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Brock Winn stands near the back wall, his expression unreadable, his posture rigid, and somehow every person in the room pays attention without being asked to.

Gav blinks. "What?"

Brock steps forward. "If you're accusing someone of misconduct, you need evidence." His gaze sweeps the room — calm, direct, the kind of look that makes people feel seen in the most uncomfortable way. "The existence of complaints isn't evidence."

A woman near the front frowns. "Then what is?"

"Proof," he says, instantly, like the answer has never required thought. He folds his arms. "I inspected Sweetbell Bakery. Reviewed the permits, the safety procedures, the kitchen." His gaze settles briefly on me before returning to the crowd. "There were no health violations."

The words land differently coming from him. Not because they're new — I just said the same thing — but because he's the inspector. The authority. The outsider with no stake in protecting me. People believe him in ways they don't believe the person standing inside the accusation, and a strange mixture of relief and frustration arrives in my chest at the reminder.

Gav clears his throat. "But the complaints⁠—"

"Exist," Brock agrees, nodding once. "That doesn't make them accurate."

The room grows quieter. Thoughtful now, instead of accusatory. The shift is subtle, but it's there. Mayor Hawthorne watches the exchange with obvious interest before a woman near the back finally speaks.

"So you're saying she's innocent?"

Brock's jaw tightens slightly. The reaction is small, easy to miss. I don't miss it.

"I'm saying people shouldn't be judged without evidence."

The statement hangs in the room — simple, reasonable, difficult to argue against. Conversation begins shifting, attention drifts, and the pressure sitting on my shoulders lifts so gradually I don't notice it until it's already gone.

The meeting continues. Other discussions return,Road repairs return. Festival planning returns. Normal business resumes, except my attention keeps drifting toward Brock — toward the man who didn't have to say a word and chose to anyway.

When it finally ends, Daisy bumps my shoulder as people filter toward the exits.

"Interesting."

"No," I say.

"You didn't even let me finish."

"I didn't need to."

Her grin widens, and I immediately regret engaging. "You're impossible," I tell her.

"So I've been told." She disappears into the crowd before I can continue the argument. Coward.

I gather my things and head for the exit. Brock stands near the doorway speaking with Mayor Hawthorne, and the conversation ends just as I approach. The mayor smiles politely and leaves, which means I'm standing alone with him — a realization that sends an unexpected flutter through my stomach.

Annoying.

"Inspector."

His gaze settles on me. "Ms. Bell."

The corner of my mouth twitches. "One day you're going to use my first name."

"I doubt it," he replies, so quickly I almost laugh. Almost. Then I remember why I'm here, and the amusement fades.

"Thank you," I say.

His expression shifts slightly. "For what?"

"You know exactly what."