"I need 5 minutes with your sound system," Emmett said quietly. "After Gerald Ashford's speech."
The young man blinked. "I'm sorry, that's not really something I can authorize. This whole thing is scheduled pretty tight."
Harper stepped forward, holding out the notebook. "Please," she said. "This is about the fund this memorial was supposed to come from. There's something everyone in that crowd deserves to know before this ceremony is over."
The technician glanced between them, uncertain, eyes drifting toward the stage where Gerald Ashford now stood, beginning his prepared remarks about honor, sacrifice, and community. "Look," he said slowly, "I really can't just hand the mic to strangers in the middle of an event like this."
Emmett's expression stayed calm, though something serious had settled behind his eyes. "Son," he said quietly. "I served this country for 22 years. I've buried more friends than I care to count. I'm asking you, one veteran to a young man who clearly respects what today means. To give us 5 minutes, that's all. 5 minutes after his speech, before the unveiling."
The young man hesitated, taking in Emmett's steady, weathered face, Harper's determined expression beside him. "Five minutes," he finally said. "But if this goes sideways, that's on you, not me."
"Understood," Emmett said.
They stepped back, waiting, watching Gerald Ashford's speech smoothly across the square, practiced and confident. "Today," Gerald was saying, "we honor not just the names carved into this stone behind me, but the values they stood for: sacrifice, duty, honesty."
Harper felt her jaw tighten at the word honesty.
"This memorial," Gerald continued, "represents years of careful planning, careful stewardship of this community's generosity, and I am proud, deeply proud to have played a part in bringing it to life."
The crowd applauded warmly, unaware of the storm quietly gathering at the edge of the square. Gerald's speech ran another 10 minutes, touching on the history of the fundraising effort, thanking various community members and business sponsors, carefully avoiding any specific mention of numbers or timelines. As he began wrapping up, gesturing toward the covered memorial behind him, preparing for the ceremonial unveiling, Harper felt her heart pounding hard against her ribs.
"And now," Gerald announced, "it is my great honor to unveil this memorial, a lasting tribute to the brave men and women of Ridgefield who gave everything in service to this country."
He reached for the cord that would pull away the white sheet. This was the moment. Emmett stepped toward the audio table, nodding once to the young technician, who with visible reluctance handed over a small handheld microphone.
"Excuse me," Emmett said, his voice suddenly amplified across the square, steady and clear.
The crowd turned, murmurs rippling through the rows of folding chairs. Gerald froze, hand still on the cord, his composed expression flickering with confusion, and just beneath it, the faintest trace of alarm.
"I apologize for the interruption," Emmett continued, walking slowly toward the front, Harper close behind him. "But before this memorial is unveiled, there's something the people of this town deserve to hear."
Murmurs grew louder. Reporters exchanged glances, cameras swiveling toward the unexpected moment. Gerald recovered quickly, forcing a tight smile.
"Emmett, I understand you have strong feelings about honoring our veterans. We all do. But perhaps this isn't the appropriate time for—"
"It's exactly the right time," Emmett interrupted, calm but firm. "Because this memorial was supposed to be funded in part by donations originally raised for the Ridgefield Veteran Support Fund. A fund that quietly disappeared folded into this project more than 10 years ago."
Gerald's smile faltered. "That's simply not accurate," he said quickly, glancing nervously at the crowd. "The support fund was consolidated entirely above board into this larger, more impactful initiative."
"Was it?" Emmett asked, lifting the worn leather notebook. "Because according to careful records kept by a man who volunteered with that fund, thousands of dollars raised for military families in this county never made it into either fund at all."
The crowd's murmuring deepened into a low, uneasy hum. Gerald's face had gone pale, though he fought to hold his composure. "I don't know what you're implying," he said, voice tightening. "But I assure everyone here, every dollar of this memorial's funding has been properly accounted for."
"Then you won't mind," Emmett said evenly, "If we take a moment to hear the words of the man who first noticed the discrepancy, a man who served this country faithfully for 12 years, and who happens to be one of the names carved into that memorial behind you."
A stunned silence dropped over the crowd. Walter near the front sat up straighter, his weathered face suddenly alert. Eleanor Pratt's hand flew to her mouth. Gerald's eyes darted toward Colton, standing frozen among the crowd, his earlier smirk completely gone, replaced by something closer to panic.
Harper stepped forward and took the microphone with trembling but steady hands. "My name is Harper Voss," she said, her voice carrying clearly across the silent square. "Some of you know me as the waitress at Millie's Diner. What most of you don't know is that my father, Daniel Voss, gave his life in service to this country 10 years ago." She glanced at the covered memorial behind Gerald. "His name is on that wall," she continued. "And before he died, he discovered something troubling about how donations to the Veterans Support Fund were being handled."
She reached into her pocket, carefully unwrapping the small cassette tape. "He recorded his concerns," she said, "and asked a trusted friend to keep them safe until the time was right to bring them forward."