Afterward, a woman approached me near the hallway vending machines. She introduced herself as Nadine Cho and said she had worked in financial planning for Bellamy Lake Development until two weeks earlier. She was dressed plainly and carried no folder, but her eyes moved nervously toward the meeting-room door. She said she had heard my comment and wanted to know whether I had an attorney. When I pointed out Lena, Nadine looked relieved enough that I became cautious.
"I can't talk about everything here," she said. "I think the investigators need to see some things I was asked to approve. I refused because the invoices weren't for services anybody could describe." Lena asked whether Nadine had counsel of her own and said she should speak to one before handling company material.
Nadine nodded. She had already contacted a lawyer and wanted to know how to approach the attorney general's office without exposing herself to retaliation. Lena gave her Avery's publicly listed professional contact details and stepped aside to let Nadine decide what to do next.
I did not ask her to tell me secrets. I had spent enough time believing information gave me power to appreciate how much damage that belief could cause other people. Nadine thanked us, then went back into the meeting room to collect her umbrella. A week later, Avery called to say someone from Bellamy's company had come forward and that investigators were evaluating records relevant to the unexplained transfers. She did not give me the person's name. I did not tell her that I thought I knew it.
The investigation continued while the first frost arrived at Morrison Ranch. I hired a local electrician to replace damaged wiring in the barn and found a roofing crew willing to repair the farmhouse before the winter storms. Howard came down twice to help me inspect the well pump, refusing payment except for lunch and the privilege of telling me I had bought an excellent farm with terrible plumbing. Elena visited one Saturday and walked the shoreline without speaking for a long time. When she finally sat on the dock, she said she had forgotten how much being near water could feel like being somewhere safe.
I asked if it was painful to see another person's lakefront place after what she had lost. She thought about it before answering. "At first it was," she said. "Then I realized the water isn't the thing that hurt me.
It's the people who made me afraid of it." We sat until the light moved off the far shore. She told me she had begun looking at small cottages again, not because she expected restitution to make her rich, but because she no longer wanted the scam to decide where she was allowed to feel at home.
Molly returned during fall break and insisted that the house needed a proper table. We found a battered oak one at an estate sale, loaded it into her hatchback with more confidence than geometry justified, and carried it through the front door sideways. She sanded one edge while I repaired a split leg. When the work was finished, she stood back with a satisfied grin and said the thing had probably survived more family arguments than either of us. I told her that made it appropriate for us.