Page 38 of The Shield
“You’ll need money,” he said at last, pragmatic creeping in around the edges. “You’ll need a field team that doesn’t leave when the air goes bad. You’ll need to learn to smile while the man across from you tries to make you smaller.”
“I already know how to do that,” I said, and I felt anger’s clean heat instead of its mess. “I’ve spent a decade doing it for free.”
He huffed a laugh and then wiped rain from his brow. “You won’t ask me for my list, will you.”
“No,” I said. “I’m making a new one.”
He looked at me, and something in his face tipped from resistance to resignation to—God, help me—pride. “Then I won’t stand in your way. I won’t drag you forward, either. You cut your own path, Natty-girl. I’ll … I’ll make sure the old men don’t salt it out of spite.”
“That’s enough,” I said, and meant it. “More than.”
“And don’t bring that boy home on the same day you file,” he muttered, the sudden pivot so Butch I nearly laughed. “Let the town have one shock at a time.”
Heat climbed my neck at the thought of “that boy”—Ethan, dog tags, rain in his lashes, the police changing temperature when they saw the plastic. I could still feel him in the deepest parts of me, a confession my body kept making even as my brain lined up the next ten tasks. The memory didn’t make me smaller. It steadied me.
I’d spent years thinking that being taken care of meant giving something up. Today had taught me the opposite. Receiving wasn’t weakness. Neither was wanting. There was power in saying yes—on purpose, with my name on it. If I could claim that in my own skin, why couldn’t I claim it for my city?
I thought of the steps at City Hall, the way strangers had lifted their heads just because I’d given them a list that mattered. I thought of Owen’s steady faith, Kimmy’s gleeful bossiness, Huck’s cones and sandbags, the chef with wet socks who clapped, anyway. I thought of how my granddaddy still saw me through the lens of what daughters and granddaughters had been allowed to do. And I realized I was done waiting for permission that was never coming.
Evelyn Hart had proved corruption could wear a skirt. My job now was to prove that truth-telling could, too.
“Duly noted,” I said, and pulled my phone. The screen blinked with texts from Huck (sawhorses placed), Kimmy (media asks), and Owen (you alive?). My pulse steadied as I tapped the call button.
Owen answered on the first half-ring like he’d been holding the phone to his ear.
“Tell me you’re sitting,” I said.
“I’m standing in a puddle,” he said. “Make me regret it.”
“Pull the packet,” I said. The words came out steady as a tide schedule. My decision crystallized as I spoke it, a stone dropping into water, ripples already moving out. “Filing requirements. Deadlines. We’re not announcing tonight. Not while the water’s the story. But I want a plan by morning. Digital first. Ground after. We’ll build a volunteer list with the same form we’re using for sandbags. If they’ll lift a bag, they’ll knock a door.”
There. It was said. A current I couldn’t wade back against even if I tried.
I was running for mayor.
Silence. Then a whoop so loud I held the phone away from my ear. “Finally,” Owen said, breathless. “Finally. I’ll call Kimmy. I’ll call?—”
“No leaks,” I said. “Not one. You tell the three people who can’t help themselves and you make them swear on their mothers’ casseroles.”
He laughed like he’d waited a year to. “You’re the devil.”
“I’m prepared,” I said, and hung up before he could make me sentimental.
16
ETHAN
The war room fell silent after Atlas’s words, the air thick with a weight I couldn’t shake. I sat there, the dampness of my clothes seeping into the chair, my mind a tangle of disbelief and questions that refused to settle.
The revelation that I was one of them, a Dane among these Charleston brothers, should have sparked anger or relief, but instead it left me brooding, a heaviness pressing down that I couldn’t name. I wanted answers, of course—needed them, with a hunger that gnawed at my gut—but for now, I craved something else.
Time.
Time to think, to let the pieces fall into place without the pressure of their expectant gazes.
The Charleston Danes began to file out, their footsteps echoing softly against the hardwood, leaving me with my thoughts. Ryker gave a nod, his restless eyes lingering a moment before he turned away. Marcus flashed a quick, smartass grin, muttering something about coincidences as he sauntered off. Elias’s quirky spark faded with his exit, Noah’s quiet gracetrailing behind, and Charlie’s warm drawl lingered in the air as he clapped Atlas on the shoulder. Silas slipped out last, his ghostly presence vanishing like smoke, his cold intent leaving a chill in its wake.
Only Atlas remained, his massive frame a steady presence at the table’s head, his calm demeanor unwavering as he watched me, patient as stone, waiting for the questions I wasn’t ready to voice.
