"I was at the fall festival planning meeting," she announces, bustling into the barn, pie lifted in triumph. "And Agnes Periwinkle is insisting on a corn maze again, even after last year when we lost Mr. Abernathy for six hours. I told them a petting zoo is far less of a liability."
We drift toward the kitchenette. I grab a stack of plates, a few forks, and a serving utensil from the drawer, my movements easy like someone who's no stranger to a pie-related detour.
I take the pie from her, cut a generous slice, and pour her a cup of tea. The familiar cadence of River Bend gossip hums in the background. We talk about the town, the changing leaves, and the ongoing debate over corn versus goats. It's all so wonderfully normal, so rooted in the rhythm of everyday life, that I let my guard down. Which, of course, is her intention.
Mason crosses to the counter, coffee mug in hand. "Mrs. Patterson, that smells incredible," he says, his voice a low, warm hum that does ridiculous things to my insides.
"Help yourself," she beams. "There's plenty."
He slices a modest piece, thanks her with that polite, handsome smile of his, and lifts his mug in a toast. Then, with a glance in my direction, he turns and heads up to the loft, disappearing from sight as the air subtly shifts.
The moment he leaves, her whole demeanor transforms.
Gone is the cheerful gossip. What's left is someone serious, focused.
"He's such a charming young man," she says, setting the scene. "So polished. Hard to picture him in the world my sister's cousin Denise describes…"
My stomach turns. I brace myself.
She looks at the loft then leans in. "Denise, the paralegal in Albany," she continues, her voice dropping to a whisper, "she told me a story I can't get out of my head. She said she was working on a case, a discovery phase for a lawsuit, and she had to read through years of documents from Kingston Enterprises." She pauses, fixing her attention on me. "She said reading those files was like reading a manual on how to get away with murder."
My hand stalls midair, teacup forgotten. A cold dread settles in, heavy and fast. I've always blamed Kingston's worst on Richard, told myself Mason was the numbers guy. A bystander. A fixer. Not the one pulling the strings.
But the way Mrs. Patterson said his name like he wasn't involved but responsible makes it hard to breathe.
No. Not Mason. Not the man who brought my ideas to life. Who made this barn feel like home. Who looks at me like I matter. I cling to the version I know. The one who flies drones and alphabetizes tools. Who never tells me to dream smaller.
But the doubt slides in anyway. Slow and sickening.
What if I've been wrong?
My hand stalls halfway to my mouth, teacup trembling. A slow, sick twist unfurls in my stomach.
"No," I say, shaking my head, too fast, too defensive. "That was Richard. Not Mason. Mason wasn't, he wasn't like that. He worked for him."
"According to Denise," Mrs. Patterson says, eyes narrowing, "Richard wasn't the first one swinging that ax."
The air in the barn shifts colder.
"There was this one place in particular," she says. "A little town called Silver Creek. It was famous for its artisanal glassworks, a family-run company that had been there for over a hundred years. The whole town depended on it. But Richard Kingston wanted the land for a shipping warehouse. He saw the river access and didn't care about the rest."
She doesn't need notes. She's obviously memorized the whole tale.
"The first offer was insultingly low. The Hadley family refused. That's when the pressure began, lawsuits from shell corporations, patent infringement claims that made no sense, a surprise audit triggered by an anonymous tip. And then the local bank, which held their business loans, got acquired. Overnight, the new owners called in the debt. No options. No warnings."
I feel the weight settle in my chest, heavy and unrelenting.
"The Hadleys did everything they could to save the business. Thomas Hadley mortgaged their home, sold his wife's jewelry, even emptied his children's college funds. To keep the furnaces burning."
She swallows hard, then sets down her teacup with trembling fingers.
"But it wasn't enough. When they lost everything, the workshop, the house, the land, Thomas went home, wrote letters to his kids, and…"
She doesn't finish.
"He couldn't live with it," she says. "Not in a world where a man's life's work could be taken with a signature. Where everything he built, his business, his purpose, his name, could be erased by people who never even saw what they were destroying."
The barn hasn't changed. The lights are still on. But nothing feels the same. And I can't breathe.
