The message read: Bring the children. Let the company see who they’re pushing aside.

9. THE PERSON BEHIND THE SCREEN

The church meeting ended with arguments still spilling into the parking lot. Mara stayed behind with Doreen and a teenage volunteer named Jessa Morales, who managed the neighborhood’s online announcements.

Jessa had short dark hair, a habit of twisting the string of her hoodie around one finger, and an impressive ability to remember exactly who had posted what. She said the Save Our Trail account had first contacted her asking for permission to share photographs from previous Founders’ Day events.

“Did they give a name?” Mara asked.

“Just ‘a longtime neighbor.’ They knew details. They knew the mural was repainted after the storm. They knew Mrs. Pike used to make the lanterns out of old jam jars.”

“Lots of people know that,” Doreen said.

“Sure. But they also knew the schedule for this year’s rehearsal before we published it.”

Lenora, standing nearby, stiffened. “I sent that schedule to the volunteers.”

“How many?”

“About twenty.”

Mara studied the screenshots. The anonymous account had repeatedly urged people toward confrontation, never toward a meeting with the mill owners. Its tone changed whenever someone suggested checking the facts. It called those people cowards or collaborators.

“Someone wanted a crowd at the gate,” Mara said.

Doreen looked at her. “You think Owen did it?”

“I don’t know. But a crowd would have given him a convenient reason to blame the neighborhood for delays.”

“Or,” Jessa said, “someone just likes causing trouble.”

She tapped another screenshot. The account had once accidentally posted a photograph with a reflection in a shop window. It showed a person holding a phone, but the face was obscured by glare. Mara didn’t try to identify anyone from it.

“What matters now,” she said, “is that the account can still reach parents. We need a clear message from the church, the school, and the city saying the trail is closed until the move is safe.”

Jessa nodded. “I’ll write it.”

“Include a map of the safe route. Not just a warning.”

Doreen watched the teenager begin typing. She wanted to ask whether the account could be traced, whether the person behind it could be made to answer for the danger. But she remembered the broken window and the certainty with which she had marched across Mara’s lawn. A stranger had fed her fear; she had chosen what to do with it.

She took out her own phone.

Her group chat had 147 unread messages. Some praised her for confronting Mara. Others called her reckless. One neighbor had posted a picture of the shattered window with the caption: This is what happens when people stop listening.