Harper's throat tightened. "He must have already suspected something was off," she said quietly.
Harold nodded slowly. "Sounds that way. I wish I had more to offer you. But if you're after real proof, real documentation, you'll need access to the old financial records, county archives, most likely, or whatever internal paperwork the council kept from that fundraising campaign."
"Would that still exist?" Emmett asked.
"Might," Harold said. "Might not. Depends whether anybody bothered holding on to it or whether it got quietly cleaned out somewhere along the way." He looked at them both, his expression turning serious. "I'll tell you this much for free," he added. "If what you're suggesting turns out to be true, and Gerald Ashford really did move money he shouldn't have, digging into it 2 days before he stands up in front of half this county at that memorial dedication is not going to sit well with him. Man like that doesn't take kindly to having his name questioned, especially not right before his biggest day in the spotlight."
Harper thought of Colton's warning from the day before. "You've got until Sunday. After that, whatever happens happens." She understood now with sudden clarity, exactly what her silence was worth to the Ashford family.
They left Harold's house with more questions than answers, but with one solid piece of direction. If actual proof still existed, it would be sitting somewhere in the town's old financial records. Records that might still be gathering dust in some forgotten filing cabinet or might already be long gone.
Harper spent the drive back into town staring out the window, turning everything over in her head. "Even if we find proof," she finally said. "Who's going to believe it? Gerald Ashford practically runs this town. He's on the council. His company built half of Main Street. People aren't going to want to hear he stole from a fund meant to help military families."
Emmett kept his eyes on the road, thoughtful. "People believe evidence," he said. "Especially the kind you can't talk your way around. Your father didn't just scribble down suspicions in that notebook. He wrote down numbers, dates, discrepancies. That's not gossip. That's a paper trail."
"It's still just a notebook," Harper said. "Not exactly something a courtroom's going to take at face value."
"No," Emmett agreed. "But it's a start, and sometimes a start is all you need to get the right people asking the right questions."
Harper went quiet for a moment. "Colton knows we have it," she finally said. "Or at least he knows I have something. That's what Friday was about. The warning."
Emmett's jaw tightened. "I know," he said.
"What if they try something before Sunday?" Harper asked. "What if this isn't just talk?"
Emmett glanced at her, his expression settling into the same even calm he'd carried through a hundred training sessions in that old barn. "Then we'll be ready," he said simply. "That's what the last 10 years were for."
Harper worked her regular shift at Millie's Saturday morning, though her thoughts kept drifting elsewhere. The diner buzzed with talk of Sunday. Regulars discussed what they'd wear, what time they'd need to arrive to grab a decent seat, whether the mayor would actually show up this year or send someone in his place the way he had the year before. Nobody, as far as Harper could tell, suspected anything was wrong beneath the surface of Ridgefield's biggest annual event.
Around 10, the bell above the door rang, and Walter shuffled in, moving a little slower than usual, leaning more heavily on his cane. He eased into his usual booth, and Harper brought his coffee with a warm smile.
"Big day tomorrow, Walter," she said. "You excited?"
Walter's weathered face brightened. "Wouldn't miss it for the world. My brother's name is going on that wall, you know. Lost him back when he was still in his 20s. Families waited a long time to see him properly honored."
Harper felt something tighten in her chest. "I didn't know that," she said softly.
"Not many people do," Walter said. "It's a good thing they're doing building that memorial. Whatever else folks say about Gerald Ashford, at least he's finally getting it done."
Harper managed a small smile, though the words sat heavy in her stomach. She thought about the missing $14,000, the missing $9,000, the support fund that had quietly vanished, folded into a project that made for better ribbon cuttings and better headlines. She thought about Walter's brother, whoever he'd been, and how much a memorial like this meant to families who'd been carrying grief for decades.
Whatever Gerald Ashford had actually done, it wasn't just about numbers scratched onto a page. It was about people like Walter trusting their town to honor sacrifice the right way. And if even a fraction of the money meant for veteran families had truly gone missing along the way, that betrayal cut a lot deeper than anyone in Ridgefield understood.
Just after noon, the diner door swung open harder than usual. Colton walked in alone again, but his expression had changed. Sharper now, angrier. He didn't sit down. He walked straight to the counter where Harper was refilling a napkin dispenser and leaned in close enough that only she could hear him.
"You talked to Harold Sims yesterday," he said, voice low.
Harper's hands stilled for a beat before she went back to work, keeping her face carefully blank. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't play dumb," Colton snapped, quiet but sharp. "My dad's got friends everywhere in this town. You think you can go digging around county records and nobody notices?"
Harper set the napkin dispenser down and looked straight at him. "If your dad has nothing to hide," she said evenly, "then it shouldn't matter what I look into."