Ruth reached the final pages.
One entry stood alone.
Dale thinks I stopped testing. I didn't.
Then:
Contamination seems limited to burial section if groundwater has not carried it. Need professional testing one day.
Then the note that froze Ruth completely.
If Dale ever offers Ruth blood meal, it isn't generosity. He'll want access to this field again. Watch what he does, not what he says.
Ruth stared at her own name.
Glenn had written the warning before he died.
He knew Dale might approach her.
Why?
The answer came from another page.
He wants the farm. Said once when drunk at auction that Elkins place would solve his disposal problem for thirty years. Maybe joke. Maybe not.
Ruth closed the notebook.
Her kitchen suddenly felt exposed.
Dale had not chosen her because she was the closest landowner.
He had not paid two hundred dollars because landfill costs annoyed him.
He wanted access to the exact section where something had been buried twenty years earlier.
And he had dumped five tons directly over it.
Why?
Cover?
Marker?
An excuse to return?
Ruth looked toward the dark field.
Then at her grandfather's warning.
She had been thinking about blood meal as fertilizer.
Dale had been thinking about what lay underneath.
At 7:10 the next morning, Dale returned.
Ruth watched his truck through the kitchen curtain.
He parked near the barn.
Did not come to the house immediately.
Instead he walked toward the pile.
Ruth’s stomach tightened.
She took her phone.
Started recording audio.
Then stepped outside.
“Morning.”
Dale turned too quickly.
“Morning.”
His boots were already muddy.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking the pile.”
“Why?”
He looked toward it.
“Making sure runoff isn't heading toward the creek.”
Ruth almost laughed.
Concern for runoff.
Now.
Twenty years late.
“You worried?”
“Responsible disposal.”
“Thought you didn't care what I did with it.”
Dale smiled.
“Figure of speech.”
Ruth walked closer.
She deliberately kept her body relaxed.
“I decided you were right.”
He frowned.
“About?”
“The experiment.”
She gestured toward the dead rye.
“I screwed it up.”
His expression softened.
“Nothing wrong with admitting that.”
“I’m thinking about selling.”
That stopped him.
Ruth saw the reaction.
Only a flash.
Interest.
“What changed?”
“Fourteen thousand dollars.”
She laughed bitterly.
“Reality.”
Dale looked toward the farmhouse.
“You got an offer?”
“A couple.”
“How much?”
Ruth named a figure slightly below what Malcolm had previously mentioned.
Dale rubbed his chin.
“I could do better.”
There it was.
Ruth pretended surprise.
“You want the farm?”
“Maybe.”
“Thought you were in meat.”
“Land is land.”
He looked across the back field.
“I've always liked this place.”
Ruth nearly asked whether he liked what he buried beneath it.
Instead:
“How much?”
Dale named a number twenty thousand above market value.
Too fast.
Ruth’s suspicion hardened into certainty.
“You'd pay that?”