"Not yet."
Her gaze stayed on me. "Not yet?"
"I need to disclose the conflict to you. I also can't pretend I didn't see language that appears to treat his land and Beargrass Lake access as viable without an owner agreement noted in the packet."
Monica's mouth tightened.
For the first time since I'd started working at Cascadia, Monica looked less annoyed with an employee and more annoyed with a document.
"Don't take materials out of this office," she said.
"I won't."
"Don't email anything to a personal account."
"I won't."
"Don't make accusations on behalf of Cascadia until I review the broker history."
"I understand."
Monica looked toward her office, then back at me. "You can leave early for your community service if you need to. But Daphne?"
"Yes?"
"This conversation continues tomorrow morning."
"It will."
She nodded once and returned to her office with the packet in her hand.
Amanda stared at me from her desk.
I let out the breath I'd been holding.
Then I grabbed my bag and left before my knees could realize stairs were involved.
The drive to the P-Patch took eight minutes.
It felt longer.
Larch Bend slid past my windshield in bright summer pieces: the bakery awning, the hardware store with stacked bags ofsoil out front, the library steps, a couple of tourists in sun hats crossing too slowly because Montana had tricked them into thinking all roads were scenic suggestions. My office flats pressed the pedals. My cream blouse stuck lightly to my back despite the air conditioning. My bag sat on the passenger seat with the folded note inside it, which felt both too small and too heavy for what it carried.
At the last stop sign before the P-Patch road, I looked down at my clothes and almost laughed.
I was dressed wrong again.
Not for court-ordered labor this time. For honesty.
The P-Patch sign came into view, blue against the white afternoon light. The gate stood open. Tomato vines shone green behind the fence, and the shed sat under the pines exactly where it always did, practical and weathered and unfairly calm. The south row ran dark in places where yesterday's repaired drip line had done its job.
Daphne Willoughby, administrative assistant and occasional destroyer of tires, now reporting for emotional disaster in office flats.
I parked near the gate.
For a few seconds, I stayed in the car with both hands on the steering wheel.
Zane stood near the south fence.
