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I pressed my hand to the brick. It was cold and reassuringly solid, which proved nothing.

Wednesday came in gray and stayed that way. By two, the clouds had dropped low enough to hide the ridge west of town.

Jenna arrived at two to cover the rest of the afternoon. Eleven minutes later, I pulled into the community center lot. Griffin was already there with the engine running and the windows fogged at the corners. Owen had scheduled the Morrison inspection for three. We needed to inspect the sleigh, the horses, and the portable stalls before Griffin could finish the festival site and safety plan. Mrs. Morrison’s farm was forty minutes away.

I got in. A few dry flakes crossed the windshield as we left town, too light to stick. We drove eleven miles before either of us spoke. A farmhouse along the route had a lit plastic reindeer in the yard with an orange extension cord running to the porch. Its head turned slowly at nothing.

“Ivy said you returned the town history. Did you finish it?” I asked.

“I returned it Monday. I read every page.”

“What did you think?”

“I think this town was founded by people who understood that community is not simply proximity. It is responsibility.” He kept his eyes on the road. “I also think I’ve spent two weeks trying to understand that as an idea, when what you’ve been trying to hand me is a practice.”

“And the basement?”

His hands adjusted on the wheel, one and then the other.

“I should have waited,” he said. “I should have brought it to you first, and then to Frank, and then to a room. I was excited about what those drawings proved, and I forgot that information without context is a weapon regardless of what I meant by it. I’m sorry. Not for the finding. For the nine hours.”

I looked out the windshield at miles of brown fields and let the apology be true, which took longer than saying so would have. “You handled it badly, but you meant well. I turned nine careless hours into a full criminal conspiracy, which was efficient but not accurate. You got excited and forgot everyone else was still in the room.” I heard myself. “I’ve been working out how to say that since Friday.”

His laugh came out surprised. “That’s a generous interpretation.”

“It’s an accurate one.”

“And the merchant association?”

“I organized it against you in about four hours,” I said. “So we’ve both had a productive week.”

The road climbed, and the flurries thickened. The brown fields faded beneath a white haze, but the pavement remained clear. At three, Griffin turned into the Morrison driveway. A plastic candle burned in every front window of the farmhouse, seven orange bulbs that never looked quite lit, all glowing in the middle of the day.

He cut the engine. His phone lit on the console, and his expression closed when he read the name. “I need to take this.”

I got out and headed toward the main barn. Private calls did not require an audience, and I had a sleigh inspection to start.

CHAPTER 8

GRIFFIN

The passenger door closed. Nora crossed the gravel toward the barn while VICTOR CRANE glowed on my screen.

I answered because ignoring Crane would buy me a few minutes, and he would collect them with interest.

“Griffin.” His voice was unhurried. He learned young that waiting cost him nothing. “How’s Oregon?”

“Cold.”

“I see you’ve been decorating.”

“How would you know?”

“Meridian has four hundred thousand dollars tied to those buildings. My associates monitor the permits, the local paper, and the festival committee’s public page.” Crane’s voice held no edge at all. That was his gift. “Two weeks of meetings. Photographs of you rebuilding a stage with your own hands. I admire it. I’ve never seen a developer holding a saw. My associates are less charmed. They’re asking whether Griffin Cole has lost his edge, and I’m defending you, which you should know is work.”

“I already turned down your partnership offer.”

“You turned down the partnership. You still borrowed four hundred thousand dollars from Meridian, and that loan agreement gives us an option on the block if you miss the repair deadline. Those are separate deals.” He paused. “Did your attorney explain paragraph nine, or did you sign it at two in the morning because you were four hundred thousand short and the seller wanted an answer by Friday?”