“It is.”
“No.”
She said nothing.
I stepped closer.
“You’re worried about something bigger than ticket refunds.”
Her face became blank.
That told me I was right.
“The HOA has obligations.”
“To whom?”
“Businesses.”
“Which businesses?”
“I’m not discussing internal contracts.”
“Then I’ll keep harvesting.”
I turned away.
“Jack.”
I stopped.
She spoke quietly.
“If you finish that field tonight, things may happen that neither of us can reverse.”
I looked over my shoulder.
“Is that a threat?”
“No.”
“It sounded like one.”
“It’s a warning.”
“About what?”
She shook her head.
“You think this is about a corn maze.”
Then she walked away.
That was the sentence I remembered later.
Not the forged signature.
Not the sixty thousand dollars in tickets.
Not the fake maze.
You think this is about a corn maze.
At 11:38 p.m., the last standing row fell.
The combine rolled out of the north field.
