9. Discovery
Chapter nine
Discovery
Ethan
Ispent Monday night in my hotel room, surrounded by legal documents and property records, searching for the weakness in Gerald Hutchins's case.
The easement dispute hinged on a boundary survey filed six months ago—a survey that claimed Maya's bakery encroached on Hutchins's property line, blocking his legal right of access.
On paper, it looked airtight. Professional surveyor, certified measurements, official county filing.
But something felt wrong. This case was too perfect, too convenient, like someone had built a house of cards and hoped no one would look too closely.
So, I looked closely. I'd spent twenty years learning to spot the almost-invisible seams in legal arguments, the places where facts had been carefully arranged to hide uncomfortable truths.
At 2 AM, I found it. A notation buried in the surveyor's notes, so small I'd missed it on the first three passes: Measurements taken from adjusted baseline per client specification.
Adjusted baseline.
I pulled up the original property survey from when Maya's grandfather had purchased the building in 1985. Then the one from 2005 when he'd done renovations. Then the current one from Hutchins's filing.
The baseline had been moved. Not dramatically—just three feet south, enough to make Maya's parking area look like it encroached on Hutchins's property instead of being clearly on her own land.
It was fraud. Deliberate and calculated.
And I had proof.
Tuesday morning, I arrived at the bakery at 6:15 AM, early again because I needed to see Maya’s face when she realized this wasn't just corporate pressure—it was criminal.
I knocked on the back door, and Maya opened it looking exhausted. She'd probably been here since 4 AM, working through the anxiety and fear that came from reading that email yesterday. I recognized the coping mechanism—when life felt out of control, you worked.
"You're early," she said, but she held the door open.
"I found something." I stepped inside, pulling out my tablet. "In the property survey. They falsified the baseline measurements."
Her eyes went wide. "What?"
"The surveyor moved the property line three feet south to make it look like your parking area encroaches on Hutchins's land. But if you compare it to the original surveys—the ones from when your grandfather owned the building—the parking area is clearly on your property. It always has been."
I pulled up the documents on my tablet, showing her the side-by-side comparison. Maya leaned in close, her shoulder brushing mine as she studied the measurements, and I caught the scent of flour and something floral—her shampoo, maybe.
Focus, Caldwell.
"They faked it," Maya said quietly, her voice tight. "They deliberately falsified a legal document to create a dispute they could exploit."
"Yes. And that's fraud. Not just civil liability—criminal fraud." I zoomed in on the surveyor's notation. "See this? 'Adjusted baseline per client specification.' That's the surveyor documenting that Hutchins told him to move the line. It's evidence of intent."
Maya was silent for a long moment, her jaw clenched. "Can we use this? To stop the sale deadline?"
"We can do more than that. We can file a motion to dismiss the entire case with prejudice, which means Hutchins can't refile.
We can report the surveyor to the state licensing board.
And we can potentially file criminal charges for fraud and extortion.
" I met her eyes. "This doesn't just protect your bakery, Maya. This destroys their entire strategy."
Something shifted in her expression—relief mixed with something fiercer. "When can we file?"
"I can have the motion drafted by this afternoon.
We'll need to file it with the county court, which means a trip to Friday Harbor tomorrow.
" I paused. "But there's something else.
If my firm facilitated this fraud—if we knew about the falsified survey and used it anyway—that's a massive ethics violation. I need to find out how deep this goes."
"What would that mean for you?”" Maya's voice was careful, neutral.
“I don’t know exactly. Since the firm representing Hutchins is connected to my investment group, if they knowingly used fraudulent evidence..." I ran my hand through my hair, the implications making my stomach turn. "I need to make some calls."
Maya reached out, her hand landing on my forearm. The touch was light, brief, but I felt it like electricity. "Thank you. For caring enough to look this hard. Even if it could hurt you.”
"It's not about caring," I said automatically. "It's about doing the job right."
Her eyes searched mine, and I had the uncomfortable feeling she could see straight through the lie. "Is it?"
Before I could answer, she pulled her hand back and returned to the croissant dough she'd been working on. "You should probably help me finish these if you're going to keep showing up at dawn. People will wonder what we're doing back here."
"Right. The arrangement." I moved to wash my hands, grateful for the excuse to look away from her too-perceptive gaze. "Can't have people thinking we're not actually dating."
"Can't have that," Maya agreed, but her voice was odd—almost disappointed.
We worked in silence for several minutes, the rhythm of laminating dough creating a strange kind of intimacy.
I watched her hands move with practiced precision, shaping butter and dough into layers that would become something beautiful.
There was artistry in it, a mastery that took years to develop.
"Where did you learn this?" I asked. "The specific techniques? It’s not how your grandfather did it.”
"That year in Portugal at Pastéis de Belém. It was after I finished at the CIA." Her hands never stopped moving. "My grandfather saved for years to send me. He wanted me to learn from the masters, to understand where our recipes came from."
"That's where you got your food philosophy? Traditional technique with modern refinement?"
She glanced up, surprised. “Are you…quoting my website?”
"I researched you, remember?" I said, then wondered why I kept bringing this up. "For the arrangement."
"Right. The arrangement." She returned to the dough, but something had closed off in her expression. "You should probably stop researching me, though. It's starting to feel less like business and more like actual interest."
The words hit harder than they should have. "Would that be a problem?"
"Yes." Her voice was firm. "Because actual interest wasn't part of the deal, remember? No real feelings. Strictly professional."
"Strictly professional," I repeated, and tried to ignore the part of me that wanted to argue.
We finished the croissants just as Tessa arrived at 7 AM, her purple-tipped hair wild from the morning wind. She took one look at us working side by side in the kitchen and grinned.
"Well, well. Someone's taking the fake dating very seriously." She grabbed an apron from the hook. "Morning prep together? That's either really committed to the bit, or you two are bad at keeping boundaries."
"We're working on Maya's legal case," I said evenly.
"Sure, you are." Tessa's grin widened. "Is that what they're calling it now?"
Maya shot her a warning look. "Tessa."
"What? I'm just saying, if you're going to fake date someone, you might as well enjoy the perks.
Like having him show up at dawn with coffee and help you bake.
" She grabbed the coffee cups—mine and Maya's, both half-finished on the counter.
"These are from the good coffee place. The expensive one tourists use. Not the cheap one us locals go to."
"It was closer to my hotel," I said, which was a lie. I'd driven past three coffee shops to get to the expensive one because I'd wanted Maya to have good coffee.
"Uh-huh." Tessa's eyes sparkled with mischief. "You're very dedicated to this fake relationship, Mr. Caldwell. Some might say suspiciously dedicated."
"I'm thorough." I wiped flour from my hands with a dish towel. "It's how I approach everything."
"Everything?" Tessa's eyebrow rose. "Interesting word choice."
Maya groaned. "Can you two not do this before I've finished my coffee? Tessa, the morning prep list is on the counter. Ethan, you should probably—"
"I should get to work on the legal filing." I grabbed my tablet from where I'd set it down earlier. "I'll call you later about the Friday Harbor trip?"
"Right. The trip." Maya's voice was carefully neutral. "Call me."
I left through the back door, very aware of Tessa's knowing look following me out. The morning air was cool and salt-sharp, clearing my head.
This was getting complicated.
The arrangement was supposed to be simple: fake dating for community acceptance, legal help for image rehabilitation. Clean. Professional. Temporary.
But standing in that kitchen with Maya, watching her hands fold dough the way her grandfather had taught me twenty years ago, seeing her face when she realized I'd found proof of fraud—none of that felt fake.
And that was a problem.
I spent the rest of the morning drafting the motion to dismiss, building the argument piece by piece. The falsified survey was the foundation, but I needed more. I needed to prove pattern, intent, coordination.
So, I dug deeper into Gerald Hutchins's background. His financial records. His business connections. His relationship with my investment group.
What I found made my blood run cold.
Hutchins had received three payments in the last few years from a consulting firm owned by my investment group.
The payments were labeled advisory services, but the timing was damning: one week before the falsified survey, one week before filing the easement dispute, one week before the accelerated timeline email.
They weren't just exploiting Maya's vulnerability. They were creating it. Systematically, deliberately, with my firm's money.
I pulled up my firm's internal files, searching for any communication about Honey & Hearth Bakery. There—an email chain from months ago, before I'd been assigned to Lopez Island.