It required authentication.
Independent corroboration.
Careful analysis.
And legal decisions based on the total evidence.
But that Monday was the first time I believed the task force might be able to explain not only what happened to individual victims, but why.
The next morning, Evelyn Carter called.
I recognized her number immediately.
“Mrs. Carter?”
“Renee?”
Her voice sounded tense.
“Yes, ma'am.”
She took a breath.
“There's a truck at my gate.”
I sat upright.
“What kind of truck?”
“A property company.”
My stomach tightened.
She continued.
“They say they're here to survey the land for the freight project.”
I looked toward the case file.
“Did you authorize access?”
“No.”
Her voice hardened.
“And I'm not letting them through.”
I took a breath.
“Mrs. Carter, don't put yourself in a confrontation. Please contact your property attorney and document what they're doing from a safe location.”
She was silent.
Then said, “They're telling my grandson we're holding up the county's future.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course they were.
I asked whether anyone had threatened her.
She said no.
Not directly.
But the visitors insisted they had a right to be there.
One carried a folder and claimed the development company had obtained permissions through a county process.
Evelyn's attorney was already reviewing the paperwork.
I did not send federal agents to settle a private property dispute.
That wasn't our role.
Instead, I passed the information to the appropriate investigators because the activity might be relevant to the existing allegations of pressure against witnesses and property owners.
The attorney obtained clarification about the asserted access rights and took steps to challenge any unsupported entry onto the property.
The survey crew eventually left.
But the incident unsettled Evelyn.
That evening, I visited her farmhouse with the appropriate arrangements and without discussing matters I couldn't disclose.
She sat on the porch with a blanket across her knees.
The pecan trees were losing their leaves.
The yard looked beautiful.
But Evelyn's face was tired.
“I'm getting old, Renee.”
I sat beside her.
“You don't look like it.”
She laughed softly.
“Don't you start lying to me.”
I smiled.
For a moment, we watched the trees.
Then she whispered, “Sometimes I think about selling.”
I turned.
She stared toward the barn.
“Not because I want to. Because I'm tired.”
I remained quiet.
She continued.
“I'm tired of letters. Tired of lawyers. Tired of worrying about Jordan every time he drives through town.”
Her voice trembled.
“I'm tired of people acting like I'm selfish because I want to live where my parents lived.”