“I'm resting every night,” Jack said. “Sometimes eight whole hours. You can go.”
Vane's expression tightened almost imperceptibly. He took a folded offer from his jacket and laid it on the workbench. Jack didn't touch it. Ethan, cleaning a motorcycle near the far bay, watched Vane's shoes move around an oil stain with practiced distaste. He saw the man's right cuff pull back to reveal a small embroidered logo, a stylized mountain over the initials CD. It matched the lettering on a toolbox in the back of the SUV.
“Mr. Caldwell likes friendly transactions,” Vane said. “But circumstances change. County permits get complicated, and insurers develop concerns. A business this old can attract expensive attention if someone starts asking the wrong questions.”
Jack slowly straightened. “You're threatening my permits now?”
“I'm explaining how uncertain the future can be.”
Jack walked toward him until Vane stopped smiling. “I spent fifteen years somewhere that taught me the difference between a warning and a threat. Don't insult me by pretending this is friendly conversation.” His voice stayed low. “Take the paper and get off my property.”
Vane reclaimed the envelope. As he crossed toward the vehicle, his eyes settled on Ethan. “Young fellow,” he said, “you should think about whose problems you're inheriting. Shame if you got hurt because an old man can't recognize a good offer.”
Jack moved before Ethan could answer. “He's got nothing to do with your business.”
“That's good,” Vane said. “I'd hate for anyone else to get involved.”
The SUV pulled onto the highway with no sudden acceleration. Ethan watched until it disappeared, then slipped a folded receipt from his pocket and wrote down everything he could remember. Time: 10:42 a.m. Vehicle: black SUV, temporary registration, logo on toolbox. Speaker: Marcus Vane, Caldwell Development. Threat: young worker could be hurt over owner's refusal to sell.
Jack found him writing. “What've you got there?”
“A record.”
“Of what?”
“What he said, what he drove, and when he was here. I took a picture when he walked past the bay window.”
Jack frowned. “You don't need to involve yourself.”
“He involved me when he talked about somebody hurting me.”
Jack opened his mouth to argue, but Ethan looked directly at him. “Russell used to say things and then tell people I'd imagined them. I promised myself I wasn't going to lose another argument with someone who thought telling the first story meant owning the truth.” He folded the note and placed it in a new file. “I'm not confronting anybody. I'm keeping a record.”
Jack stared at the small handwriting. He knew the usefulness of precise notes, though he'd never had the patience to maintain them. “Make copies,” he said finally. “And if it ever feels dangerous, you stop.”