God help me, I’m doomed.
“So.” I clear my throat. “We call a town meeting. Today, if possible. Invite Xavier. Invite the locals. We present the evidence, show the community exactly what Xavier’s been doing before he can cause any more harm, and let the chips fall.”
“If we invite Xavier, he’ll try to defend himself,” Corin comments.
“That’s precisely what we want,” she says. “We’ll tell him it’s a community land development information session. He’ll think he’s being given a platform to pitch his land deals to theislanders. Maybe even think we’re legitimizing his acquisition plans. He won’t be expecting us to present concrete evidence of his wrongdoing. We’ll catch him completely off guard. In front of everybody.”
Corin reaches for my hand. His grip is steady. “Let’s do it.”
The town meetingis held that afternoon at the same community hall where I gave my first land-lease workshop. Feels like a lifetime ago. Back then I was just trying to help some islanders understand their contracts. Now I’m about to publicly eviscerate a corrupt former board member in front of the entire community.
Career growth is wild, honestly.
Marisol helped us organize everything on short notice. She sent word through her networks, contacted local officials, even arranged transportation for the poorer families. When I asked if she was sure she wanted to host this, because Xavier Laurent is exactly the kind of man who retaliates against those who make him look bad, she just looked at me with those no-nonsense eyes and said, “That man tried to steal from my people. I want front row seats.”
I love her.
The hall fills up quickly. Local families, fishermen, shop owners, island officials. I spot the reporter from that first workshop in the back, notebook already open. Good. We want press. We want this on record.
I’ve set up my presentation materials at the front of the room. Overhead slides with the corporate registration documents. Printouts of the shell company connections. Writtentestimony from three families Xavier pressured into signing predatory agreements through “Atlantic Cove Investments.”
Corin is seated in the back row, deliberately unobtrusive.
This isn’t about him.
This is about the evidence.
About the community.
Aboutjustice.
Although I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t acutely aware of his eyes on me.
I notice Thorne positioned against the rear wall, scanning the crowd with that focused intensity that used to unnerve me. Now it’s almost comforting. Keon is somewhere outside with the SUV. I caught a glimpse of him checking the exits earlier.
Xavier arrives fifteen minutes late. Typical power move. He strolls in like he owns the place, his silver-streaked hair perfectly styled, his expensive suit gleaming under the lights.
He takes an aisle seat in the third row, and shoots me a smile that makes my skin crawl.
Marisol calls the meeting to order. She keeps the introduction brief, then hands the floor over to me.
I take a deep breath. Center myself.
And then I begin.
“Good afternoon. My name is Amara Khan, and I’m a corporate litigator serving as legal counsel for the Saelinger Foundation’s community clinic pilot.” I click to the first slide. “Over the past several weeks, I’ve been reviewing foundation documents as part of my work here. What I found concerns all of you.”
I walk them through it step by step. No theatrics. No raised voice. Just facts, laid out in sequence like puzzle pieces clicking into place.
The forged board memo designed to implicate Corin in land displacement. The shell company network Xavier created sixyears ago. The wire transfers. The corporate registrations. The timeline showing how Xavier’s scheme evolved from financial manipulation at the foundation level to direct predatory purchasing of island land.
I use the overhead slides to show the connections visually. I cite the relevant corporate registration statutes. I read excerpts from the testimony of families Xavier pressured.
Twenty minutes. That’s all it takes.
When I finish, the room is silent.
Xavier’s formerly confident smile has curdled into something ugly. His jaw is tight, and his hands are gripping the armrests of his chair so hard that his knuckles are white.
