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“You don’t bark orders very well for a mountain-sized bodyguard.”

“I can if I need to.”

Her gaze stayed on me one second longer than necessary before she turned away. Heat settled low in my body.

I picked up my keys. We had work to do.

***

Hollowfield Farm looked different without guests.

The wet morning had burned into a pale afternoon by the time we arrived, leaving the fields washed gold beneath a thin stretch of blue sky. Pumpkins still filled the public picking area in bright orange rows. Workers rolled portable floodlights into position along the attraction perimeter, and metal barriers waited beside the parking lane in stacked sections.

Beyond them, the corn had lost none of its height.

Without music, laughter, or ticket lines, the attraction sat strangely still.

At Hollowfield, Sybil’s attention went immediately to the work around her—the placement of a barrier, a staff member carrying radios, a delivery cart blocking half a service lane.

“Clinton,” she called.

A thin man near the barriers looked up.

“That cart can’t stay there if we reopen.”

“We’re moving it to storage.”

“Before the meeting?”

He checked his watch. “Before the walkthrough.”

She nodded and kept moving.

The meeting was held in a farm office beside one of the packing barns, where the smell of damp wood and old apples lingered beneath fresh coffee. Rick Hollowfield stood at one end of a scarred table covered with printed maps. Sheriff O’Shea occupied the other, his gray mustache making his displeasure look permanent.

Clinton took a seat near the wall.

Nobody looked rested.

Rick pointed to the map as soon as we came in. “The carrier and property counsel are willing to let us operate under restrictions. Reduced capacity. More floodlighting. Credentials checked at every staff access point.”

O’Shea folded his arms. “A man was killed here less than twenty-four hours ago.”

“I know exactly how long it’s been,” Rick said.

“Then you know why I want the attraction closed.”

“And if I close it for the rest of October, I start deciding which seasonal workers don’t get paid next week.”

Sybil set her binder on the table before the argument could sharpen.

“The final room stays sealed,” she said. “Nobody enters it, nobody routes guests near it, and we use the emergency lane to bypass that entire section.”

O’Shea looked at her. “You’re planning to work tonight?”

“If we open.”

“You were arrested for this murder.”