Harold answered.
“Brookstone told the county the contaminated groundwater system had been removed before the houses were built.”
Caleb looked toward the underground void.
“But it wasn't.”
“No.”
Linda's expression went pale.
“And my retaining wall?”
Harold pointed toward the ground.
“May be sitting on top of the evidence.”
CHAPTER 5: GERALD CARROWAY’S BASEMENT
Linda did not speak to Caleb for the rest of that afternoon.
At six-thirty she knocked on his door.
Not rang.
Knocked.
Three times.
Caleb opened it.
Linda stood on the porch holding a cardboard banker’s box.
Her face looked older than it had that morning.
“What?”
She looked past him.
“Can we talk inside?”
Caleb stepped aside.
She carried the box to his kitchen table.
Set it down.
“What is this?”
“Gerald’s.”
Caleb waited.
Linda sat.
For once, she seemed uncertain.
“He kept documents.”
“Like you.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“Different.”
She opened the lid.
Inside were old invoices.
Ledgers.
Carbon-copy forms.
Development schedules.
County correspondence.
Caleb looked at her.
“You had these the whole time?”
“They were in his filing cabinet.”
“And you never read them?”
“Gerald worked in accounting.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Linda’s jaw tightened.
“I trusted my husband.”
Caleb let that sit.
She pulled out a folder.
“After he died, I went through the personal papers. Insurance. Pension. Taxes.”
She tapped the remaining files.
“These were work records.”
“You kept them for twelve years without opening them?”
“He told me never to throw company records away.”
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
Caleb looked at her.
“Yes, you do.”
Linda’s eyes flashed.
Then softened.
“He said someday they might matter.”
Caleb opened the folder.
Brookstone Residential Corporation.
Phase One Infrastructure Reconciliation.
He flipped pages.
Drainage.
Concrete.
Fence replacement.
Retaining wall improvement.
Then an invoice caught his attention.
Wescott Easement Stabilization.
He read further.
One line listed:
SUBSURFACE ACCESS COVER — ABANDON / ENCASE.
Caleb stopped.
“Linda.”
She looked.
He turned the page.
“What does that mean?”
“You know.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
She stood.
“Don’t talk to me like I'm stupid.”
“Then stop asking me to pretend this is ambiguous.”
Her face hardened.
Caleb pointed.
“They intentionally buried the access.”
Linda stared at the line.
“That could mean anything.”
“No.”
He flipped back.
“Concrete cap. Retaining structure. Twelve cubic yards.”
He looked toward her backyard through the kitchen window.
“That wall wasn't landscaping.”
Linda sat again.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then she whispered.
“Gerald designed that wall.”
Caleb looked at her.
“You said he was an accountant.”
“He was.”
“Accountants don't design retaining walls.”
“He brought the plan home.”
Caleb waited.
“He told me the back corner had drainage problems.”