Page 51 of Crash Course
That made no sense. If he intended this to be a landfill, why wouldn’t he purchase the two parcels across the street that butted up against plant property?
Cilla dug in her briefcase for the land survey she’d printed and held it between them. "Here’s what I don’t get. My father wants this property." She circled the property with her finger. "However, the Randolph Industries landfill is not only across the street, there are two other farms and a daycare in between. How does that make sense?"
Cruz shrugged. "Maybe the plan is to buy up all the property. He’s starting with the farthest one and working in?"
"It’d make more sense to start with the closest ones. What if he buys this one and the other two aren’t interested? Then he’s stuck."
"Good point. Whoopsie." Cruz jerked his head. "We got company."
Cilla peered out the windshield, found a dark-haired woman in workout tights and a light jacket eyeing them from the front porch of the farmhouse.
Shoot. They’d been here sixty seconds and already called attention to themselves. A second later, a big guy joined the woman.
"And," Cruz said, "guessing that’s the husband."
"Shoot."
What now? Driving off would only create suspicion and more than likely a call to the local police. All while this was supposed to be a clandestine mission to collect soil samples.
Cilla lifted her door handle. "Wait here."
"What are you doing?"
"Talking to them. Obviously, they’re wondering who’s sitting in the giant black pickup and I don’t want them calling the cops."
Wouldn’t that be fun? Dad probably had a mole in the PD and she’d have to explain herself. She’d rather poke out her own eye.
Dad’s motto rang in her ear.Never apologize. Never explain.
"Want me to come with you?" Cruz asked.
"No. It might spook them."
He considered that a moment and must have agreed because he jerked his head. "Fine. But I’m watching. If you need me, wave."
Once again, many men would simply impose their will and follow her.Cruz, Cruz, Cruz.The man might be her downfall. "Will do."
She hopped out of the truck, her hiking boots helping her to stick the landing in the dirt alongside the road. Jeans and boots were definitely the way to go for this trip.
Striding toward the home, she held up a hand. "Hello."
The couple stepped off the porch, marching toward Cilla. The woman’s ponytail bobbed as she struggled to keep pace with the man’s much longer strides.
A few feet from Cilla, the woman came to a stop "Can we help you?"
Thinking quick—she wasn’t Charlotte’s top defense attorney for nothing—Cilla dug her phone from her jacket pocket and held it up. "We were in a dead zone and I got a signal here."
The woman cocked her head and continued to stare at Cilla. Questioning. Probably because, why, if she’d found a signal, wouldn’t she be on said phone?
"I got distracted." Cilla made a show of looking at the surrounding land. "It’s so peaceful here."
"It is. You lost or something?"
"No." She turned, pointed at Cruz still in the truck. "We’re looking at the area."
The woman continued to give her the hard stare. This, for Cilla, wasn’t uncommon. When it came to their husbands, married women often gave her the stink eye. As if it was her fault she been blessed with her mother’s looks and her father’s brains, and men found that killer combo intriguing.
Newsflash, DNA isn’t my fault.
