I looked at the paper in his hand, then up at his eyes.

“The road isn’t for sale, Trevor,” I said.

“And neither is my silence.”

His brow furrowed, his jaw tightening in the dim light of the porch bulb.

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asked.

“I saw the site plans you filed under Ridgeview Holdings,” I said.

“You left the creek off the survey.”

He didn’t blink.

“The county approved the preliminary layout,” he said.

“Because you lied to them,” I said.

“You placed the septic fields thirty feet from a protected trout stream.”

“That’s a direct violation of the Mountain Ridge Protection Act.”

Trevor took another step forward, his polished demeanor starting to fracture.

“It’s a seasonal runoff channel, Meredith,” he said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper.

“It’s not a major stream.”

“The county map says otherwise,” I replied.

“And my lawyer has already sent the corrected survey to the zoning administrator.”

The wind gusted across the porch, rattling the wind chimes hanging from the eave.

Trevor stared at me, his eyes dark with a sudden, sharp anger.