“I know, Martin. It’s been chaotic. Listen, I need information about a potential development on farmland in the county.”
My third call was to Sophia Delaney, editor of the Milfield Gazette and Nicholas’s second cousin.
“Ellie, how are you holding up? I’ve been worried,” she said—using the old nickname only people from town remembered.
“I’m managing, Sophia, but I think there’s a story you might be interested in—about developers, protected agricultural land, and inheritance fraud.”
By midnight, I had made seven calls, each one a strand in the web I was weaving. Outside my window, the quiet streets of Milfield slept peacefully, unaware that Naomi Canton—always the peacemaker, always the nurturer—was planning war.
In the morning, I met Vincent at his office with a legal pad full of notes.
“I need you to freeze the business accounts,” I told him. “And I need you to file an emergency injunction on any sale of the property based on the fraudulent will.”
