"You don't owe me anything," I wrote. "Please don't risk your children or your peace on my account. If you find something important, give it to your own lawyer first if that makes you more comfortable."
Her reply came after an hour. "I appreciate that. I just don't want them teaching my kids that the truth is whatever the president says it is."
The emergency association meeting happened the following Tuesday. I did not attend, partly because it was a members' meeting and partly because I had no interest in walking into a room where someone had already assigned me the role of villain. Susan sent me a summary the next morning. Amber had warned residents that I was a wealthy property speculator attempting to extort two hundred thousand dollars for road access.
I sat at the kitchen table with the message open and stared at the invented number. I had never requested a payment of any amount, much less two hundred thousand dollars. Amber had converted my request for proof into a threat, then given the threat a price so that people would feel personally endangered. It was an efficient lie, and its efficiency made me angry.
According to Susan, three residents spoke in support of Amber. Bill Crawford, who had owned a house since 2010, said the gravel connection had always been theirs. A retired sales manager declared that the association had maintained it for so many years that nobody could reasonably question its ownership. Another woman claimed an attorney had already confirmed their rights, though Susan could not get her to name the attorney or the document.
The vote at the end of the meeting was less clear than Amber's announcement suggested. The board authorized continued defense of what it described as community access. No one voted to harass me, and nothing in the minutes authorized threats or vandalism. But Amber left people with the impression that a dangerous outsider was moving against their families, and a few residents decided on their own that hostility was the proper response.
The first flyer appeared on a utility pole outside the hardware store. COMMUNITY THREAT, it said above a photograph of my truck. Below the photograph were claims that I was attempting to hold forty-seven households hostage for profit. My cabin address was printed near the bottom, framed as information residents should know about a threat to their community.
I stood beside the pole and felt my stomach tighten. The picture had been taken from a distance while I was carrying lumber from the truck. Someone had watched me long enough to identify my vehicle, then taken the trouble to put my face on a handout. I photographed the flyer from several angles before taking it down, after checking with the store owner that it was not part of any official notice.
The owner, Ray Talbot, came out while I was working. He had sold me screws and a replacement outlet only the week before, and we had talked about the best way to weatherproof a north-facing porch. Now he kept his hands in his apron pockets and avoided meeting my eyes.