SAVING LEONATA

Chapter Two

Day three of surveillance, and Regan had established a clear picture of Lila Marlowe's routines. They were, like the woman herself, carefully constructed to avoid drawing attention.

6:00 AM: Morning run along the beach, regardless of weather. Always the same route, always alone.

7:15 AM: Return home, presumably to shower and prepare for work.

8:15 AM: Arrive at Coastal Paws Veterinary Clinic, always through the side entrance.

5:30 PM: Lock up the clinic, walk home, taking slightly different routes but never deviating to socialize.

Evenings: Remain at home, lights out by 10:30 PM.

Exceptions were minimal. Thursdays she stopped at a small grocery store on her way home. Sundays she did laundry at the cottage (visible through the kitchen window that faced the side yard). She had no visitors. Made no social calls. Initiated no conversations beyond what her job required.

The perfect invisible life.

Too perfect, in Regan's professional assessment. Invisibility required care, but this level of isolation wasn't sustainable long-term. Humans needed connection. The fact that she permitted herself none suggested either recent trauma (consistent with the explosion) or ongoing fear (consistent with someone in hiding).

Or both.

On day four, he decided to observe her workplace more closely. He arrived at Coastal Paws as a potential customer dressed in jeans and a beat-up leather jacket— chosen to fit in with the small-town style.

There were faded posters about heartworm prevention and the significance of spraying and neutering in the small but tidy reception area. A kind-faced middle-aged woman raised her head from the computer.

"Good morning! Do you have an appointment?"

"I was hoping to establish care for a pet I'm planning to adopt," Regan said, offering his most disarming smile. "Just moved to the area."

"Of course! Dr. Williams is accepting new patients. Let me get you some paperwork."

As the receptionist turned to retrieve forms, Regan glanced toward the treatment area visible through a half-open door. Lila Marlowe was kneeling beside an examination table, gently restraining a nervous terrier while an older man—presumably Dr. Williams—examined its paw.

Even from this distance, Regan could see the gentle competence in her movements, and the careful way she spoke to the anxious animal. Her behaviour didn't resemble the corporate shark he had seen in the Lancaster Holdings personnel file.

As she followed his gaze the receptionist said “That’s Lila our vet tech. Been with us for about four months now. Has a real way with the scared ones."

"She a local?" Regan asked casually, accepting the clipboard of forms.

"Nah, moved here from... somewhere east, I think. Keeps to herself mostly, but does good work. Dr. Williams says she's overqualified, but we're lucky to have her."

Before he could probe further, the exam room door opened fully and Lila emerged, leading the terrier and its owner toward the reception area. Up close, the transformation from Leonata Lancaster was even more striking. The blonde hair was now a muted brown, cut in a practical shoulder-length style. The designer clothes were replaced with simple scrubs. The manicured nails are now short and unpolished.

But it was her eyes that captured Regan's attention—dark brown instead of the blue shown in her file photos (colored contacts, he assumed), and holding a wariness that went beyond ordinary caution. The eyes of someone who had seen too much. Someone who knew exactly how quickly a life could be destroyed.

She nodded professionally to him as she passed, with no recognition in her gaze—just the automatic acknowledgment of a client in the waiting area. But he noticed the subtle assessment in that brief glance. The quick cataloging of his appearance, his posture, and his potential threat level.

The instincts of someone trained to evaluate danger.

Or someone who had learned those instincts the hard way.

After leaving the clinic with an appointment scheduled for a non-existent pet, Regan drove to the small park across the street. From this vantage point, he could observe the building while reviewing the additional information Melissa had sent overnight.

Project Kingmaker remained elusive—all references to it had been scrubbed from Lancaster Holdings' servers. But Melissa had uncovered something potentially more significant: financial irregularities surrounding the explosion. Large stock sales executed minutes before the news broke publicly. Insurance policies with massive payouts. Restructuring of corporate assets that had centralized control of the company in fewer hands.

Specifically, in Victor Lancaster's hands.

As the only surviving senior Lancaster, Victor had inherited not only his brother's controlling interest in the company but also the presumed shares of his niece and nephews. The explosion had effectively tripled his personal wealth overnight.

A coincidence, perhaps. But in Regan's experience, coincidences involving billions of dollars were rare.

His phone vibrated with another text from Melissa: VICTOR ASKING QUESTIONS ABOUT YOUR PROGRESS. SEEMS UNUSUALLY URGENT.

Regan frowned. The urgency was concerning. If Victor's interest in finding his niece was purely about family reconciliation, why the pressure? Why not give her time to heal, to come forward on her own?

Unless time was a factor for other reasons.

At precisely 12:30 PM, Lila came out the side door of the clinic with a small paper bag in her hand. She chose to cross to the park and sit on a bench at the far end away from other lunchtime guests rather than eat inside with her co-workers.

Regan watched from his parked car as she opened a sandwich and left a piece on the floor next to the bench. A short while later a rumpled orange feline cautiously approached from the bushes.

Until it started eating Lila stood motionless her eyes turned away from the cautious cat. Then after saying something too soft for Regan to hear, she gave it a quick glance. Although the cat avoided contact there was a familiarity in the exchange that indicated this was not their first encounter.

She was eating lunch when a second cat and then a third one showed up each of them getting a small offering from her food. None permitted her touch, but all accepted her food, creating a strange communion of outcasts.

The scene struck Regan as deeply revealing. This woman—who had once commanded boardrooms and managed billion-dollar portfolios—now found companionship with strays. Creatures as wary and displaced as herself.

Regan chose to extend his surveillance area after she got back to the clinic, looking around the town she had designated as her haven. A main street with necessary businesses, a few eateries serving locals rather than visitors, and modest homes worn by the salt air were all characteristics of Seaview Cove which is typical of small coastal communities. It was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone but for some reason, nobody knew Lila Marlowe outside of her work role.

By 5:30 PM Regan was waiting for her to come out so she could walk home while parked close to the clinic. The small town had a spectral feel to it as the coastal fog had moved in making it harder to see. Perfect weather for shadows and secrets.

He noticed something about her posture when she emerged locking the clinic door behind her. A greater level of alertness than in previous days. She walked a little faster than normal, her gaze constantly scanning the street.

Had she sensed his surveillance? Detected his inquiries around town? Or was this simply the natural paranoia of someone living under false pretences?

The next morning, Regan's routine surveillance was interrupted by another call from Victor Lancaster.

"This is the fifth day already, Price," Lancaster said cutting straight to the point. "I just want to hear what you have accomplished, not stories."

"Profiling the target is a thorough process and requires patience," Regan answered, his eyes still fixed on Lila’s cottage. "Her situation is complex."

"Her situation is irrelevant. She’s the only living member of my brother's family and my niece. She belongs with her remaining relatives, not hiding in some backwater town."

Regan became suspicious of Lancaster’s tone of possessiveness. “Respectfully sir, she would not have gone to such lengths to vanish if she had wished to be discovered”

"She's bewildered and traumatized. Survivor's guilt after witnessing her family's murder." Lancaster's voice softened to something approaching concern. "She needs professional help, not isolation."

It was a reasonable position. Perhaps even a genuine one. But it didn't explain the deleted security footage or the financial irregularities surrounding the explosion.

"I need more time to assess the situation," Regan insisted. "To understand why she's running before initiating contact."

"You have until tomorrow," Lancaster said, an unmistakable threat underlying his words. "Then I expect a full report and a plan for bringing her home. Or I'll find someone else who can deliver results."

The call ended, leaving Regan with a familiar tension between professional ethics and client demands. In fifteen years of finding people, he had developed one inviolable rule: never return someone to a situation more dangerous than the one they were running from.

The question was whether Victor Lancaster represented safety or threat to his niece.

He didn't have enough information to answer that yet. But his instincts—honed through years of similar cases—were leaning toward the latter.

He trailed Lila to the neighborhood grocery store that afternoon, a tiny independent market serving Seaview Coves year-round residents. He stayed out of sight inside watching her navigate the aisles with efficiency and choose things with the thoughtful attention to detail of a frugal person.

With only one bar of dark chocolate for her pleasure and basic necessities, nothing in her shopping basket suggested luxury. A far cry from the woman who had once had personal chefs and dined at Michelin-starred restaurants.

As she exited the store, Regan made his decision. It was time for a controlled introduction—not a full approach, but a testing of waters. An opportunity to assess her reactions up close.

In the parking lot, the opportunity arose. As she approached her car a small used Jeep that had seen better days one of her paper grocery bags which had been weakened by condensation from refrigerated items started to give way. As apples and a container of yogurt spilled onto the asphalt.

Regan moved swiftly but instinctively to get closer. "Need a hand?" he offered, already kneeling to retrieve an escaping apple.

Her reaction was immediate and revealing—a full-body tensing, hand instinctively moving toward her pocket before conscious control reasserted itself. The reflexes of someone who considered every unexpected interaction a potential threat.

“Thanks,” she said finally, in a controlled tone that revealed nothing. As he collected the fallen objects, he observed her posture: eyes constantly scanning the environment, stance balanced for rapid movement if needed, body angled for maximum peripheral vision. Her behaviour did not indicate that she recognized him from the veterinary clinic earlier in the week. Or perhaps she was simply that good at concealment.

"Paper bags," he said conversationally, handing her the recovered groceries. "They always fail at the worst moment."

She accepted the items with a nod, transferring everything to her remaining intact bag. "Trying to use less plastic," she replied—a neutral response that offered nothing personal while maintaining social norms.

Regan nodded toward the parking lot. "Is that your Jeep? The blue one?"

Her eyes narrowed slightly. A test—was he fishing or did he already know? "Yes."

"Looks like you’ve got some trouble with that tire on the driver's side,” he said, pointing to the tire that was delated. "Looks recent. Might have run over something in the parking lot."

She looked and frowned, genuine concern breaking through her careful facade. "I didn't notice."

"I've got a portable air compressor in my car," he offered, deliberately casual. "I could help you inflate it enough to get to a shop. Unless there's a puncture."

The calculation played out visibly in her eyes—weighing risk against practicality, threat assessment against immediate need. The flat tire would prevent her clean escape if she needed one. But accepting help from a stranger carried its dangers.

Another careful assessment before she nodded once. "Thanks," she said without smiling. "I'd appreciate that."

As he walked to his car to retrieve the compressor, Regan noted that she immediately pulled out her phone—likely texting someone her location, a sensible precaution. She also used the moment to scan the parking lot again, looking for anyone watching their interaction.

Good instincts. Not good enough to spot his surveillance, but better than most.

She was waiting with the keys casually between her fingers ready to use as a makeshift weapon if needed and had already moved her groceries to the passenger seat when he returned with the compressor. He crouched beside the tire and said “This should be done in minutes.”

“It should only take a few minutes,” he said while crouching next to the tire.

“You might have picked up a nail.” She remained silent and watched him work with the focus of someone learning a new fact.

At last, she said “You’re not from around here” in a deliberately neutral tone.

“Just passing through while concentrating on the tire.” He answered. "Nice town."

"It is."

No volunteered information about herself. No reciprocal questions about him or his business in Seaview Cove. The conversation stalled deliberately.

Regan thought about what to do as the tire inflated. His intuition developed over years of observing people under pressure told him that this woman was concealing something important—something that went beyond who she was. Her demeanour, her composed reactions, and her alert awareness showed that she wasn't merely avoiding her past.

"That should get you to a repair shop," he said, disconnecting the compressor. "But I'd have it checked soon. There's definitely something embedded in the tread."

"Thank you." She reached for her wallet. "Let me give you something for your trouble."

Regan waved it away. "No trouble."

She studied him for a moment, her expression unreadable. "Well. Thanks again."

He nodded and stepped back, giving her space. "Drive safely."

As she drove away, Regan returned to his vehicle and made a decision. He would not yet report his findings to Victor Lancaster, despite the deadline. Something about this case required more than professional detachment. It required understanding.

Because the woman he'd just met wasn't the entitled heiress described in Lancaster Holdings personnel files. She wasn't the cold corporate strategist whose boardroom tactics had been described as "ruthlessly efficient" by business publications.

The woman calling herself Lila Marlowe fed stray cats from her lunch. Worked diligently at a job far beneath her qualifications. Kept her hair tied up and her smile tight. Carried a haunted look in her eyes she tried to hide.

She was, in short, not who she had been. But neither was she simply running from something.

She appeared to be waiting. Watching. Preparing.

The question was: for what?

Regan started his car, decision made. Before he delivered any report to Victor Lancaster, he needed to understand why Leonata Lancaster had chosen to die—and why Lila Marlowe had chosen to live.

He needed to know if she was running from justice or toward it.

If she was a victim deserving protection or a perpetrator deserving exposure.

If she was worth saving.

Because that's what Regan Price did—he fixed broken things. But first, he had to understand what had broken them.

And whether they wanted to be fixed at all.