Operation Trojan Horsepower, as Maya had dramatically dubbed my infiltration plan (claiming “Operation Sneaky Preservationist” lacked pizzazz), felt significantly less clever and considerably more insane as I stood sweating slightly in the overly warm service corridor behind the Oakhaven Valley Inn’s main kitchen.
The borrowed catering uniform – black slacks a size too big, secured with a safety pin at the waistband, and a starchy white shirt that smelled faintly of bleach and desperation – felt less like a disguise and more like a neon sign flashing ‘IMPOSTER! PROBABLY HERE TO STEAL THE FANCY MINI QUICHES!’
My hair was scraped back in a severe bun that I hoped screamed ‘efficient underpaid hospitality worker’ rather than ‘slightly unhinged architectural historian attempting espionage.’ A strategically smudged bit of charcoal pencil near my temple was meant to simulate… I don’t know, frantic kitchen labor? Mostly, I just looked like I’d accidentally head-butted a barbecue grill.
Maya had, against her better judgment (and numerous frantic warnings about jail time and public disgrace), procured the uniform via a friend-of-a-friend who occasionally worked banquets at the Inn. The crucial piece, however, was the floor plan I’d studied obsessively. The River Room, where Damon Cole was currently schmoozing Oakhaven’s elite, backed onto this service hallway. And according to the slightly blurry architectural drawing I’d found online, there was an alcove. A recessed space, originally designed perhaps for storing extra chairs or bussing stations, located near the room’s main entrance but technically outside it, shielded by a decorative screen or, failing that, potentially just the general chaos of arrival and departure. If I could just slip into that alcove unnoticed…
The corridor buzzed with activity. Real catering staff bustled past, carrying trays laden with precisely arranged asparagus spears and glistening shrimp cocktail. The air hummed with the clatter of dishes, muffled kitchen shouts, and the low thrum of bass from some discreetly placed sound system filtering through the walls. Every footstep behind me sent a jolt of panic through my system. Every clipped instruction from a supervisor made me want to flatten myself against the wall and pretend to be a particularly stressed-out coat rack.
Okay, Vance. Deep breaths. Remember why you’re doing this. Damon Cole. Smug, dismissive, planning to gut the Oakhaven Theatre while feeding palatable lies to the people who could stop him. You need to know what those lies are. You need ammunition. You need… okay, maybe you just really, really need to prove him wrong about underestimating you. Ego is a surprisingly effective motivator, second only perhaps to righteous fury and the desire to wipe the smug look off an infuriatingly handsome face.
Peeking around the corner, I could see the entrance to the River Room. Polished double doors, flanked by potted ferns the size of small Yetis. Guests were still arriving, mingling just inside, their cheerful chatter a low murmur. A crisp-suited woman with a clipboard and an earpiece stood guard, checking names. No way through the front.
But the alcove… yes, there it was. Just past the main doors, a shadowed indentation in the wall, partially obscured by one of the aforementioned Yetis in a pot. It was deeper than I’d hoped, maybe four feet deep and three feet wide. Currently empty. Perfect.
Now came the tricky part. Timing. I needed a moment of distraction, a lull in the corridor traffic, a brief window to slip from the relative anonymity of the service hallway into that hiding spot without anyone noticing the random, slightly-too-tense catering person melting into the shadows.
My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs. This was certifiably insane. If caught, I’d be lucky to escape with just being thrown out. Trespassing, misrepresentation… Cole could press charges. My already shaky attempt at rebuilding a quiet life in Oakhaven would implode spectacularly. I could picture the headline in the Gazette: ‘Disgraced Historian Arrested After Crashing Private Event in Ill-Fitting Uniform; Claims She Was ‘Just Admiring the Cornice Work’.’
Then, a minor miracle. A server carrying a precariously stacked tray of champagne flutes stumbled slightly, sending a cascade of clinking glass towards the floor near the River Room entrance. Not a crash, but enough of a clatter and a flurry of tutting colleagues rushing to assist to draw eyes and create a pocket of chaos.
It was now or never.
Heart in my throat, I moved. Fast, head down, trying to project an air of purpose, as if heading towards some urgent, invisible catering-related task. I slipped past the preoccupied group near the entrance, sidestepped a rolling cart piled high with dirty dishes, and then, with a final, desperate surge of adrenaline, practically dove behind the giant fern and flattened myself into the blessed shadows of the alcove.
Safe. For now.
My back pressed against the cool, slightly textured wallpaper. The fern’s broad leaves provided surprisingly effective cover, smelling vaguely of leaf shine spray and neglect. I held my breath, listening intently. The brief commotion outside subsided. Footsteps passed my hiding spot – guests entering the room, staff bustling by – none seemed to notice the human-shaped lump trying to merge with the wall behind the foliage.
Success. Phase one complete. My pulse gradually slowed from ‘hummingbird attempting liftoff’ to merely ‘panicked rabbit.’
Now, phase two: listen.
The alcove was blessedly positioned. While outside the main room, it was close enough to the entrance and, crucially, near where a podium and sound system would likely be set up just inside. The double doors were currently propped open to welcome late arrivals, allowing sound to spill out. If I pressed my ear carefully against the wall…
Yes. Faintly at first, then clearer as the ambient hallway noise lessened and the main event began inside. The murmur of mingling guests quieted. A polite smattering of applause. Then, a voice. Amplified, smooth, confident.
Damon Cole.
“Thank you all for coming this evening,” his voice resonated, carrying easily even through the wall. The smooth, cultured tones I remembered from our midnight confrontation, now amplified and projecting effortless authority. “I know there’s been considerable… discussion… surrounding Cole Development’s plans for the Oakhaven Theatre, and I wanted the opportunity to speak directly with key stakeholders, answer your questions honestly, and share our vision for this exciting project.”
Exciting project. My teeth clenched. Translation: Lucrative demolition.
I pressed my ear harder against the wallpaper, straining to hear every word. The acoustics weren’t ideal, muffled and slightly distorted, but discernible.
“Oakhaven holds a special place… potential… charm…” Standard opening platitudes. Buttering them up. I could almost picture him up there, exuding charisma, making eye contact, deploying that calculated charm like a heat-seeking missile aimed directly at municipal approval ratings.
Then he shifted gears, moving into the specifics. Or rather, his version of the specifics.
“We understand the deep affection many feel for the Oakhaven Theatre,” he continued, his tone shifting to one of respectful understanding. Liar. “It’s a building woven into the fabric of this town’s memory. And let me be clear: our plan honors that legacy.”
Honors it by ripping out its guts, I thought savagely.
“We are preserving the entire historic facade,” he announced, as if this were a grand concession rather than the bare minimum required to avoid immediate tarring and feathering. “The stunning terracotta work, the iconic marquee – these will be meticulously restored to their former glory. The grand lobby, too, will be preserved and revitalized, serving as a public access point and a tribute to the theatre’s golden age.”
I waited for the other shoe to drop. And drop it did, wrapped in layers of corporate euphemism.
“To make the project economically viable, and to bring the dynamic mix of residential and retail opportunities that will truly revitalize this block,” he said smoothly, “the auditorium space itself requires reconfiguration. We’re envisioning state-of-the-art residential units with unique historical character, alongside boutique retail spaces that will draw commerce and foot traffic back to this part of downtown.”
Reconfiguration. A beautifully sterile word for demolition. My stomach churned.
He must have anticipated the unspoken question hanging in the air – the loss of the performance space.
“And while the original auditorium configuration isn’t feasible,” he went on, seamlessly transitioning, “we are deeply committed to supporting the arts in Oakhaven. As part of our development, we are exploring options for incorporating a flexible community performance space within the revitalized lobby area, or potentially partnering with local arts groups to fund programming elsewhere. This project isn’t just about bricks and mortar; it’s about building a sustainable future for Oakhaven, both economically and culturally.”
Exploring options. Potentially partnering. Vague. Non-committal. Classic developer doublespeak designed to sound supportive while promising absolutely nothing concrete. A ‘flexible community performance space’ in the lobby? That probably meant a raised platform shoved in a corner next to the mailboxes for the condos. Insulting.
I scribbled furiously in the small notebook I’d tucked into my waistband, crouching slightly to use my knee as a desk. ‘Community benefit’ = vague promise, lobby platform? Check funding options. The charcoal pencil felt clumsy in my trembling fingers.
He continued, his voice painting a picture of progress, prosperity, increased property values, job creation. He presented sleek architectural renderings – probably the same ones I’d seen online – on a screen I couldn’t see, describing them in glowing terms. I could hear the appreciative murmurs from the audience. He was good. Damn him, he was very good.
He spoke with conviction, with passion – albeit a passion for profit margins wrapped in the language of civic improvement. He anticipated objections and preemptively countered them with practiced arguments about maintenance costs, structural decline (likely exaggerated), and the inevitability of change. He made his destructive plan sound not just reasonable, but practically heroic – rescuing Oakhaven from its own quaint, unprofitable past.
And listening, hidden in my dusty alcove, a profoundly unwelcome thought surfaced: beneath the spin, beneath the infuriating corporate jargon, he was incredibly competent. He commanded the room, even through a wall. He knew his audience, knew which buttons to push – economic anxiety, desire for modernity, vague civic pride. He wasn’t just a blunt instrument of demolition; he was a skilled strategist, a persuasive performer.
Which made him even more dangerous.
And worse, much worse, was the grudging, traitorous acknowledgment that listening to him, even filtered through plaster and indignation, still triggered that faint, unwanted static hum of awareness. The deep timbre of his voice, the confident cadence of his speech… it was annoyingly compelling. I mentally stomped on the thought, grinding it into the dust bunnies at my feet. Enemy. Focus.
Then came the Q&A session. This would be crucial.
The first few questions were softballs, likely from allies or those already swayed. Mayor Thompson asked something predictable about the construction timeline and minimizing disruption. Damon answered smoothly, reassuringly. The head of the Business Association inquired about opportunities for local retailers in the new spaces. Damon responded with enthusiastic vagueness about synergy and local partnerships.
Then, a different voice, sharper, female. “Mr. Cole, you mention preserving the facade and lobby. Can you provide more specific guarantees regarding the preservation methodology? Will you be adhering to the Secretary of the Interior’s Standards for Rehabilitation?”
I held my breath. That sounded like someone who knew their stuff. Was there another preservationist mole in the room?
There was a brief pause before a new voice answered, not Damon Cole’s. This one was even smoother, silkier, with the practiced cadence of a seasoned lawyer. “Thank you for that question. Silas Thorne, counsel for Cole Development.” Ah. The right-hand man Maya had mentioned seeing him with. The buffer. “Cole Development is working closely with top preservation consultants,” Silas Thorne continued, his voice oozing reasonableness, “and while the unique demands of this adaptive reuse project require flexibility, we are certainly guided by best practices. Our commitment is to a respectful and high-quality restoration of the designated historic elements.”
Guided by. Flexibility. More weasel words. He hadn’t answered the question about the Standards at all. I scribbled furiously: Silas Thorne – Lawyer – evasive on specifics/Standards.
Another question, this one from Councilwoman Evans. Her voice was clear, carrying easily. “Damon,” – Damon? First name basis already? Interesting. – “the economic projections are certainly impressive. Can you elaborate slightly on the projected timeline for job creation, particularly for local Oakhaven residents during the construction phase?”
Her question wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t fawning either. It sounded… politically astute. Positioning herself as focused on local benefits. Damon launched into a detailed, number-heavy answer about phases, local hiring initiatives, apprenticeship programs. It sounded impressive, concrete, designed to appeal directly to a politician needing tangible results to show her constituents. Evans thanked him, her tone indicating satisfaction. She was definitely leaning his way, perhaps already fully on board.
The Q&A continued for a few more minutes. Silas Thorne adeptly fielded another tricky question about potential environmental impacts during demolition. Damon handled a question about the condo pricing with vague assurances about a “range of options” while clearly targeting the luxury market. He was polished, unflappable. Silas was his equally polished shield, deflecting anything too specific or legally binding. They were a formidable team.
Listening to them, a grim realization settled over me. My community meeting on Thursday, fueled by passion and memories, felt suddenly inadequate. We needed more than outrage. We needed facts, legal challenges, political pressure. And we needed it fast. This private briefing proved Cole was already several steps ahead, consolidating support while we were still designing flyers.
The session began to wind down. Damon gave concluding remarks, thanking everyone again, reiterating his commitment to being a “good neighbor” and a “partner in Oakhaven’s future.” More applause, warmer this time. The sound of chairs scraping followed as people began to stand, mingle, head for the bar or the exit.
Show over. Now for the hard part: escape.
My legs were stiff from crouching. My stomach growled in protest at the nearby, unseen canapés. Peeking cautiously through the fern fronds, I saw the flow of people leaving the River Room had begun. Small groups lingered near the entrance, chatting. The woman with the clipboard was gone, but other staff members were clearing glasses, moving purposefully. The service corridor behind me remained intermittently busy.
Getting out of the alcove unnoticed was going to be trickier than getting in. I needed another moment of distraction, another pocket of chaos. Or just blind luck.
I waited, heart pounding again, muscles tense. A wave of guests exited, laughing. Mayor Thompson walked out, deep in conversation with Silas Thorne. Councilwoman Evans emerged, talking animatedly on her cell phone, a triumphant little smile playing on her lips. She didn’t even glance towards my hiding spot.
Then, a gap. A lull in the foot traffic both inside and outside the room. The service corridor behind me was momentarily empty. This was it.
Taking a deep breath, I eased myself out from behind the fern, trying to look like I belonged there, perhaps retrieving an invisible dropped napkin. Head down, I started walking quickly, purposefully, back towards the service corridor, aiming for the blessed anonymity of the kitchen’s chaos.
Almost there. Ten more feet. Five.
“Excuse me! Miss!”
Freeze.
The voice was sharp, official-sounding. One of the catering supervisors? Security? Had someone seen me?
I didn’t turn around. Keep walking. Pretend you didn’t hear. You’re busy. Important catering duties await.
“Miss! In the white shirt! Stop right there!”
Okay, plan B: run.
But before I could bolt, a hand clamped down firmly on my shoulder. Not rough, but undeniably stopping me in my tracks.