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registered. A single long moment before I saw that every one of my trees had been hacked in half, the leafed tops bent to the ground. My precious grove was a ruined forest of dying trees. I couldn’t breathe. It couldn’t be the way it looked.
    I reached out to the first tree in the first row. The strong, young trunk hadn’t been cleanly sawed. It was splintered, and jagged, the leafy crown wilting. I walked down each of my precisely laid out, straight-arrow rows. Every tree—destroyed. Nothing left of my years of work.

Chapter Five

    I fell to my knees. I couldn’t help it. All my perfectly manicured rows—no weeds; every line straight and true. Every five-gallon bucket I filled with water, weighted with stones, holes drilled in the bottom—extra irrigation in this time of drought—all of it destroyed.
    I pulled my shoulder bag around my body and dug out my cell phone. There was only one person I could think to call. Everyone would have to know . . . they’d all be sad for me. But Hunter . . . he would help. He would find who did this . . .
    “Riverville Police,” Sheriff Higsby answered.
    I took a deep breath and put a hand on my chest, trying to control the waves of shock running through me.
    “Riverville Police,” the sheriff said again.
    “Sheriff, this is Lindy Blanchard. Is Deputy Austen there?”
    “Sure thing, Lindy,” the sheriff said. “Just walked in . . .”
    It didn’t take two minutes to spit out what had happened there in my test grove. Hunter caught on even as I sputtered the words.
    “You stay right where you are, Lindy. Or get the heck out of there—that’s even better. Whoever did this could still be around.”
    I turned to look behind me, at the metal door to my office. The greenhouse was beyond the office. There was only one doorway in. Whoever did this could still be there, doing more damage.
    The window to the office was oddly blank—as if someone had covered it. But it wasn’t covered. The window swirled with dirty smoke.
    “My office!” I screamed at Hunter. “It’s on fire . . .”
    “I’m on my way,” he yelled back at me. “Don’t go in there. Lindy. Lindy! You hear me? I want you safe, Lindy . . .”
    I dropped the phone, grabbed my purse, and pulled the ring of keys from an outer pocket. I ran up the row of broken trees to the office door, fumbling with the keys, pushing first the wrong key and then the right one into another lock that wasn’t locked. I put my hand out to touch the metal door handle—only warm, not blazing hot. I threw the door wide open and stepped inside.
    A cone of fire, like a large campfire, burned at the middle of the concrete floor between my long desk and the rows of filing cabinets where I kept my files and plans and daily logs on progress. The open door behind me sucked a whirling plume of smoke toward me. The fire blazed higher.
    My fire extinguisher was in a little corner alcove by a microwave oven and small fridge. I grabbed it from the hook next to the sink and ran back to the pile of papers blazing and crackling on the floor—curling separately as they flared and glowed and turned to burning embers spiraling high into the air.
    I didn’t let myself take in the damage—not yet. I fought the fire, holding hard on to the extinguisher, which bucked back when I pressed the handle, blowing paper everywhere. I chased sparks and flapped my arm at the smoke.
    When I looked around at something other than the fire, I saw my file drawers hanging open; a trail of scattered file folders ran from the wall of cabinets to where the fire had been set. Soot covered the walls. It made a greasy, black mess over the floor and kitchen nook and books . . . my exposed desk where my computer should have been . . . but wasn’t.
    I took a deep breath then coughed hard as I inhaled thick smoke. I wasn’t falling down to my knees this time. I was madder than I’d ever been in my life. Whoever had done this would pay . . .
    My