We're on the same side. Just fighting different battles.
Maybe that's the problem.
The records roomat the municipal building is in the basement. Concrete floors, metal shelves, boxes of documents that smell like dust and old paper.
I open the zoning files for the northeast quadrant. The section that includes Hank's farm, the Miller property, and Jensen's land.
Most of it is straightforward. Agricultural zoning dating back decades. A few variance requests for outbuildings. Nothing unusual.
Then I find a file marked "Proposed Rezoning - Pending Review."
My hands go still.
I open it.
Inside: a survey map. Professional grade. Color-coded parcels with ownership labels. Proposed zoning changes highlighted in yellow.
Hank's farm. Miller's land. Jensen's property.
And one more.
A parcel highlighted in red with a notation: "Priority Acquisition - Strategic Access."
The bistro.
I trace the boundary lines with my finger. The parcel includes the building, the parking lot, and the two acres behind it where Rogan's aunt used to keep a kitchen garden.
A sticky note is attached to the corner of the map. Handwriting I don't recognize.
"Rezoning application to be filed pending acquisition. Projected timeline: 90 days."
Ninety days.
Three months to buy the land. Rezone it. Turn it into whatever Marcus Webb's glossy brochures promise.
My heart rate spikes.
Does Rogan know?
I grab my phone. Dial his number.
It rings four times. Goes to voicemail.
"Rogan. It's Ivy. Call me as soon as you get this. It's urgent."
I hang up. Peer at the map.
The bistro is the keystone. The piece that opens access to the entire corridor. Without it, the development stays fragmented. With it, Webb can connect the parcels into one continuous project.
Which means Rogan isn't just another business owner trying to survive.
He's the linchpin. The target.
And if Webb gets to him before we do, the whole town falls.
I take a photo of the map with my phone. Then another of the sticky note. I want documentation. Evidence.
Footsteps echo in the hallway outside.
