Chapter 17 – Lines in the Dirt

They sat on Maya’s screened-in porch as the night settled in, the edges of the sky turning indigo behind the treeline. The sleeve containing Margie’s hidden documents lay on the table between them, lit by a single bulb overhead and guarded by two mugs of coffee going cold.

Neither of them touched it.

“It’s not just about having the truth anymore,” Maya said. “It’s about what we do with it—and who we trust to carry it the rest of the way.”

Ronny nodded slowly. “We’re sitting on proof that three respected men—one of them my grandfather—covered up a murder. And if we’re right, their descendants still have power around here. Land. Influence. Maybe even a hand in local government.”

Maya leaned forward. “We go to the wrong person, and this disappears again. Maybe we disappear with it.”

They were quiet for a moment.

Then Maya said, “I have one possibility. She's not in law enforcement, but she’s smart, relentless, and just enough of a pain in the ass to do something with this.”

Ronny looked at her. “Who?”

“Kendra Blue. Investigative journalist. Runs a Substack newsletter and an independent regional watchdog group. She’s burned bridges with half the courthouse, which means the other half is probably hiding something.”

He raised an eyebrow. “She sounds like someone people try to discredit.”

“They’ve tried. Never stuck. Because she doesn’t make claims unless she has proof. And now…” Maya tapped the sleeve. “We have it.”

Ronny stared off into the trees. “What about the sheriff?”

Maya shook her head. “Sheriff Rollins? Good ol’ boy. Likes being liked. He won’t get near this unless he knows exactly how it’ll end—and that he’ll come out clean. If one of the names in those documents is connected to his campaign donors, it dies in his desk drawer.”

Ronny leaned back, exhaling through his nose. “What about the state police?”

“They’ll ask for chain of custody. If we can’t prove the documents weren’t planted, it gives someone room to cast doubt. Margie’s gone. Everyone involved is dead or hiding. The burden of proof becomes a mud pit.”

“So we need someone who’ll tell the story first,” Ronny said, “before someone else buries it again.”

Maya nodded. “That’s Kendra. If we can get her to meet us—and show her everything—we can control the narrative before the fixer comes knocking again.”

Ronny looked down at the documents. The initials. The evidence. The life Margie risked to hide the truth.

“Then let’s do it.”

He looked back up.

“But let’s also prepare in case this goes sideways. We scan everything. We make multiple copies. And we leave a trail.”

Maya smiled. “Now you’re thinking like a whistleblower.”

He smiled back. “No. I’m thinking like a teacher who finally got tired of letting people rewrite the lesson.”