The dirt under my fingernails was cool and damp.

I knelt in the tomato patch, working the dark soil with my bare hands.

October in Fairmont was always cold, the air smelling of wet pine and coming rain.

For three years, this garden had been my entire world.

No radios, no briefing files, no sirens.

Just the quiet growth of things that did not ask questions.

My phone buzzed on the wooden bench nearby.

I ignored it at first, reaching for the pruning shears.

It buzzed again, a long, continuous vibration that rattled against the cedar wood.

Only three people had this number.

I wiped my hands on my canvas trousers and picked up the battered receiver.

The screen showed Emily’s name.

I pressed the button and put the phone to my ear.

“Emily?” I said.

All I heard at first was heavy, ragged breathing.

“Dad,” she whispered.

Her voice was thin, trembling with a terror I had not heard since she was a child.

“I’m here,” I said, my voice dropping into its old, steady register. “What’s happening?”

“I found them,” she sobbed, her words rushed and muffled. “The papers. The bank transfers. Charles and Ryan, they… they’ve been using the development funds to—”

A door slammed in the background, the sound echoing through the line.

“Emily?” I stood up, my knees popping in the quiet afternoon.

“Who are you talking to?” a man’s voice demanded in the background.

It was Ryan, her husband. His tone was slurred, thick with anger.

“Nobody, Ryan, please—” Emily cried out.

“Give me the phone!”

There was a scuffle, the harsh scraping of plastic against wood, and a sharp, sudden gasp.

“Dad, help me, they’re not going to let me—”

The call cut off.

The silence that followed was absolute.

I stared at the screen.

The call had disconnected.

I tried calling back immediately.

It went straight to voicemail.

I stood in the center of my garden, the wind rustling the dead leaves of the maple trees.

My chest tightened, but my mind went cold and clear.

The gardener was gone.

The man I used to be took his place.