Chapter Five #2
My skin went cold under my blouse.
Zane hadn't sounded engaged yesterday when Fletcher called. He'd looked at the phone like it had crawled out from under a rock. He'd silenced the call with his jaw tight and his hand still careful around my water bottle.
I didn't know what Fletcher had said to him on any other call.
But I'd seen Zane's face every time Fletcher's name appeared. I'd felt the shed cool around him.
I kept reading.
The language didn't say, If Zane McCrae agrees.
It didn't say, Pending owner interest.
It didn't say, Long-shot access under active refusal by the actual person who owns the land and has already told the broker no.
It said the McCrae parcel created a preferred lake access path. It said the route strengthened the project's viability. It said the broker had identified a practical approach to the Beargrass frontage.
A practical approach.
I almost laughed, but the sound would've been ugly and too loud for a workplace where people discussed betrayal in twelve-point font.
I flipped to the land-use map.
There it was.
The P-Patch wasn't colored as part of the acquisition. The city garden sat beside the plan, marked as a community amenity, a cheerful little green block that looked safe because no one had drawn a line through it.
But the access route curled right past it.
Zane's land was the hinge. Beargrass Lake was the prize. The P-Patch was the pretty neighbor that made the whole thing look community-friendly while the route slid around its edge.
I could see what would happen even without being a strategist. More traffic on the road.
More pressure around the south side. The quiet strip of pines turned into access.
The garden still technically standing while everything that made it feel tucked away and protected got pressed between development language and lake money.
Zane had been saying no.
Fletcher had made it look like no was only a stage before paperwork.
My chair rolled back when I stood too fast.
Across the aisle, Amanda looked up from her desk. "Daphne?"
I grabbed the folder and sat down again because standing in an open office with my face on fire seemed like a good way to get Monica's attention for every wrong reason.
Amanda's brows drew together. "Are you okay?"
"Yes," I said, and this time the word sounded terrible.
She glanced toward Monica's office. "Is something missing?"
"No." I looked down at Fletcher McCrae's name sitting there in black ink, neat and professional and poisonous. "Nothing's missing."
"That sounded worse."
I made myself breathe. In through my nose. Out through my mouth. Office air, toner, coffee, citrus lotion. Not pine. Not lake water. Not Zane's hand covering mine while he loosened a knot around a bean vine.
Amanda came closer, lowering her voice. "Daphne, what is it?"
I turned the page so she couldn't read automatically. Not because I didn't trust Amanda. Because once I said this out loud, it became bigger than my desk, bigger than my shame, bigger than four remaining hours and one man who still didn't know the worst thing I'd done.
"I know the outside broker," I said.
Amanda's eyes sharpened. "Personally?"
"Not personally." My throat felt tight. "I know his brother."
Her gaze flicked to the folder, then back to me. "The site supervisor?"
I nodded once.
Amanda didn't make a joke. Bless her forever, she didn't make a joke.
"Is that a problem?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Are you involved in the project?"
"No." I kept my voice low and steady because the alternative was cracking right open beside my ceramic cactus. "I didn't know. I process files. I didn't know this had anything to do with him."
"Then you need to tell Monica."
"I will."
But Monica wasn't the only person I needed to tell.
The thought came fast and clean, and I hated how much it steadied me.
Zane had stood beside the drip line while Fletcher's name kept turning his face hard and closed. He didn't know this version of the materials existed. He didn't know Fletcher had put his land into Cascadia's project language like refusal was just a temporary inconvenience.
He also didn't know I worked here.
He didn't know about Julian.
He didn't know the woman he'd touched at Beargrass Lake had once stood in a parking lot with a key in her hand and rage in her chest and made the kind of choice that turned into paperwork, court, and twenty hours under his signature.
My desk blurred for half a second.
I blinked hard.
Amanda crouched slightly beside my chair, her folders forgotten against her chest. "Daphne, talk to me."
"I need to be careful."
"Yes, you do."
"I can't take this out of the office."
"No."
"I can't email anything to myself."
"Absolutely not."
"I can't pretend I didn't see it."
Amanda's face softened. "No, honey. You can't do that either."
My fingers went to the top page, then stopped. I wasn't going to steal company documents. I wasn't going to turn one bad choice into a thrilling sequel with office supplies.
But I'd been assigned to check the revised materials. I could note what was in them. I could flag the conflict. I could tell Zane what Fletcher had done. I could tell Monica too, once I had my spine in the right place and my voice working.
I took a yellow note from the pad beside my keyboard and wrote the page titles in careful block letters.
External Broker Summary.
Revised Access Appendix.
Land-Use Map.
Fletcher McCrae / McCrae Land Brokerage.
Beargrass Lake access.
Adjacent McCrae parcel.
Viable acquisition or easement path.
No owner agreement noted.
My handwriting stayed neat. Office muscle memory was ridiculous and helpful.
Amanda watched me fold the note. "You're going to tell him."
"I have to."
"Before Monica?"
I looked toward Monica's office. She was still on the phone, pacing behind the frosted glass.
"I'm going to finish what Monica asked me to finish," I said. "I'm going to put this where it belongs. I'm going to tell Monica I have a conflict connected to the external broker and need to discuss it. But Zane needs to know what's being said about his land before Fletcher gets to him again."
Amanda's mouth pressed into a line. "That's messy."
"Yes."
"Are you sure he'll believe you?"
No.
The answer moved through me so sharply that I had to set the pen down.
Zane might look at me and see Cascadia. He might see the folder and the pencil skirt and the office polish and decide every instinct he'd had about me keeping something from him had been right.
He might hear Julian's name, the tires, the charge, the community service, and decide I was exactly the reckless woman his first assumption had warned him about.
He might not want me anywhere near his land, his garden, his lake, or his life.
But yesterday he'd signed my hours cleanly and kept his hands careful. At the lake, heat and water and sunlight had been the easy part. Afterward mattered more. Zane had sat beside me on the dock and said the work wouldn't change. He'd protected the line even after we'd crossed a different one.
If I hid this from him, I'd be choosing my own comfort over the one thing he'd trusted me near.
"I'm not sure," I said. "I'm doing it anyway."
Amanda nodded slowly. "Good."
That one word almost undid me.
I tucked the folded note into the inside pocket of my bag. Then I finished the packet. I checked every attachment. I scanned the set into the project folder. I flagged the broker materials with blue tabs and put the clean print set in Monica's inbox with a message.
Conflict concern re external broker. Need to discuss when available.
I didn't run.
I wanted to run.
I wanted to grab my bag, drive to the P-Patch, and pour the whole thing out before fear got its hands around my throat.
Instead, I returned to my desk and waited until Monica's door opened.
She stepped out with her phone still in one hand. "Daphne, did you finish the packet?"
"Yes. It's in your inbox. I flagged the broker materials and left you a note."
Monica looked at me more closely. "A note?"
"I have a conflict concern connected to the external broker."
Her posture changed. Not dramatic. Monica didn't do dramatic at work. Her shoulders settled, and her gaze sharpened like a door closing quietly.
"What kind of concern?"
I kept my hands still on the edge of my desk. "I know someone connected to the broker and the access language. I didn't know until I reviewed the packet."
"Connected how?"
"The owner of the adjacent McCrae parcel is my community service site supervisor."
Monica's eyes flickered once.
My clean little office world and my dirty little punishment stood in the same fluorescent hallway.
"Are you personally involved with him?" she asked.
The question was efficient, not cruel.
My cheeks burned anyway.
"I know him through the Larch Bend P-Patch," I said. "He supervises my court-ordered hours. I didn't know this project involved his land."
Monica was quiet for a second. "Have you discussed Cascadia's project materials with him?"
"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.