She photographed the area and marked the approximate location without disturbing anything.
Farther down, a section of temporary fencing blocked access to the old maintenance path.
The fence carried a sign identifying Whitmore Gateway Development as the future operator of a residential improvement project.
The sign did not identify a permit number.
I asked Nadia whether our rear lots could be part of a stormwater system.
“They could be affected by one,” she answered.
“Ownership, drainage rights, and public utility responsibilities are separate questions, so we need the recorded documents and engineering file.”
Her answer sounded less dramatic than Brenda’s threats.
It was exactly what I needed.
By afternoon, Malik had found the first discrepancy in the rent records.
Six tenants had paid the seventy-five-dollar assessment at least once, while a seventh had refused from the beginning.
The management statements recorded a line called neighborhood liaison support without identifying the payer or recipient.
Malik said he could not yet prove money had been diverted from our accounts, but the description did not match the invoices Martin had supplied.
“I need the bank deposits, not just the summaries,” Malik told me.
“A spreadsheet is a claim about what happened, not necessarily a record of what happened.”
The seventh tenant was Janelle Price, a teacher who lived with her elderly father in the smallest cottage on the block.
She called shortly after Malik left.
“I want you to know why I refused,” she said.
“Brenda wouldn’t explain where the money went, and my lease says nothing about a committee.”
Janelle had kept every letter in a shoebox beneath her desk.
She also had a recording of a conversation in which Brenda threatened to tell Martin that her household was noncompliant.
I asked Janelle not to forward the recording until Tessa could advise on how it should be handled.
“I don’t need you to put me in the middle of a lawsuit,” Janelle said.
“I need you to stop people from showing up at my classroom.”
I thought I had misheard her.
She explained that Patrick Whitmore visited the school office two weeks earlier and asked whether the school had a forwarding address for her father.
He claimed to be helping with emergency neighborhood registration.
The receptionist refused and reported the visit to Janelle.
I felt my jaw tighten.
“Why would he ask about your father?” I said.
“I don’t know,” she answered.
“Dad used to work for the old developer, and maybe that matters.”
