The trust still existed.
Its regional representative was a man named Martin Cole.
Daniel called him.
Martin arrived two days later.
He was seventy-three, thin, slow-moving, and wore an old green field jacket with a faded fisheries patch sewn over one pocket. He had spent most of his life around hatcheries and conservation projects. The first thing he did after getting out of Daniel's car was ignore both of us and walk straight toward the pond.
He stood at the bank for almost ten minutes.
Then he saw a tagged fish roll near the surface.
His face changed.
"Where did you get these?"
I pointed toward the neighborhood beyond the trees.
"Silver Ridge put them here."
Martin turned slowly.
"They did what?"
We went inside.
Daniel explained the transfer.
The old authorization.
The dead manager's signature.
The Mountain Aquatic invoice.
Karen's attempt to remove the fish.
Martin listened without interrupting.
When Daniel finished, Martin sat back.
"They were never supposed to have this stock."
"Then why did they?" I asked.
He rubbed one hand across his jaw.
"Because Riverstone collapsed badly."
The original facility had been built gradually across several connected ponds and channels. When the company failed, ownership of land, equipment, fish, and breeding rights separated into different legal paths. Some ponds were sold. Some stock was transferred. Some fish remained in connected waters. The trust had spent years trying to identify what survived.
"We believed the primary line was mostly gone," Martin said. "A few tags were reported, but not this many."
"You have been looking for them?"
"For years."
"Why not Silver Ridge?"
He gave me a tired look.
"We asked questions."
"And?"
"We were told the old ponds no longer held meaningful stock."
Daniel leaned forward.
"By who?"
"Management representatives. Different people over the years."
"Karen?"
"Not originally. But her board received at least one inquiry from us."
That mattered.
Martin opened a leather portfolio.
Inside were old breeding maps, tag records, lineage sheets, and photographs of the original Riverstone operation. The pond on my property appeared in several maps as a western reserve site used periodically for demonstration and backup holding.
"This designation does not mean the trust owns your pond," Martin explained. "It means the water was historically approved for compatible fisheries use."
"Could it be approved again?"
"Potentially."
"For commercial management?"
Martin studied me.
"Why?"
I told him what Tom had said.
I expected resistance.
Instead, Martin looked toward the window.
"If the alternative is moving mature stock again, I would rather see them managed where they are stable."
Daniel asked the question I had been waiting for.
"Would the trust consider a management agreement with Robert?"
Martin did not answer immediately.
"Maybe."
"What would you need?"
"Health survey. Stock inventory. Water assessment. Containment plan. Proof he is not going to turn a historic breeding line into a weekend fish sale."
Ethan, who had been standing in the kitchen doorway, said, "He would not."