“Who gave it to Trish?”
Linda hesitated.
“Linda.”
“She already had a copy.”
“From whom?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then what did you find?”
Her fingers tightened around her car keys.
“Emails.”
I said nothing.
“When Cedar Ridge was first built, the developer wanted a secondary road through your property.”
“I know.”
My father had rejected the proposal.
They offered seventy thousand dollars for an access easement.
Dad said no.
Then one hundred thousand.
Still no.
Eventually the subdivision built its main entrance two miles east.
Linda nodded.
“The developer kept negotiating afterward.”
“With my father?”
“With someone.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Trish?”
“She didn’t live here then.”
“What do the emails say?”
Linda glanced toward her Lexus.
“I printed them.”
“Where?”
“At home.”
“Bring them to Rachel.”
She grabbed my arm.
“Don’t tell Trish I came here.”
I looked down at her hand.
She released me.
“Why?”
“Because she removed me from the financial committee last night.”
“Why?”
“I questioned some transfers.”
“What transfers?”
Her lips pressed together.
Then she shook her head.
“I shouldn’t have come.”
She turned.
“Linda.”
She stopped.
“You came because you’re scared.”
No answer.
“Decide whether you’re more scared of Trish or what happens if you keep hiding things.”
She got into her car.
Drove away.
Rachel arrived twenty minutes later.
I told her everything.
She immediately called Linda.
No answer.
Again.
Voicemail.
At 10:15, Rachel received an email from Bradley Shaw.
The HOA was formally demanding $284,000 in damages.
Lost ticket revenue.
Vendor penalties.
Advertising losses.
Sponsorship obligations.
“Two hundred eighty-four thousand?” Tyler said.
Rachel looked amused.
“That’s their opening number.”
“What’s ours?”
I handed her the yield monitor report.
She smiled.
“Our number gets more interesting every hour.”
At 11:20, Cedar County Health Department inspectors arrived.
Not for me.
For the HOA.
Apparently, somebody had planned to serve food on my farm without final site approval.
The temporary kitchens had been connected to a water source without authorization.
My water source.
A spigot beside the machine barn.
The inspector photographed everything.
At noon, the fire marshal arrived.
At 12:30, the insurance company called asking whether I had authorized public access.
“No.”
The representative went quiet.
“You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
At 1:05, Cedar Ridge canceled the Harvest Weekend.
Official reason:
UNFORESEEN PROPERTY ACCESS DISPUTE.
That phrase lasted approximately eleven minutes online.
Then screenshots of my deed started circulating.
