that well.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Exactly.”
We were halfway to the parking lot when someone called my name.
Linda Price.
She stood beside a pickup I didn’t recognize.
Dark circles beneath her eyes.
Ben Holloway stood with her.
She held an envelope.
“I found something they didn’t take.”
Rachel and I stopped.
“What?”
Linda handed her the envelope.
“Months ago, when the transfers started, I began copying records.”
“Where did you keep them?”
“My sister’s house.”
Rachel opened the envelope.
Bank statements.
Emails.
Board resolutions.
Then a map.
She unfolded it across the hood of her SUV.
My farm sat in the center.
Horizon Ridge land lay south.
Cedar Ridge lay east.
A thick red line crossed thirty-two acres of my north field.
Then continued west.
Across my cattle pasture.
Across the creek.
Straight toward State Highway 14.
A proposed road.
Not a walking trail.
Not recreational access.
A
