be found—replaced by someone who looks genuinely shaken to her core.
"Thornak has been nothing but fair to him, nothing but honest. They built that supply chain together from scratch, and now Garron's what—selling him out for a few extra dollars?" Her voice rises slightly before she catches herself, glancing around the quiet street and lowering it again. "This isn't just business, this is personal. This is betrayal."
The autumn breeze rustles through the maple trees that line the cobblestone street, sending a few golden leaves spiralingdown around us. But Calla doesn't notice the beauty of it—her focus is laser-sharp, burning with purpose.
"Something is going on here, Brakkor, and I'm going to get to the bottom of it." Her jaw sets in that determined line I'm starting to recognize as dangerous territory. "Whatever's happening in my town, whatever's making good people turn on each other like this—I won't stand for it."
I can't help but smile at her fierce determination, enjoying the sight of her normally controlled features animated with fire as she strides down the street with renewed purpose, her heels clicking against the cobblestones like a battle drum.
CHAPTER 11
CALLA
The familiar creak of the Whistle's front door greets us as we step inside, but we're not alone. Jamie stands in the main office area, balancing steaming cups and what looks like a paper bag of pastries from The Golden Crust. His blonde hair catches the afternoon light streaming through the windows, and his face brightens when he spots us.
"Perfect timing!" He lifts the carrier slightly, grinning. "I grabbed coffee for everyone—figured we could all use the caffeine boost."
The rich aroma of freshly ground beans mingles with the sweet scent of Maddie's baking, and my stomach reminds me that I skipped breakfast in favor of chasing down leads. Jamie's thoughtfulness hits me with unexpected warmth, followed immediately by a sharp twist of guilt.
"You've been out a lot lately, Maddie said you didn't stop by this morning," Jamie continues, his tone casual but curious as he sets the carrier down on the nearest desk. "Both of you, actually. Are you working on something interesting together?"
The question sends ripples of discomfort through my chest. Jamie's eyes hold genuine interest—the kind of eager curiosity that made me hire him in the first place. He deserves to knowwhat we're investigating. More than that, he deserves to be part of it.
But I can't tell him. Not yet.
"Festival planning," I say, the lie sliding out with ease. "You know how the autumn harvest celebration gets—everyone wants their business featured, and we're trying to coordinate the coverage fairly."
Jamie's face falls slightly, disappointment flickering across his features before he masks it with professional understanding. "Right, of course. That makes sense."
The guilt twists deeper, sharp and uncomfortable. I watch him distribute the coffee cups—one for me, one for Brakkor, one for the other writers who are hunched over their desks nearby. His movements are efficient, thoughtful, and I realize he's been doing little things like this for weeks. Taking care of the team in ways I don't always notice.
"Don't forget," I say, my voice carrying the crisp authority that usually signals the end of casual conversation, "I need everyone to have their articles wrapped up by end of day. Final drafts, ready for layout."
Jamie nods, already reaching for his notepad. "I can have the community garden story polished in an hour. And the piece about the potential prize-winning squash."
"Perfect." The word tastes bitter against my tongue. "Thank you, Jamie."
Brakkor accepts his coffee without comment, but I detect the slight raise of his eyebrow. I ignore it, focusing instead on the familiar routine of organizing the day's workflow.
The normal rhythm of newsroom coordination settles around us, but underneath it, I can feel the weight of everything we're not discussing. The falsified records, the property purchases, the careful manipulation that's threading through my town like poison in the water supply.
"Right then." I sip my coffee—Maddie's signature blend with just a hint of cinnamon—and gesture toward my office. "Brakkor, let's review those festival notes."
He follows me across the room, and I catch Jamie watching us with that same curious expression. The guilt flares again, sharper this time, but I push it down as I close my office door behind us.
