The HOA did not provide them.
Then came the building inspection.
A county truck pulled into my clearing on a Wednesday morning.
Inspector Miguel Rodriguez stepped out holding a file.
“I got a complaint.”
“About what?”
“Unpermitted residential structure. Septic. Electrical. Possible creek setback.”
I handed him my permit binder.
His eyebrows rose.
“You have everything.”
“That’s what I thought.”
He spent two hours checking.
Foundation.
Setbacks.
Temporary power.
Waste plan.
He found one minor administrative issue involving an updated framing inspection sequence.
Nothing that justified demolition.
“Somebody filed a very aggressive complaint,” he said.
“Victoria?”
“I can’t give complainant information unless it becomes part of a formal record.”
“Can she get you to shut me down?”
“If you comply with the permit, no.”
That was very different from the story Victoria later told.
There was no mysterious county conspiracy.
No inspector bribed to invent violations.
There was an abuse of the complaint process.
Annoying.
Time-consuming.
But documentable.
By sunset, Rodriguez had issued a correction notice for the scheduling issue and confirmed the work could continue after the required inspection.
Victoria told neighbors the county had “cited” me.
Technically true.
Practically misleading.
Then the vandalism started.
I woke one night to broken glass outside the workshop.
My generator had been knocked over.
Fuel had leaked onto the gravel.
Several stacks of lumber had been scattered.
Roofing nails had been dumped across part of the access drive.
Nothing was burned.
Nothing irreplaceable destroyed.
But the message was obvious.
I called the sheriff.
Deputy Aaron Cole photographed everything.
He did not assume the HOA was responsible.
Neither did I.
Not publicly.
I installed cameras the next day.
I was an electrician.
Running power, low-voltage cabling, motion lighting, and a redundant recorder was the first part of the conflict I actually understood better than Victoria.
I mounted cameras high enough that casual tampering would be difficult.
One covered the cabin.
One the workshop.
One the access road.
One the lumber area.
I also added cloud backup.
Sarah approved.
“Finally, one decision that makes me less nervous.”
Then we found the resort.
Betty called Sarah.
“You both need to see something.”
At the courthouse, she pulled county planning records for Mountain Vista Resorts.
The proposal was enormous.
Approximately fifty million dollars.
Luxury lodge.
Spa.
Small conference center.
Golf-oriented amenities.
Private transportation access.
The planned tourism corridor reached almost directly toward my land.
One exhibit highlighted a scenic ridge.
Silas’s five acres sat in the middle of it.
My property was not simply nearby.
It was strategically important.
The resort’s preferred road alignment and scenic overlook depended on securing either my parcel or access rights through it.
Another file contained consultant disclosures.
Mountain Vista had agreed to pay up to $400,000 for “community relations and land assembly consulting” if specified acquisition milestones were reached.
The consultant entity was Ashworth Community Strategies LLC.
Victoria’s company.
Sarah stared at the page.
“That explains motive.”
“Bribe?”
“No.”