She wore chest waders, a canvas jacket, and looked irritated at everyone equally.
“Mr. Mercer.”
“Yes.”
“We have isolated fish in two shallow pockets on the southern flat.”
“I’ll come.”
Patricia stepped forward.
“You are not walking away from this conversation.”
Hannah looked at her.
“He is if I need the property owner for habitat access.”
Then she walked away.
I followed.
That moment changed several residents’ perception of me.
They had been told I was recklessly destroying the ecosystem.
Instead, the fish-rescue response had been planned.
Crews moved native trout from isolated pools into connected channels.
Aeration equipment was placed temporarily where necessary.
Biologists monitored water temperature and oxygen.
I spent hours in mud helping.
So did Tyler Jensen.
Then a nine-year-old boy named Owen Patterson wandered toward a shallow pool and spotted trapped fish before anyone else reached that section.
His yelling brought three adults running.
By noon, he was wearing an oversized wildlife vest and proudly telling anyone who listened that he had “saved the trout.”
Hannah eventually told him the fish had saved themselves for thousands of years before he arrived.
Owen ignored that.
He had already decided he was a conservation hero.
Meanwhile, investigative reporter Maya Collins arrived.
The anonymous email containing Walter Holloway’s files had gone to her the night before.
I did not send it.
Grace later admitted she had.
Maya was thirty-four, with dark hair pulled into a ponytail, work boots, jeans, and the relentless focus of someone who enjoyed complicated paper trails more than normal conversation.
She did not ask me for a dramatic quote.
She asked for deeds.
Then permits.
Then budgets.
Then the disputed access agreement.
That was when Patricia became nervous.
Maya approached her near the marina.
“Mrs. Whitmore, did the HOA verify Silas Mercer’s capacity to sign the lake access agreement?”
Patricia’s face tightened.
“I’m not discussing private legal documents.”
“Was an attorney present when he signed?”
“No comment.”
“Did you personally witness the signature?”
Patricia turned away.
Maya followed with another question.
“Were marina memberships sold before the ownership dispute was resolved?”
Patricia stopped.
“There was no ownership dispute.”
Maya held up a copy of Walter’s email.
“He appears to have raised one.”
Patricia walked away.
Then Rick Barlow arrived.
Rick owned Barlow Mountain Construction.
He had built parts of the marina.
Late fifties.
Sunburned.
Heavy work boots.
A face that looked uncomfortable before anyone asked him anything.
Maya approached.
“Mr. Barlow, were ownership concerns discussed before construction?”
Rick looked toward Patricia.
That was enough to interest everyone.
He hesitated.
Then said:
“Patricia told us we needed the first phase finished before the Mercer heir came back.”
Silence.
Rick immediately realized what he had done.
Patricia spun around.
“What are you doing?”
He raised both hands.
“I’m answering.”
“You misunderstood.”
“No.”
His voice became firmer.
“You said Silas was sick.”
“You said Ethan worked out of town most of the time.”
“You told us once enough infrastructure was in place, nobody would spend the money to unwind it.”
Brandon stared at her.
“You knew?”
Patricia looked around.
“Everyone is taking this out of context.”
Brandon pointed toward his stranded yacht.
“Twenty-five thousand dollars.”
“What?”
“That is what you charged me for a founding membership.”