Enough to make the truth believable when it landed. Meanwhile, Karen kept pulling threads. While she worked, I made one more call to Mike Ramirez, my foreman. Guy's been with me for 10 years.
Solid, loyal, built like a bulldozer with the judgment of a judge. He met me at the yard after hours, dust still on his boots. "What's going on, boss?" he asked. I handed him the folder with screenshots.
He read for a minute, jaw tightening. "You've got to be kidding me," he muttered. "She planned all this with those clowns?" "Yeah."
He closed the folder slowly, like it might snap shut on his fingers. "What do you need?" "Logistics," I said. "Cars, access, timing, contingencies."
He nodded once, already thinking ahead. "I'll handle it." I didn't have to say more. Mike Ramirez was the kind of man who understood betrayal without needing a speech.
Over the next weeks, things moved quietly. Lauren kept planning. Tara kept coaching. Ryan and Brandon kept tripping over their own egos.
Karen kept gathering proof. Mike kept tightening screws where they needed tightening. And me? I kept my head down.
No outbursts. No accusations. No clues. By the time the night of the black dress came around, every piece on the board was exactly where I wanted it.
They thought they were planning the explosion. But I was the one holding the detonator. The morning after I shut down Lauren's hotel stunt, the whole town gathered for Founders Day. Games, booths, food, and gossip rolling through the air like smoke.
I showed up calm, but by noon, two men were going to confess everything without me saying a single damning word. I spent the night at Mike's place. Not because I was hurt, but because staying under the same roof as Lauren would have been a charity she didn't deserve. We sat in his garage, cracked a couple beers, and reviewed the plan.
Not the revenge plan, the containment plan. Keep distance. Keep calm. Let the dominoes fall forward, not sideways.
By sunrise, the texts from Karen were already rolling in. Jessica and Michelle had confronted their husbands last night. The hotel lobby had been a scene. Cops called.
People crying, shouting, luggage smashing against marble floors. Exactly the kind of moment Lauren wanted for me. Delivered instead to her co-conspirators. Founders Day started at 10:00.
I parked near the square, threw on my company T-shirt, and took my place next to the plywood kids' booth we built. Ring toss, beanbag games, the usual. The kind of thing dads do when they're trying to look stable in a small town. Except I didn't need to look stable.
I was stable. By 10:15, Mrs. Jenkins was already power-walking toward me like a heat-seeking missile. "Jason," she said, breathless. "Did you hear about the scene at the Ritz last night?"
I tapped a sandbag into place on the table, keeping my voice low and steady. "No, I didn't. Everything all right?" "Well, no."
"Two married couples screaming at those men, Ryan Cooper and Brandon Ellis." She made sure to project the names like she was addressing the entire county. People nearby pretended not to listen while immediately listening. "What happened?" I asked.
Brows pulled together like I was trying to process something painful. "Oh, it was terrible," she said, delighted. "Police were called, wives stormed out, suitcases everywhere. Someone said the husbands were meeting another woman."