A black sedan pulled onto the gravel shoulder, its engine idling quietly.

It was Alden’s Mercedes.

I walked quickly to the passenger side, opened the door, and slipped inside.

The warmth of the car heater hit my face, smelling of leather and old paper.

Alden Vale sat behind the wheel, his hands gripping the leather-wrapped steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white.

He looked older than his fifty years.

His silk tie was loosened, and his eyes were bloodshot under the dashboard lights.

“You shouldn’t have come out here alone,” Alden said.

“I didn’t have a choice,” I said, closing the door.

I pulled the Cypress Meridian papers from my coat and laid them on the dashboard.

“Tell me the truth, Alden. The whole truth.”

He stared at the folder.

He did not touch it.

“The state is planning to announce the bypass corridor next month,” Alden said, his voice barely louder than the hum of the engine.

“And Blackthorn Ridge is the only viable route,” I said.

He nodded slowly, staring straight ahead through the rain-streaked windshield.

“The state buyout is valued at twelve million dollars,” Alden said.