“What does it say?” Chloe asked, dragging out the vowels in a sudden whine.

“Brandon, what’s in that envelope?”

“The twelve lots sit sixty feet below the seasonal water line,” Pembroke said, looking around the table at the thirty local business owners.

“They’re designated federal wetlands.

The land is legally unbuildable and completely worthless.”

Brandon’s knees seemed to give out, and he sat down hard in his upholstered dining chair, knocking his salad fork onto the floor.

“The bank gave me forty-eight hours to clear the overdraft,” Brandon muttered, his eyes fixed on the silver bread basket in the middle of the table.