“Grandpa’s ghost.”
Daniel’s expression sharpened.
“Do not put your grandfather in a board seat.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
He leaned forward.
“My father spent half his life telling people not to use his thirteen-year-old self as a mascot.”
“He would hate you making a multimillion-dollar decision based on what you think would preserve his story.”
Maya rubbed her forehead.
“What if selling control ruins what he built?”
Daniel shrugged.
“What if refusing ruins it?”
That landed harder.
He stood.
“Go home.”
“I need—”
“No.”
“You need sleep.”
“Nothing useful happens in this office after midnight except mildew.”
Maya looked toward spreadsheet.
“Dad.”
He paused.
“What if I make the wrong decision?”
Daniel considered.
“Then you’ll make the next decision with better information.”
She stared.
“That sounds like Grandpa.”
“No.”
“That was your grandmother Priya.”
“Your grandfather took decades to learn it.”
He kissed Maya’s forehead and left.
She stayed another twelve minutes.
Then shut the laptop.
The next morning brought another problem.
At 7:18, Maya’s phone rang while she was brushing her teeth.
Cedar Creek’s environmental coordinator.
“Sorry.”
“What happened?”
“North containment sensor is showing elevated conductivity.”
Maya stopped brushing.
“Runoff?”
“Possibly.”
“How high?”
He told her.
Too high.
Not emergency.
Enough to investigate immediately.
“Rain?”
“Three inches overnight.”
“Any overtopping?”
“Not visible.”
“Material release?”
“No.”
“Creek reading?”
“Normal so far.”
Maya rinsed.
“I’m coming.”
She reached farm at 7:46.
The containment basin behind the compost bays was full but below overflow threshold.
Workers in rain gear stood beside the north drainage channel.
The environmental coordinator, Jen Morales—no relation to Dr. Lena Morales, though everyone assumed—held a handheld meter.
“Reading dropped since first sample.”
“How much?”
Jen showed.
Still elevated.
Maya looked toward the covered compost bays.
“Where’s source?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“Shell pad?”
“Maybe.”
“Fish windrow?”
“Could be.”
“Anything leave site?”
“Not that we can see.”
Maya’s pulse accelerated.
Cedar Creek’s permits had become more complex over the decades.
A discharge into Miller Creek could trigger reporting requirements, fines, corrective actions, or worse if mishandled.
They had never had a significant runoff violation.
Noah was obsessive about it.
Luke before him.
The irony of Cedar Creek becoming the polluter it once claimed to prevent would be brutal.
Maya hated that she thought about optics before ecology.
She corrected herself.
“Stop all incoming wet organics.”
Jen nodded.
“Already did.”
“Notify county.”
Jen hesitated.
“We haven’t confirmed discharge.”
“Notify them we’re investigating abnormal containment reading after storm.”
“That may trigger inspection.”