The Streets of Hudson Falls

Chapter 4

Mara

By the time Jack’s truck disappeared down Willow Road, my stomach was in knots.

Not because of the river. Not just because of the river.

Because Jack had looked at me when I said I was sorry like he didn’t know whether to believe me or punish me for even trying.

Because he’d touched my arm and let go like it hurt him.

Because he’d said, Don’t let him use you. Not this time.

As if he knew how close I’d come to letting my father do exactly that.

I walked into the inn and forced my face into something calm. Lorna glanced up from the desk, eyes sharp.

“You all set?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m fine.”

Lorna’s mouth twitched like she’d heard that lie a thousand times. “Sure you are.”

I smiled, but it probably looked more like a grimace. “Does everybody here have x-ray vision?”

“Only the people who’ve been here long enough,” Lorna said. “You want coffee?”

“I already had some,” I said, lifting my travel mug as proof.

“Then you want something stronger,” she said, and her tone was dry, not unkind.

I exhaled. “Maybe later.”

Lorna’s gaze held mine for a beat, then she nodded toward the little sitting area off the lobby. “You got a minute?”

I hesitated, then nodded.

We sat in armchairs that were too soft and too polite. Lorna folded her hands in her lap like she’d done this before.

“You gonna be in town awhile?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “A few days. Maybe longer.”

Lorna’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Mm.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“It means people don’t come back here unless they’ve got a reason,” Lorna said. “And when they do, the reason usually makes a mess. And yours already did once.”

Heat crept up my neck. “I’m not trying to make a mess.”

Lorna’s eyebrows lifted like she didn’t believe me or she didn’t care. “Mess happens anyway.”

I swallowed. “I have to meet my father.”

There it was.

Lorna didn’t flinch at his name, but I saw the way her jaw tightened. Tiny. Almost nothing.

“Yeah,” she said. “I figured.”

I stared at her. “You figured.”

Lorna’s mouth flattened. “Honey, your last name is Byrne. Your father’s been circling this town for years. We all know when he’s in town. The air changes.”

That landed like a cold splash.

“Does everyone hate him?” I asked, quieter.

Lorna studied me. “Hate’s a strong word. Folks are grateful when his checks clear. Folks are angry when his checks come with strings. Mostly, folks are tired.”

Tired. Yes.

“I’m tired too,” I whispered.

Lorna’s gaze softened just a fraction. “Then don’t let him wear you down.”

My throat tightened. “That’s easier said than done.”

Lorna leaned forward, voice low. “You’re grown. That means you get to decide what you do with his expectations.”

I laughed once, short and humorless. “Have you met Patrick Byrne?”

Lorna’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve met men like him. They only win when everyone else believes they have to.”

The words hit in a place that made my chest ache.

I stood. “I should go.”

Lorna nodded. “Yeah. You should. And Mara?”

I paused.

Her voice went quieter, more pointed. “Jack’s a good one.”

My stomach flipped.

“I know,” I said.

Lorna watched me for a long beat like she was deciding what kind of woman I was going to be.

Then she said, “Alright. Go.”

I left the inn with my coat buttoned up and my phone already in my hand.

This time, when it buzzed, I looked.

Patrick: Office. 11. Don’t be late.

Of course.

I stared at the text until my fingers cramped.

Then I typed back: I’ll be there.

I hated myself for it.

But saying no without a plan was just walking into a wall. I wasn’t ready to do that yet.

I drove to my father’s temporary office space in the only building in Hudson Falls that had ever looked even remotely like it belonged in Manhattan.

It wasn’t a skyscraper. It was a renovated bank building on Main Street with glass doors and fresh paint, like someone had tried to copy and paste corporate life onto a small town and hoped nobody would notice the seams.

A receptionist I didn’t recognize met me at the door. She looked young, crisp, and nervous in the way people got around my father.

“Mara Byrne?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She smiled tightly. “He’s expecting you.”

Of course he was.

She led me to a conference room with a long table, a screen on the wall, and bottled water lined up like a performance. The room smelled like printer toner and control.

My father stood near the window, hands in his pockets, looking out over Main Street like he owned it.

He didn’t turn when I walked in.

He didn’t have to.

“I’m not late,” I said.

He smiled faintly, as if I’d made a joke. “No. You’re not.”

Then he turned, and there he was. Patrick Byrne in his natural state.

Perfectly tailored suit. Calm expression. Eyes that missed nothing.

“Sit,” he said.

I sat.

He stayed standing, which was a power move he pretended wasn’t a power move.

He looked at me like he was assessing a business asset.

“You saw him,” he said.

I didn’t answer.

My father’s smile sharpened. “You did. I can tell.”

I forced my voice steady. “Yes.”

“And?” he asked again.

“He’s angry,” I said.

My father nodded like that was expected. “Of course he is. He’s always been emotional.”

Heat rose in my chest. “He’s not emotional. He’s human.”

My father’s brows lifted. “Are we doing this now?”

“Yes,” I said, surprising myself with the word. “We are.”

He studied me, and something flickered, irritation or amusement, I couldn’t tell which.

Then he walked to the table and sat across from me, folding his hands.

“Talk,” he said.

My hands clenched in my lap. “The south bank is worse than the reports. If the sewer line is exposed again, it’s going to be a disaster.”

“I know,” he said calmly.

That made my stomach drop.

“You know,” I repeated.

He nodded. “I have people. Engineers. Consultants. I don’t move blind.”

“You’re moving anyway,” I said. “With or without the town.”

My father’s smile softened, almost kind. “The town can’t afford pride right now.”

“You keep saying the town like you’re saving it,” I said. “But you didn’t come here to help the river.”

My father’s smile barely moved. “No?”

“You came for what comes after,” I said, and my voice went tight. “The mill. The corridor. Whatever you’re building.”

He didn’t deny it. That was the answer.

“Careful,” he said, and his voice was still calm but the air in the room changed.

I held his gaze anyway. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it.

“I read the foundation terms,” I said. “The vendor selection clause has to go.”

My father leaned back slightly. “It’s standard.”

“Standard,” I repeated. “Like the preferred vendor list you keep circulating. The one that’s all out of town firms with the same two consultants attached to every line item.”

His gaze didn’t change. That was the problem.

“It’s control,” I said. “And it will blow up in your face.”

My father’s eyes narrowed, almost imperceptibly. “That clause ensures the work is done correctly.”

“The town has qualified vendors,” I said. “They have local contractors. They have people who live here, who are invested.”

“My father’s mouth twitched. “Invested doesn’t mean competent.”

I stared at him. “You really believe that.”

He didn’t deny it.”

“Your clause will make it look like you’re buying the project for your own benefit,” I said.

My father’s gaze held mine. “I am funding a project that keeps Hudson Falls alive. People can think what they like.”

“They won’t just think,” I said. “They’ll fight. They’ll refuse. They’ll stall it until the river takes half the town.”

My father’s expression went thoughtful, like I was finally saying something worth hearing.

“What do you propose?” he asked.

I exhaled slowly. “Remove the clause. Offer transparency. Make the matching funds clean. No hidden strings.”

My father smiled, faint. “And you think they’ll accept that?”

“Yes,” I said. “Jack will. If it’s actually help.”

My father’s eyes sharpened at Jack’s name. “Ah.”

I hated that sound. Like he’d just found the soft part of me.

“Don’t,” I said.

My father’s smile widened. “Don’t what.”

“Don’t make him part of this game,” I said, voice tight.

My father leaned forward slightly, eyes calm. “Mara, everything is part of the game.”

Anger flashed. “No. People aren’t a game.”

My father’s gaze stayed on me, unblinking. “You’re very idealistic today.”

“I’m realistic,” I said. “And you’re underestimating this town.”

“I’m not,” he said. “I’m calculating it.”

My hands clenched harder. “Then calculate this. If you push too hard, they’ll turn on you. And if they turn on you, they’ll turn on me too.”

My father paused.

For the first time, there was a crack in his certainty. Not fear. Not regret.

Interest.

“Is that what this is?” he asked softly. “You’re afraid of being disliked.”

I stared at him. “I’m afraid of being used.”

His expression went still.

The air in the room sharpened again.

Then my father smiled, slow and deliberate. “You’ve been used your whole life, Mara. The difference is whether you choose it.”

My throat tightened. “That’s a horrible thing to say.”

“It’s the truth,” he replied. “And truth is useful.”

I swallowed hard, forcing myself not to flinch.

“I’m not doing this your way,” I said.

My father leaned back, studying me like I was a puzzle.

“You say that now,” he said. “But you’re here. You came when I called. You’re in my office.”

“That doesn’t mean you own me,” I said.

My father’s smile softened again, like he was indulging me. “I don’t need to own you. I just need you to remember who you are.”

My chest hurt. “I know who I am.”

“Do you,” he asked quietly. “Or do you know who you want to be when Jack Flynn looks at you.”

My stomach dropped.

“How dare you,” I whispered.

He’d done it before. Found the one thing I loved and put his hand around its throat until I complied.

My father’s eyes held mine. “You’re not here because of the grant, Mara. You’re here because you couldn’t stay away.”

Heat flooded my face. Rage and shame and something that felt like grief.

“You don’t get to say that,” I said.

“I get to say anything,” he replied, calm as ever. “And you get to decide whether it’s true.”

I forced myself to breathe, slowly, evenly, the way my therapist used to tell me when my father made me feel like I was eight years old again.

“I’m asking you one last time,” I said. “Remove the vendor clause.”

My father was silent for a long moment.

Then he stood.

He walked to the window again, hands in his pockets, looking down at Main Street like it was a chessboard.

Without turning, he said, “I’ll consider adjusting it.” Consider meant delay. Delay meant the river kept eating. And every day the town panicked a little more, my father got a little more leverage.

Consider.

Not yes.

Not no.

A leash, loosened just enough to feel like freedom.

I stood too, pushing my chair back.

“That’s not an answer,” I said.

My father’s smile returned, faint. “It’s the only answer you’re getting today.”

I grabbed my phone off the table. “Fine.”

“Mara,” he said, and his voice stopped me in my tracks.

I turned.

My father’s eyes were steady. “Be careful. Jack Flynn is not a safe man for you.”

My pulse spiked, fury sharp. “You don’t get to decide who’s safe for me.”

My father’s smile was small and cold. “I decide more than you think.”

I held his gaze, then turned and walked out before my knees could start shaking.

In the hallway, the receptionist looked up, startled by the look on my face.

I didn’t slow down.

Outside, the air hit cold and clean and real.

I stood on the sidewalk for a second with my hands clenched and my chest tight and my father’s words still echoing in my ears.

Not a safe man.

He meant Jack would ruin me.

Or he meant Jack could make me brave enough to stop letting my father decide everything.

Either way, my father was afraid of him.

That mattered.

My phone buzzed.

A text from a 212 number. My stomach dropped.

I stared at it, pulse hammering.

Then another text came through, same number.

Need to talk. Urgent.

I stood there in the middle of Main Street with my breath stuck in my throat, staring at the screen like it had just opened a door I didn’t want to walk through.