“My father?”
“No.”
“Wade?”
The investigator paused.
“At the time?”
“Yes.”
“Unknown.”
“Later?”
“We're investigating.”
Clara looked toward the orchard.
The story became uglier.
Not because chemicals existed.
Because trust existed.
Mercer trucks had come onto Hayes land routinely.
Deliveries.
Treatments.
Advice.
If workers used that access to bury waste, they exploited exactly what made rural business possible.
People trusted familiar trucks.
Familiar faces.
Family names.
Clara drove to Ray Dalton’s farm.
She found him repairing a gate.
He saw her.
“What?”
She handed him a copy of the public summary.
Ray read.
Slowly.
His face changed.
“Damn.”
“Yes.”
“Your grandfather didn't know?”
“Apparently not.”
“Daniel?”
“No evidence.”
Ray lowered the paper.
“And Wade?”
“Unknown.”
Ray looked toward the road.
“I'm sorry.”
Clara leaned against the fence.
“For what?”
He nodded toward the orchard.
“I thought you were ruining the place.”
“You told me.”
“I kicked your stake.”
“Yes.”
“Shouldn't have.”
“No.”
He looked at her.
“You're enjoying that apology.”
“A little.”
Ray sighed.
Then became serious.
“The pigs found it.”
“Yes.”
“That's insane.”
Clara smiled faintly.
“Apparently.”
Ray folded the report.
“So what now?”
“Cleanup.”
“Who's paying?”
“Great question.”
That answer became the next battle.
Mercer Agricultural had reorganized twice.
Insurance policies changed.
The original company technically dissolved years earlier.
Wade’s current company inherited some assets and liabilities.
Lawyers argued.
Regulators ordered remediation responsibility shared among parties pending final allocation.
Clara’s attorney became the most expensive person she had ever met.
Then Wade came to the farm.
Alone.
No clean sales truck.
His personal pickup.
Clara saw him from the barn.
She considered not approaching.
Then did.
Wade stood outside the taped orchard.
He looked older.
“You shouldn't be here.”
“I know.”
“Then?”
“I wanted to see.”
“You've seen the orchard before.”
“Not like this.”
Clara folded her arms.
“What do you want?”
Wade stared at the ground.
“My father did things differently.”
Clara said nothing.
“Small business.”
“Different regulations.”
“Different expectations.”
Still nothing.
Wade sighed.
“That isn't an excuse.”
“No.”
“I didn't know about this site.”
Clara watched him carefully.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I don't know what you should believe.”
“That’s convenient.”
“I was twenty-seven.”