“Who is this?” I asked.

A voice I didn’t recognize spoke through the static.

“Is this Miss Mercer?” the voice asked.

The line crackled with static, the sound cutting through the damp chill of the afternoon.

“Yes,” I said, wiping a smear of red clay from my knuckles. “Who is this?”

“It’s Lydia Crane,” the voice said. “I’m using Warren Bellamy’s office phone.”

I looked down at the muddy silver watch in my palm.

“Where is Warren?” I asked.

“In the back of a patrol car,” Lydia said. “But that is the least of your worries right now.”

I could hear papers rustling on her end of the line, followed by the muffled sound of a siren in the distance.

“What’s happening, Lydia?”

“Wexler Stone just pulled out of the agreement,” she said. “The entire deal is dead.”

I took a deep breath, the cold air stinging my lungs.

“They found out about the graves,” I said.

“They found out about everything,” Lydia replied. “The illegal zoning, the forged permits, the shifting of the boundary lines.”

She paused, and I heard her take a sharp breath.