“You sold sixty thousand dollars’ worth of tickets to walk through corn you don’t own.”
“The association has rights to use this parcel.”
“No.”
“Jack—”
“No.”
I didn’t raise my voice.
That bothered her more than yelling would have.
Because anger could be dismissed.
Calm required an answer.
She reached into her leather tote and produced a folder.
“I expected resistance, which is why I brought this.”
Inside was a photocopy of a document.
AGRICULTURAL RECREATION ACCESS AGREEMENT.
My name appeared at the top.
Cedar Ridge Homeowners Association appeared beneath it.
The agreement supposedly granted the HOA recreational access to thirty-two acres of Mercer Farm each September and October.
There was a signature at the bottom.
Jack Mercer.
It looked enough like mine to fool someone who had never watched me sign my name.
I stared at it for three seconds.
Then four.
Then five.
Trish mistook my silence for fear.
