PART2

“Yes.”

“Why you?”

“Because I’ve handled a few shoreline disputes around this lake. One of the clerks recognized the parcel number.”

“My parcel number?”

“Yes.”

I looked toward the water.

“That means they were filing paperwork specifically about my land.”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Garrett Vaughn Development Group.”

That name carried weight in Montana.

Garrett had turned more than one quiet waterfront area into a polished community of private docks, luxury cabins, boutique hotels, and access-controlled marinas.

He had money.

Political connections.

Engineers.

Consultants.

Lawyers.

The kind of development machine that could look at a piece of land and see not trees or water, but units per acre and return on investment.

I had nothing against development in principle.

I was an engineer.

Half my career existed because somebody wanted to build something where something else used to be.

But there was a difference between buying land and deciding land would eventually belong to you.

I looked toward Deborah.

“She has nothing to do with my property.”

“I know.”

“My deed excludes this parcel from South Ridge Lakes.”

“I know.”

“You’ve already seen it?”

“I pulled the county copy before I came.”

That surprised me.

“You move fast.”

“So do they.”

Her eyes went toward the orange stakes.

That sentence stayed with me.

Across the property, Deborah was handing documents to Fire Marshal Mercer.

I could not hear what she was saying.

Then Mercer looked at one of the pages.

Then at my ruins.

Then at me.

“What is she giving him?”

Olivia watched.

“Probably the same thing she’ll give your insurer.”

“What thing?”

“A paper trail.”

I frowned.

“I don’t have a paper trail with her.”

“She may have one with you.”

She was right.

Later that afternoon, my insurance adjuster arrived.

His name was Cal Watkins.

Professional.

Sympathetic.

He photographed everything.

Foundation.

Electrical panel.

Roof structure.

Destroyed furniture.

Dock access.

Outbuildings.

Then he opened a tablet and asked, “Mr. Brooks, were you aware there had been complaints about the condition of the property?”

“No.”

He hesitated.

“There are several.”

“From who?”

“South Ridge Lakes Association.”

“That association does not govern this parcel.”

“I understand.”

“No, I’m not sure you do.”

“I’m not saying the complaints are valid. I’m saying they exist.”

“What do they claim?”

He read.

Unsafe wiring.

Exterior deterioration.

Unpermitted modifications.

Potential environmental runoff concerns.

Abandoned property indicators.

I stopped him.

“Abandoned?”

“That’s what it says.”

“I left four days ago.”

“I understand.”

“I live here full time.”

He nodded.

“I’m documenting your response.”

I almost laughed.

“Document that the HOA has no authority over the property.”

“I will.”

“And document that I never received any of those notices.”

He looked at his screen.

“They list mailing dates.”

“To what address?”

He read an old address I had not used in more than seven years.

That made the whole thing clearer.

“They knew that wasn’t my address.”

“You can prove that?”

“My tax statements come here. County records show this address.”

He nodded.

“Send me copies.”

The word documentation was starting to make me sick.

Deborah had created documents.

That did not make them true.

But truth has a disadvantage at the beginning of a dispute.

A lie can be printed before truth realizes it needs stationery.

By evening, most of the emergency crews were gone.

The investigators remained.

So did a deputy.

The surveyors finally left after Olivia formally warned them not to continue entering beyond any lawful access area.

Deborah left too.

Garrett was already gone.

I stood on the gravel road and watched a sunset spread red across the lake.

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