Page 136 of Tessa and Nash

Tessa’s chair at the clerk’s table is empty. Conflict of interest, I assume.

I take my seat anyway.

Notebook on my knee. Pen already moving, sketching arrows and boxes, and half words only I understand. It’s a habit. If my hands are busy, my head doesn’t spiral quite as fast.

Mayor Caldwell sits at the head of the table, posture immaculate, blazer pressed within an inch of its life. She looks the same as she always does: composed, competent, born knowing how to adjourn a meeting. But when she looks at me today, there’s a carefulness behind her eyes.

“Thank you all for coming,” she says, tapping her pen once. “We’re here to continue the discussion of the McCoy Ranch guest ranch proposal.”

I stand when she nods to me, straighten my jacket, and do the thing I’ve learned how to do over years of dinners and town events and conversations that mattered.

Smile. Breathe. Speak steadily.

“Thanks for having me back,” I say. “I know everyone’s time is valuable.”

A couple of nods. No smiles.

I launch into it anyway.

I walk them through the revised timeline. The phased development. How nothing happens fast. How nothing happens without oversight. I talk about local contractors, about limiting cabin numbers, about water usage and conservation, and keeping the creek untouched.

For a few minutes, it feels almost normal. People ask questions I expected. I answer them. I even feel a flicker of something dangerously close to confidence.

Then the questions shift.

“Can you clarify the eastern boundary again?”

I glance down at my notes, then back up. “Sure. The east parcel has been part of McCoy Ranch operations for⁠—”

“Operations,” someone interrupts gently. “But ownership?”

My pen stills.

“The deed records show⁠—”

“And has a new survey been commissioned?” Mayor Caldwell asks, tone polite, neutral, as if she’s asking about parking permits.

“No,” I say slowly. “Not yet. The original survey⁠—”

“Original as in when?” another council member asks.

I swallow. “Mid-century.”

There it is.

The hairline crack.

“Given recent concerns,” Mayor Caldwell says carefully, “the committee would feel more comfortable with updated documentation.”

Concerns.

I glance around the table. See eyes flick toward Hank Lawson.

Hank leans back in his chair, arms crossed, boots stretched out, claiming territory by proximity alone.

“Funny thing about land,” he says mildly. “Everyone thinks it’s simple until someone starts building on it.”

I don’t look at him. If I do, I’ll say something that’ll end up quoted.