Murder_ A Sinful Secrets Romance - Ella James Page 0,6

takes a lot of coordination. I have lots of grants. That’s how my sanctuary runs. You can’t just move the bears without some consequences. I guess all I’m saying is, this is my livelihood. And I guess what bothers me is, there are other plots of land. There are other places this retreat could open.”

My pulse races, and I feel my cheeks redden with my strong emotions.

“Mr. Haywood’s property has been for sale for less than a year. Not being able to sell it in that time—that’s not all that unusual. If the property is rezoned, my business will close. I don’t care if someone buys some of the land from me. I won’t be able to do what I do for business on the land I own. And why? So a house can sell faster? So a developer can open a new business? That seems so pointless.” My eyes sting, but I make sure my voice stays steady. “As humans, it’s our job to watch out for animals and help them. Please consider us as you make your decision.”

I give one last snarile: calculated; awful. I hold it a second longer than usual, so everyone in the room can see the paralyzed left side of my mouth. So maybe someone will feel pity. At this point, I’ll take anything.

I walk quickly back down the aisle, which feels much longer now. I get a few smiles, and some averted faces. A few outright stares. I look for the man wearing the dark hat, but he’s gone. Another man—a shorter, sterner one wearing a suit—is standing where the tall one was. His lips tighten as I come to stand against the back wall.

God, I wish I could just go now.

I hear a “bless your heart” from my right and turn my head to see a short, elderly woman with huge, magenta reading glasses hanging off the end of her nose. “You were in that movie. With the retirement community, and the brother-sister duo. End of Day.”

I nod.

“You’re still a very pretty girl.” She pats my forearm.

You asked for this, Gwen. You just asked for pity. Suck it up.

I blink, keeping my face still. “Thank you.”

She pats my shoulder and I want to run. Instead, I stay and listen to the developer, Carolina Burns, talk about her plans for Mr. Haywood’s land. She swears she won’t build anything within two hundred yards of the enclosure. She says if she gets this development up and running, she’ll buy some more land in the Gatlinburg area as a thank you to the commission for their “faith” in her.

My awesome blonde councilwoman asks why Ms. Burns can’t buy other land now, and she says, “I can’t find anything that works. Now is the time I’m looking to buy.”

She talks about how she’ll put up a new building or two to the right of the Haywood house, on the opposite side from where I am, and prattles on about how she’ll hire a staff of “only” ten or twenty.

“This is such a beautiful area,” she croons. “And you guys, let me tell you, my clients are the quiet type. They want to relax. They are educated people. They are respectful of the environment and would be more than happy to be located next door to an animal preserve. If it helps, I even know a woman who works in the environment board’s office. Based on what I hear from her, I genuinely believe Miss White is wrong. She’s nervous, maybe, and I get that, but we would be a very conscientious neighbor.”

The discussion drags on, with the commission members squabbling over local precedent, then over what’s the “right thing” to do since Mr. Haywood “so kindly” did away with his own plans to make his home next door into a B&B to help “a new person in the community” bring the sanctuary here.

“He did that out of the goodness of his heart,” says Mr. Jacobs, an influential African-American realtor who is a friend of Mr. Haywood. “Now he’s asking for the same thing. You know his wife died there. Owning the property is painful for him.”

I’m contemplating the look on Mr. Jacobs’ face after catching one of my jump-front kicks right between his legs when the male TV news reporter with the camera appears in front of me and asks if he can see me outside the room.

“We’re using a clip of your speech on the ten o’clock news,” he tells me when we’re in the