Chapter 5
I chose the meeting place because it belonged to no one.
The coffee shop sat across from the Lane House inn, tucked between a dry cleaner and a store that sold lamps in the shape of oversized bottles. Its front windows faced the inn’s side entrance, where campaign volunteers had been coming and going all morning. I arrived early and took the table farthest from the door. My veil stayed folded in my tote bag. I had changed out of the wedding dress, but I still wore the same low shoes, and every step reminded me that I had expected to spend the day becoming Brandon’s wife.
Instead, I watched the reflection of the inn in the dark coffee urn.
Levi Rowan came in without an entourage. He wore a charcoal jacket, no tie, and carried a paper folder under one arm. He paused just long enough to scan the room before he saw me. When he approached, he didn't reach for my hand.
“Rachel?”
I nodded.
“I’m Levi.”
“I know.”
A small, careful expression crossed his face. Not a smile. More like acknowledgment that I had every reason to be wary.
He took the chair across from me only after I gestured to it. “Before we talk about Brandon, I want to ask what you need.”
The question unsettled me more than a demand would have.
“I need to know whether the address is real,” I said. “And whether the affidavit he filed is false.”
“That’s what you know you need to know.” He rested both hands on the folder. “What do you want from me?”
I looked toward the window. A campaign sign with Brandon’s name leaned against the inn’s brick wall, its corners damp from the morning rain.
“I haven’t decided what happens to the evidence.”
“Good.”
His answer came quickly, but not aggressively. I turned back to him.
“I’m not handing it over,” I said.
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“I’m serious. This is already being turned into everyone else’s story. Brandon’s campaign. His supporters. Kelsey’s guilt. My humiliation. I’m not giving the envelope to another man and finding out later that I helped destroy someone because I was angry.”
Levi opened the folder, then closed it again. “Do you want personal safety, campaign accountability, or both?”
The question settled between us.
“Both,” I said. “But personal safety comes first.”
“Then we start there.”
I took out the copies I had made the night before. The scanned envelope showed Brandon’s name and the Westbridge address. Beside it, I placed the copied page from his candidate affidavit, the one listing the residence he claimed publicly. I kept the original envelope sealed in a plastic sleeve inside my bag.
Levi leaned over the copies without touching them.
“Where did this come from?”
“Kelsey’s bedroom. It was beside Brandon’s cuff links.”
“Who had access to the room?”
“Kelsey. Brandon. Me, after I found it.”
“And when did you make the copies?”
“Last night, at the Lane House office. I watched the machine scan each page.”
“Did anyone else handle the original?”
I thought about Brandon rushing through the doorway, his hand reaching for the envelope. “He tried to take it.”
“Did he touch it?”
“Not that I saw.”
Levi nodded, but his expression had tightened. “We need to verify the filing source. The envelope can show where mail was sent, but it doesn't prove when Brandon lived there or why he used the address. We need the affidavit’s filing record, any residence documentation attached to it, and a clean chain of custody for what you found.”
“You sound like you’ve done this before.”
“I’ve challenged filings before. Not this one.”
He slid the copies back toward me. “I can connect you with someone who knows the filing process. Not a campaign staffer. An election attorney or records clerk. You decide whether they receive anything.”
“Will you use this against Brandon?”
“If the filing is false, it should be examined.”
“That wasn't my question.”
Levi held my gaze. “I’m running against him. Of course I have a political motive. Pretending otherwise would insult you. But I won’t announce anything based on an envelope you found during your wedding.”
My throat tightened at the word.
He continued, “Your broken engagement is not campaign property. Neither is the affair.”
For the first time since the bedroom, I felt my shoulders lower.
“I want a narrow purpose,” I said. “Verify the documents. Protect the original. No press. No campaign statement. No contact with Brandon.”
“Agreed.”
“And if I decide not to pursue it?”
“Then you decide that.”
I put the copies back into my folder and held it against my chest. “You really mean that?”
“I can’t promise I’ll like the decision,” he said. “I can promise it will be yours.”
Outside, a volunteer hurried across the sidewalk with a stack of Brandon’s signs. One slipped loose and skidded through a shallow puddle, the printed face blurring at the edges.
Levi wrote a phone number on a napkin and pushed it toward me. “Call when you’re ready. I’ll arrange a private consultation, but only if you authorize it.”
May you like
I folded the napkin once and placed it inside the folder with the copies.
The evidence stayed in my hands. So did the choice.
