If this document was valid, and federal land patents are notoriously hard to overturn, then Silas Blackwood didn’t just own the four acres my cabin sat on. He owned the land under the lake. He owned the land across the lake. He owned the forest behind the subdivision. He owned everything. And according to the chain of title I’d seen when I bought the place, the estate had passed unbroken from Silas Blackwood down to the heir I bought it from. It had never been subdivided. It had never been sold off in parcels.
The subdivision of Blackwood Shores was built on top of land that legally might not have ever been sold to a developer. I needed verification. I needed an expert. I hired Dr. Aris, a historian and genealogist from the state university. She drove out two days later, a tiny woman with thick glasses and an intensity that scared me a little. She spent six hours with the documents, mumbling to herself, measuring, checking seals with a magnifying glass.
While she worked, the harassment outside ramped up. Cynthia wasn’t just sending fines anymore. She was holding court. My neighbor, Benny, came over that evening. Benny was a good guy, a retired mechanic who looked like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. He looked terrified. He stood on my porch, wringing his baseball cap in his grease-stained hands.
“Elias,” he whispered, looking over his shoulder. “I—I got to tell you something.” “Come in, Benny. Sit down. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He sat at my kitchen table, refusing coffee. “It’s Cynthia. She held a meeting last night, a secret one. Only the inner circle board members. And she paid me,” Benny said, his voice cracking. “She gave me five thousand dollars cash from the reserve fund. She told me I had to sign a statement saying I saw you threatening kids at the lake. Said I had to say you were a danger to the community.”
I felt the anger flare up, hot and sharp, but I looked at Benny’s face. He was crying. “My wife, Martha, her meds went up again. The insurance denied the claim. I needed the money, Elias. I took it, but I haven’t signed the paper yet. I can’t do it. You’re a good neighbor.” I put a hand on his shoulder. “Keep the money, Benny. Use it for Martha. But give me the statement she wants you to sign.”
He handed me a crumpled piece of paper. It was a fabrication, a complete lie drafted by Cynthia, painting me as a violent, unhinged lunatic. “Why is she doing this, Benny? It’s just fishing. Why does she care so much?” Benny looked at me, eyes wide. “You don’t know? It’s not about the fishing. It’s the deal. She’s selling the lake access rights.”
“What?” “She’s got a developer from the city, Preston Ventures. They want to turn the north shore, your shore, into a private luxury resort. Glamping pods, a clubhouse, motorized boat rentals. Cynthia stands to make a massive consulting fee if she can guarantee exclusive commercial access. You’re the only thing standing in her way because your property sits right on the access road.”