She looks real.
"We should wait it out." She nods toward the back corner where hay bales are stacked like a fort. "Storm sounds like it's settling in."
"How long?"
"However long it takes."
She walks to the hay. Sits. Pulls out her field notebook and a pencil, like she's planning to document weather patterns while we're trapped.
I follow. Sit close enough that our shoulders almost touch.
The silence stretches. Not comfortable. Not yet.
Houdini wanders over. Sniffs my boot. Apparently decides I'm boring and leaves.
"So." I rub the back of my neck. Water drips from my hair onto my collar. "About earlier."
"Earlier when you took developer money?"
"It was catering money."
"Same source."
"Different intent."
Ivy's pencil stills against the page. She doesn't look up. "Intent doesn't matter if the outcome hurts people."
"I needed to pay my suppliers. Keep the doors open. Feed my staff."
"And in three months, when Webb uses your success as proof that local businesses thrive under his watch? When he points to you as the model while buying out everyone else?"
The words land heavy. Sink in.
"You think that's his play?"
"I don't think. I know." Now she looks at me. Eyes sharp. "I saw the map, Rogan. The rezoning proposal. Your bistro is marked. Highlighted. You're not a success story to him. You're a strategic acquisition."
A phantom pain shoots through my stomach. "He approached you?"
"Tried to. Lunch tomorrow. Neutral territory." She taps the pencil against her knee. "He wants to spin the narrative before I can tell anyone what I found."
"What did you find?"
"That you're the linchpin. The property that connects his whole development corridor. Without the bistro, his project stays fragmented."
Thunder again. Closer.
I lean back against the hay. Stare up at the patched roof where water still drips in slow, steady beats.
"So I'm fucked."
"Only if you sell."
"And if I don't sell, I'm also fucked. Because the debt doesn't disappear. The bills don't stop coming."
"Then we find another way."
"There isn't another way, Ivy. I've run the numbers a dozen times. The catering gig bought me weeks. Maybe a month. After that?" I spread my hands. "I'm out of moves."
