Three days later, his irrigation reservoir dropped eighteen inches overnight.
That was when the county started talking seriously.
Harold told anyone listening that somebody was siphoning from the main line.
His assumption needed only one visual comparison.
His land was drying.
Emily’s was not.
By Monday morning, people had stopped asking whether Emily might be taking too much.
They were asking how.
Emily checked the meter herself.
Twice.
Then called the county water authority.
A technician named Daniel Perez drove out in a white utility truck.
He was forty-six, sunburned, patient, and almost impossible to impress.
He spent ninety minutes testing valves.
When he finished, he leaned against the truck.
“You're not exceeding allocation.”
Emily crossed her arms.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Meter could be wrong.”
“Then two meters are wrong.”
“You installed a second?”
“I brought an independent inline meter.”
“And?”
“You're actually under your maximum.”
Emily looked toward the green soybeans.
“Then explain those.”
Daniel followed her gaze.
“Could be soil.”
“That much?”
“Possible.”
“Likely?”
Daniel did not answer.
Emily knew enough to understand silence.
She walked toward the junction.
“Pressure's high.”
“I saw.”
“How high?”
“Higher than I'd expect.”
“Why?”
Daniel glanced toward the main line disappearing beneath the dirt road.
“That's the better question.”
The county irrigation system dated back more than fifty years.
Sections had been replaced.
Rerouted.
Expanded.
Abandoned.
Some underground maps were precise.
Others came from pencil drawings scanned decades later.
Old farmers knew routes no official document showed.
Private spurs sometimes became county lines.
County lines occasionally crossed private property through easements written before current owners were born.
The system worked because everyone generally knew what belonged where.
Until something stopped making sense.
Daniel checked the upstream pressure.
Forty-nine.
Then at the Carter junction.
Seventy-two.
He frowned.
“That can't happen.”
Emily looked at him.
“Apparently it can.”
“Not without an additional source.”
“Pump?”
“Or connection.”
Emily’s eyes narrowed.
“Somebody feeding water into the line?”
“Maybe.”
“From where?”
Daniel looked north.
Toward Harold Mercer’s property.
They said nothing for several seconds.
Then Emily shook her head.
“Harold thinks I'm stealing from him.”
“I didn't say Harold.”
“You looked at his farm.”
“I looked north.”
“His farm is north.”
Daniel sighed.
“This is exactly why I hate talking before I have data.”
Emily almost smiled.
“Fine.”
“What data do you need?”
“Pressure at every junction between the county reservoir and your property.”
“How long?”
“Couple days.”
“Do it.”
Daniel glanced at her.
“That's not your decision.”
Emily pointed at the gauge.
“Somebody’s going to accuse me publicly before Friday.”
“You think?”
“I know.”
She was right.
Friday afternoon, Harold arrived with two neighboring farmers.