CHAPTER 4 — THE MAN WHO BOUGHT THE RIDGE
Preston Hale did not look like the kind of man who enjoyed ruining farmland.
That annoyed me.
I wanted him oily. Smirking. Easy to hate.
Instead, he arrived at the shelter parking lot in a clean black truck and stood beside my dented Ford with a folder in one hand, looking tired, polite, and expensive in a way that did not squeak.
“Miss Holt,” he said.
“Maggie.”
“Preston Hale.”
“I know who you are.”
He nodded like he deserved that.
“I’d like to speak with you before this gets uglier.”
“It got ugly when you bid on land my father never wanted paved.”
His jaw tightened.
“I was told your father wanted the sale.”
“By Clay.”
“And by the deed.”
“The deed is lying.”
“Paper doesn’t lie.”
“No,” I said. “People use it to.”
He looked past me at the shelter runs, where three hounds howled like they had strong opinions about zoning.
“I grew up on a farm outside Bowling Green,” he said.
“Is that where you learned to bury them?”
He took it.
Good.
He opened the folder.
“Willow Creek is part of a larger development plan. If the sale collapses, Clay will be sued by multiple parties. If he forged documents, I want to know now.”
That surprised me.
“You believe he might have?”
“I believe money makes men fluent.”
I almost liked him.
Then he added, “But I also believe family grief makes people see patterns that are not there.”
There it was.
The polite version of crazy.
I stepped closer.
“My father hated subdivisions. He refused three offers before his stroke. He donated a conservation strip along the creek. He taught schoolchildren how to test water quality. He threatened to shoot a survey drone out of the sky.”
Preston blinked.
“He what?”
“Warning shot. He missed on purpose.”
“I was not told any of that.”
“No. You were told I was unstable and the land was clean.”
Preston looked at the folder.
“There is an easement on thirty acres.”
“Creek corridor.”
“Yes. But the rest—”
“The rest feeds it.”
He did not answer.
A shelter volunteer came out carrying a nervous terrier. The dog lunged toward Preston’s polished shoes and sneezed on them.
I did not apologize.
Preston wiped his shoe with a tissue and said, “Clay claims you threatened him yesterday.”
“I told the truth near him. He confuses those.”
“He’s seeking a restraining order to keep you off Willow Creek.”
My stomach dropped.
Junebug was there.
So were Dad’s barns, the hill graves, the kitchen where his coffee cup still sat if Clay had not thrown it away.
Preston saw my face.
“I can delay closing seventy-two hours. No more.”
“Why tell me?”
“Because if I buy stolen land, I inherit the stink.”
“Not morality?”
“Stink lasts longer in court.”
Honest enough.
As he left, he paused.
“There is one issue you should know. Clay says your father recorded a video statement before the stroke confirming the transfer.”
My blood went cold.
“A video?”
Preston nodded.
“He plans to release it at the county hearing tomorrow.”
Clay had something.
May you like
Or had made something.
Either way, the town was about to watch my father’s face speak against me.
