Chapter 3 - The Gathering of the Bloodlines
By 2:00 p.m., the Anderson reunion was in full, suffocating swing. The country band under the sycamores was playing a lukewarm, mid-tempo cover of a classic Southern rock anthem, their amplifiers buzzing slightly against the dense, humid air.
Faith stood near the edge of the brick patio, a plastic cup of melting ice and unsweetened tea sweating in her hand. She had spent the last four hours executing the three rules she had set for herself: she had smiled for three different group photos, she had thanked Eleanor for the "lovely" layout of the fruit basket, and she had remained perfectly gracious when Todd’s cousin Sarah had asked if her hair scarf was "part of a new costume for the fall anchor promotions."
Across the lawn, Todd was standing with his brother Brett and Councilwoman Clara Higgins. The three of them were huddled near the vintage tractor that Eleanor kept parked by the barn for historical ambiance, their heads close together, their voices dropping whenever one of the catering staff walked past with a tray of smoked brisket sliders.
Brett Anderson was forty-five, thicker than Todd, with a florid, sun-damaged face that spoke of too many afternoons spent on corporate golf courses and too many deals sealed over bourbon in private steak houses. He was a real estate developer who specialised in converting old Virginia farmland into high-density commercial strip malls, using municipal tax breaks that usually required a late-night vote from the county council.
"Faith!"
Faith turned to see Donna, Brett’s wife, walking toward her across the grass. Donna was wearing an oversized pair of designer sunglasses that covered half her face, her blonde hair sprayed into a rigid, wind-resistant bob. She held her smartphone out in front of her like a shield, the screen illuminated as she recorded a continuous video story for her social media followers.
"Look who it is, everyone!" Donna chirped into the phone camera, her voice high and artificial as she shoved the lens within six inches of Faith’s face. "It’s our very own celebrity! Faith, say hi to the girls at the club! We’re just talking about how beautiful the tradition is out here. Tell them how much you love coming to the estate every year."
Faith didn't flinch. She gave the camera the exact, professional three-second smile she used when a live satellite feed cut out during a broadcast. "Happy Fourth of July, Donna. The cobbler’s on the main table if you want a slice before it’s gone."
Donna lowered the phone slightly, her expression instantly dropping its bright, digital warmth as she looked at Faith’s linen dress. "Oh, honey, I saw the cobbler. It’s... well, it’s very rustic. My mother always said that brown sugar crusts look a bit burnt if you don't use the commercial white glaze, but I’m sure the cousins from the valley will love it."
She stepped closer, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper that carried the sharp scent of pinot grigio. "Listen, Brett told me you’ve been making inquiries at the county records office about the western boundary expansion. He’s really quite stressed about it, Faith. You know how important this family’s legacy is to the local economy. It would be such a shame if some... misunderstanding on the evening news caused a hitch in the development schedule."
Faith took a slow sip of her tea, the cold liquid doing nothing to clear the sudden, sharp focus that had crystallized in her mind. "Donna, the records office is public domain. Anyone can look at the conservation plats."
"Yes, but not everyone has a prime-time slot on the regional network, do they?" Donna said, her smile returning like a blade as she raised her phone again to record a passing tray of deviled eggs. "Just be careful, sweetie. Todd’s worked so hard for his share of the holding firm. It would be awful if a conflict of interest ended up affecting his position. Or yours."
She flitted away before Faith could respond, her laughter ringing out across the grass as she joined Eleanor near the lemonade station.
Faith walked toward the shade of the old smokehouse, her hand reaching into her pocket to retrieve her phone. Her thumb quickly bypassed the social media alerts and went straight to the secure folder.
Marcus (WVRA): Faith, the councilwoman’s signature on the land transfer has been verified by the state forensic auditor we used for the transit story. The property being sold to Brett’s firm isn't private land—it’s the old historical burial ground that was deeded to the county back in 1964 by the Freedmen's Bureau heirs. They’re trying to pave over it for a luxury resort development before the state historical registry can log the coordinates.
Faith’s breath caught in her throat. She looked across the beautiful, pristine green lawn of the Anderson estate—the white fences, the historic columns, the little American flags pushed into the manicured dirt.
It wasn't just a land deal. It was a erasure. A deliberate, high-value clearing of history to make room for a private golf course and a row of high-end townhouses, hidden behind three layers of shell companies registered to Todd and Brett Anderson.
"What are you doing over here?"
Todd’s voice was sharp, appearing from the shadow of the smokehouse before she could close the application. He grabbed her by the upper arm, his fingers digging into the soft linen of her sleeve with a sudden, tense pressure that made her drop her plastic cup.
The ice spilled across the grass, melting instantly into the dry dirt.
"Todd, let go of my arm," Faith said, her voice dropping into a low, lethal whisper that had made corrupt politicians turn pale in courthouse hallways.
"You're doing it again," Todd hissed, his face red from the heat and the four beers he’d had since noon. His grip didn't loosen; it tightened, his thumb pressing into the muscle until she felt the sharp ache of a bruise forming. "Brett told me Donna caught you asking about the western plats. You think you're going to run a segment on my family, Faith? On my brother? In my mother's county?"
"Your brother bought a public historical site through a fraudulent county variance signed by a councilwoman who’s currently sitting at your mother’s table," Faith said, looking him directly in the eye, her face inches from his. "It’s not a story about your family, Todd. It’s a story about a felony."
"You don't say that word in this yard," Todd snarled, his eyes darting toward the main pavilion where Eleanor was clinking her silver spoon against a crystal bowl to signal the start of the family speeches. "You're going to put that phone in my pocket, you're going to walk over to that table, and you're going to sit down next to my mother and look like a wife who knows who pays the mortgage on her house."
"No," Faith said simply.
May you like
She pulled her arm back with a sharp, sudden torque that broke his grip, her gold hoop earrings swinging against her neck. She turned her back on him and walked toward the long picnic table under the red, white, and blue lights, where sixty members of the Anderson bloodline were currently taking their seats for the annual address.
Todd stood in the shadow of the smokehouse for three long seconds, his fists clenched at his sides, his chest rising and fell as the sound of the country band died out, leaving only the heavy, expectant silence of a family waiting to be told how important they were.
