He appears in my doorway, blonde hair askew and ink stains decorating his fingers like badges of dedication. His bright eyes dart between my face and the open drawer, clearly sensing the shift in atmosphere.
"Close the door behind you."
Jamie's expression sharpens. He's not so green to know that closed-door conversations mean something significant. The latch clicks with finality.
"Remember those supply inconsistencies you mentioned Mrs. Dalloway having? The ones I told you to let rest?"
"The rumors about missing deliveries?" Jamie leans forward, his journalistic instincts awakening. "You said they were too vague to pursue."
"I was wrong." I slide the letter across my desk. "Brakkor took the liberty of looking into the lead, and, well, your original instincts were correct. This isn't random disruption—it's coordinated."
Jamie pulls out his notebook, the same battered leather journal he's carried since his first day. His fingers flip through pages covered in his cramped handwriting, pausing at sections marked with urgent asterisks.
"I've been tracking it quietly," he admits, a flush creeping up his neck. "Even after you told me to drop it. I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong."
"Show me."
He spreads several pages across my desk, pointing to lists written in different colored inks. "Nearly every shopkeeper I've talked to mentions problems. Mrs. Rindle only received half her dye shipment—marked as complete delivery, but missing the deep crimsons and golds essential for festival banners."
My stomach tightens. "What else?"
"Xander's grain delivery arrived three days late, and when it did come, two sacks were torn open. He assumed rough handling, but the tears looked deliberate—clean cuts, not accident damage." Jamie flips to another page. "There's a few more, too."
I study his notes, recognizing the methodical approach that mirrors my own investigative style. "These aren't random mishaps."
Jamie's voice gains momentum as he connects the dots aloud. "Someone's systematically sabotaging festival preparations while maintaining plausible deniability."
The scope crystallizes before me like frost forming on glass. Grain for the livestock, dyes, decorations—things traditionally needed to transform Harvest Hollow into the vibrant celebration that draws visitors from across the valley.
"If the festival fails, the town's economy collapses." The words taste bitter. "Seasonal workers lose their income. Vendors lose their investments. The reputation we've built over generations crumbles."
Jamie nods grimly. "And whoever sent this letter knows exactly what they're doing."
I settle back in my chair, feeling the weight of my father's legacy pressing against my shoulders. For years, I've managed problems quietly, contained threats before they could spread. But this reaches beyond my ability to control through careful editing and diplomatic conversations.
The letter's message echoes in my mind:Call it off, or your harvest fails.
Call what off? Our investigation? Our attempts to uncover the truth?
I open the drawer again, staring at the crimson ribbon.
The weight of everything settles on my shoulders like a stone cloak. This investigation has grown beyond my ability to manage alone, sprouting tentacles that reach into every corner of Harvest Hollow's foundation. The threatening letter proves we've struck something vital—and dangerous.
My chest tightens at the obvious solution. Brakkor would know exactly how to handle this. He'd probably already mapped out a dozen angles of attack, ready to charge forward with that relentless intensity that both infuriates and impresses me. But the thought of approaching him now feels like swallowing glass.
I can still feel the phantom weight of his hands on my skin, the way his voice softened when we were alone in my kitchen. The memory burns alongside the ache of his sudden retreat, his careful distance that cuts deeper than any harsh word.
No. I won't chase him. I won't beg for his professional expertise while he pretends nothing happened between us.
Jamie watches me with the patience of someone who recognizes internal struggle, his notebook still open on my desk. His eager expression reminds me that I'm not as alone as I feel.
"Jamie." I straighten in my chair, decision crystallizing. "I'm bringing you in on this properly. Full partnership."
His eyes widen, the notebook nearly slipping from his grip. "You mean?—?"
"I mean this is real journalism now. Not festival coverage or market reports." I lean forward, meeting his gaze directly. "Whoever's behind this knows we're investigating. They're threatening the harvest festival itself—the economic heart of this town."
Jamie's hand trembles slightly as he grips his quill. "What do you need me to do?"
