“Surveying, site preparation, and preliminary demolition planning.”
Caleb stared at her.
“Demolition?”
Diane nodded.
“The development company appears to have scheduled contractors to enter the property tonight.”
For a second, I heard nothing but traffic passing the hotel.
Then I thought of Michael’s rose garden.
The greenhouse he had built with his own hands.
The bench where he had sat during the last summer of his life.
“They’re going to destroy it,” I whispered.
Diane touched my arm.
“We’ve already notified the company that the authorization is disputed, and we’re seeking emergency court protection. But I don’t want you going there alone.”
Caleb opened the driver’s door.
“You won’t.”
His voice had changed.
He looked directly at Diane.
“Call the police. Tell them we’re on our way.”
The drive home took thirty-six minutes.
I counted every one.
Caleb barely spoke.
Twice, his phone rang.
Sabrina.
Then Victor.
Then Sabrina again.
He turned it off.
When we reached the familiar country road, headlights illuminated the wooden sign Michael had carved years earlier.
ROSEBANK.
Beyond it stood our old white house, the greenhouse, and the dark shapes of the rosebushes.
Two large trucks were parked near the driveway.
My heart stopped.
