Tess was sitting in the cold cab of my Dodge right now, her head pounding against the glass, relying on her meager wages to cover her community college tuition and her monthly prescription costs. If Alvarez fired her with a black mark on her record in a valley this small, she wouldn't find another service job within forty miles. If I pushed forward, I was putting my sister’s immediate survival directly on the line.
If I backed down to protect her job, we wouldn't have a roof over our heads by the end of next week.
Greg saw the hesitation flicker across my face. A thin, smug curl returned to the corner of his lips. He reached out calmly, sliding his manicured fingers over the edge of the printed rider. "Be smart, Corinne. Take your sister and drive back to the farm. Enjoy the weekend while the weather is still clear."
I didn't step back.
I looked straight at Alvarez, keeping my hands resting firmly on the edge of the credenza. "Mr. Alvarez, three weeks ago I delivered a four-thousand-dollar cashier's check to the Columbia Valley Credit Union. Greg and Marcus Vance diverted that money into an internal escrow account so Vanessa Holbrook could file a fraudulent default against our eighty acres at 4:15 this afternoon. That printer on your desk just produced the kickback schedule paying Marcus fifteen thousand dollars to sign off on the theft."
Alvarez blinked, his eyes shifting nervously to the printed ledger sitting beside his computer monitor.
"If you fire Tess, you fire her," I said, my voice steady and cold as well water. "And if you want to call Deputy Miller, dial the phone right now. Let Miller stand in this hallway and read the bank override codes stamped on this paper. But you are not going to let them steal my father's land in your back office."
Before Greg could react, my hand shot out across the credenza.
My fingers clamped hard around the manila folder and the three fresh pages of the rider, dragging them off the desktop. Greg lunged, grabbing my wrist with both hands, his fingernails digging into my skin.
"Let go of that!" Greg hissed, his face twisted in panic. "That is private corporate property!"
I twisted my arm downward with the full leverage of someone who spent five mornings a week hefting forty-pound bushel crates, breaking his grip with a sharp snap against his thumb. Greg stumbled back against the metal shelving, knocking a box of restaurant napkins to the floor.
Alvarez took half a step backward, his hand hovering over the wall phone beside the cooler, his eyes wide with sudden uncertainty. He didn't dial.
I turned my back on both of them, clutching the stained papers against my chest under my heavy canvas coat. The swing door leading into the private dining hall was five feet ahead.
There was no turning back to the truck now. The choice was made. I pressed my shoulder against the door, shoved it open, and stepped out into the bright, carpeted silence of the dining room where Vanessa Holbrook was lifting her glass.
CHAPTER 3: The Stolen Deed Under Table Four
The brass latch of the service door clicked behind me, and the humid roar of the kitchen died against the heavy soundproof batting of the private dining room. The room was bathed in the warm amber glow of a low-hanging brass chandelier, illuminating dark mahogany wainscoting, pressed damask tablecloths, and the soft chime of sterling silverware against bone china. At Table Four, Vanessa Holbrook was leaning toward her left, holding her fresh goblet of red wine by its slender crystal stem, her laughter bright, sharp, and practiced. To her right sat Harold Arlen, the long-standing chairman of the Columbia County Zoning Board, and across from him sat Sandra Croft, the senior planning commissioner who had spent twelve years overseeing rural agricultural easements throughout the valley.
Vanessa’s glass stopped halfway to her lips as my heavy work boots pressed into the wool runner. Her eyes traveled slowly from the thick rubber soles of my boots up to the dark canvas of my barn coat, then settled on the stiff edges of the manila folder pinned tight against my ribs. Her smile did not drop immediately; instead, it curdled into an expression of theatrical disbelief, the same mocking pity she had worn in the high school hallway when she kicked my locker shut and told the girls behind her that dirt farmers smelled like spoiled compost.
"Corinne," Vanessa said, keeping her tone light enough for the table to hear, though the muscles along her collarbone went rigid under her silk blouse. "Did the floor manager forget to teach you how to read the service signs? When guests rent the cellar room, it means we don't want the kitchen staff wandering past our chairs with dirty hands."