Chapter 7: Florida Reality (David)

The screen door didn't just slam; it shuddered against the doorframe, a hollow metallic rattle that felt like it was bouncing off the inside of David’s teeth. He stood on the concrete porch of the rental, the humidity already blooming against his skin like a damp wool blanket. Behind him, the silence of the house was louder than the argument that had preceded it. Sarah wasn't coming out. She wasn't going to follow him into the heat to trade more barbs about "the plan" or "the vision." 

David walked to the edge of the driveway, his sneakers crunching on the bleached white gravel that served as a lawn in this part of Cypress Bend. This was the Florida reality they’d bought into. Not the postcard sunsets or the Hemingway-esqe salt-air dreams, but a low-slung driveway, a stagnant canal choked with algae, and the relentless, mechanical drone of a neighbor’s failing air conditioning unit.

He checked his watch. It was barely ten in the morning, and the sun was already a blinding silver coin in a sky too bright to look at. He needed to move. He needed to see the site. If he could just see the dirt, touch the foundations of the Cypress Bend development, he could make it real again. He could find the version of David Miller that Sarah had fallen in love with—the one who built things instead of just moving numbers around a spreadsheet until they bled red.

The drive to the development site took twelve minutes, a transit through a landscape of strip malls and palm trees that leaned at desperate angles, as if trying to flee the state. As David turned the SUV onto the access road, the dust kicked up in a fine, talcum-powder spray. 

The site was a graveyard of ambition. 

Two half-finished skeletons of luxury townhomes rose out of the sand, their Tyvek wrapping fluttering in the breeze like the skin of a decaying animal. Stacks of cinder blocks sat on pallets, sinking slowly into the earth. There was no sound of hammers. No rhythmic hiss of pneumatic nail guns. Just the wind and the distant cry of an osprey circling the retention pond.

David climbed out of the car, his boots sinking into the soft, sugar-colored sand. He walked toward the main sales trailer, a double-wide that looked like it hadn't been leveled correctly; it leaned two degrees to the left, giving the whole operation an air of impending collapse.

Inside, the cool air hit him with the force of a physical blow. A man sat behind a laminate desk, his skin the color of an old penny and his hair a frantic halo of white. He was staring at a computer monitor as if waiting for it to confess a crime.

"Benny," David said, his voice sounding thin in the cramped space.

Benny didn't look up immediately. He clicked a mouse button three times, a frantic, useless gesture. "Concrete's gone up another eight percent, David. The guys from the masonry crew? They cleared out their lockers yesterday. Said they got a better offer on a hotel project in Sarasota. Cash under the table, probably."

David pulled out a chair, the metal legs screeching against the linoleum. "We have a contract, Benny. They can’t just walk."

"Contracts don't build walls, son. Money builds walls." Benny finally looked at him, his eyes watery and bloodshot. "We're three weeks behind on the draw. The bank is sniffing around. They don't like the look of those 'unforeseen environmental delays' we reported last month."

David leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. He looked at the blueprints pinned to the wall behind Benny—the vibrant, colored renderings of what Cypress Bend was supposed to be. Blue water, emerald lawns, smiling people with toned limbs and expensive sunglasses. "We just need to close the gap on the phase one units. If we get the deposits from the Miller group, the bank releases the next three million."

"The Miller group," Benny spat, leaning back until his chair groaned in protest. "Those vultures? They aren't going to sign until we have the roofs on. And we don't have roofs because the lumber is sitting in a warehouse in Jacksonville under a lien."

David felt a cold prickle of sweat run down his spine, despite the air conditioning. He reached out and traced the edge of the desk, his finger catching on a splintered piece of laminate. "I'll talk to them. I'll go to the warehouse. We can't let the site go dark, Benny. If the city sees a dormant site for more than thirty days, they'll pull the permits for the drainage. We'll be underwater literally and figuratively."

"We’re already underwater," Benny murmured. He stood up, walking to the small window that looked out over the townhome skeletons. "Look at that dirt, David. It’s cypress swamp. We spent half the budget just trying to keep the water from reclaiming the lot. You can’t fight the land forever. Eventually, Florida wins."

David stood too, his jaw tight. "The land doesn't win if you pave over it. I'm going out there."

He left the trailer before Benny could offer any more grim prophecies. He walked toward the first structure, a three-story unit that was supposed to be the flagship. His footsteps echoed on the plywood subflooring as he climbed the temporary stairs to the second level. 

The view from the balcony—or what would have been the balcony—looked out over the canal. The water was a dark, bruised purple, reflecting the heavy clouds gathering on the horizon. A late-morning storm was brewing. 

He walked to the corner of the frame, where the steel reinforcements peaked out of the concrete like bared teeth. This was where the dream sat. He’d told Sarah this would be their legacy. He’d promised his investors a twenty percent return in eighteen months. He’d bet everything—the house in Chicago, the kids’ college funds, the very air in his lungs—on this patch of swamp.

He pulled his phone from his pocket. Twelve missed calls from his brother, Marcus. Three from the bank. One from a number he didn't recognize with a South Florida area code.

He ignored Marcus. He couldn't handle his brother's breezy optimism or his thinly veiled requests for a "short-term bridge loan" for his own failing startup. He called the unknown number instead.

"Miller," he said, his voice dropping into his professional register—the one that sounded like oak and mahogany, the one that sold homes to people who didn't need them.

"Mr. Miller," a voice responded. It was smooth, devoid of any regional accent, the kind of voice that sounded like it belonged to a man wearing a very expensive suit in a room with no windows. "I'm calling on behalf of the Veridian Group. We’ve been watching the progress—or lack thereof—at Cypress Bend."

David sat down on an upturned five-gallon bucket. "We’ve had some supply chain issues. Nothing we aren't handling."

"Mr. Miller, don't. We know exactly what your ledger looks like. We know about the lien in Jacksonville. We know about the masonry crew."

David watched a lizard scuttle across the floor, its throat puffing out in a flash of vibrant orange. "Who did you say you were with?"

"The Veridian Group. We specialize in distressed assets. We’re prepared to offer you a way out. A full buyout of your stake, including the assumption of all liabilities. You walk away clean. No bankruptcy, no lawsuits from your limited partners."

David felt a surge of nausea. "Walk away? I’ve spent three years on this. I’ve put my own blood into this foundation."

"And you're about to see that foundation reclaimed by the marsh," the voice said, perfectly calm. "We'll send over the Term Sheet by five p.m. Take the evening to discuss it with your wife. It’s a generous offer, David. It’s the last one you’re going to get before the bank forecloses."

The line went dead.

David stared at the phone. The "way out." It was a death sentence disguised as a reprieve. If he sold now, he’d lose everything he’d built his identity on. He’d be the guy who failed. The guy who dragged his family to a humidity-soaked hellscape and came back with nothing but a tan and a mountain of debt.

He stood up and kicked the bucket. It skittered across the plywood and tumbled over the edge, falling twenty feet into the sand with a dull thud.

The storm broke then. 

It wasn't a slow build-up. One moment the air was heavy, and the next, the sky simply opened. Sheets of grey water hammered against the Tyvek, making the building roar. Within seconds, the dust turned to mud, and the trenches they’d dug for the sewer lines began to fill with murky water.

David retreated to the center of the structure, where the roof—partially decked but not shingled—offered some protection. He watched the rain turn his construction site into a lake. 

He thought about Sarah. He thought about her face this morning, the way she’d looked at him with a mix of pity and exhaustion. She didn't want the twenty percent return. She wanted her husband back. She wanted the man who didn't wake up at 3:00 a.m. to check the price of lumber or stare at the ceiling until his eyes bled.

But he couldn't go back. There was no Chicago to return to. The house was sold. His reputation in the city was tied to a project that had already been deemed a "bold move" in the trades—industry speak for a reckless gamble.

He pulled his phone out again and dialed Marcus.

"David! About time, man," Marcus’s voice was loud, competing with the sound of a television in the background. "Listen, I’ve got this lead on a new crypto-mining operation in—"

"Marcus, shut up," David said, his voice low and dangerous.

There was a pause. "Whoa. Okay. Bad day in paradise?"

"I need the money back," David said. "The fifty thousand I lent you for the Tahoe project. I need it by Friday."

"David... man, you know that’s tied up. The Tahoe thing, it’s in a holding pattern while we clear the—"

"There is no Tahoe project, Marcus. You and I both know you spent that money on a lease for a car you can't afford and a lifestyle you're pretending to have. I need it. Now. Or I’m coming up there and I’m taking the car."

"You’re serious? You’re actually threatening me?" Marcus sounded offended, but underneath the bravado, there was a tremor of fear. David was always the stable one. The rock. The one who absorbed everyone else’s failures.

"I am the most serious I have ever been in my life," David said. "I’m drowning, Marcus. And I’m not letting you hold my head under while you look for a better view."

He hung up. He felt a strange, cold clarity. The Veridian Group. Marcus. The bank. They were all predators, circling the carcass of his ambition. 

He walked back to the edge of the second floor, letting the spray of the rain hit his face. The heat was gone, replaced by a shivering chill that set deep into his bones. He looked down at the mud below.

In the middle of the deluge, he saw a figure. 

A man was standing near the retention pond, wearing a yellow slicker. He wasn't moving. He wasn't working. He was just standing there, looking at the Townhome A-structure where David was perched.

David squinted. It wasn't Benny. This man was taller, younger. He didn't look like an inspector or a contractor. He looked like an observer.

"Hey!" David yelled over the rain. 

The man didn't respond. He didn't wave. He just stood there for another long moment before turning and walking away toward the thick line of cypress trees that bordered the back of the property.

David didn't follow. He couldn't. The stairs were slick, and the visibility was dropping to near zero. He stayed in the heart of his failing dream, watching the water swallow the foundations.

He realized then that he wasn't afraid of the money lost. He wasn't even afraid of the embarrassment. He was afraid that Benny was right. The land was winning. Florida was a place where things went to die or to be forgotten, and right now, he felt like he was doing both.

By the time the rain slowed to a drizzle, the site was a swamp again. David walked back to his SUV, his shoes ruined, his spirit felt like a sodden piece of cardboard. 

He drove back to the rental. He expected to find Sarah gone, or at least locked in the bedroom. Instead, she was in the kitchen, a glass of wine in front of her. She’d cooked—the smell of garlic and searing meat filled the small space, a domestic grace note that felt utterly out of place.

"You're soaked," she said, not looking up from her glass.

"It rained," David replied. He took off his shoes and left them by the door, a pair of muddy corpses. 

"The bank called. Mr. Lawson."

David stayed still. "And what did Lawson have to say?"

"He didn't want to talk to me. He sounded... uncomfortable. But he did say that if you didn't return his call by four, the 'grace period' was over. David, what grace period?"

David walked to the sink and began to wash the mud from his hands. The water ran brown, then clear. He looked at his reflection in the window above the sink. He looked older. There were lines around his eyes that hadn't been there six months ago, etched by the Florida sun and the weight of the debt.

"It’s just a formality, Sarah. We’re restructuring the phase one financing."

"Don't lie to me. Not today." She stood up, her chair scraping the tile. "I saw the email from the Veridian Group. It popped up on the iPad while I was looking for a recipe."

David stopped drying his hands. He turned to face her. "I wasn't going to take it."

"Why not?" Her voice was sharp, a whip-crack in the quiet room. "Why wouldn't we take it? We can go home, David. We can salvage what’s left of our lives before you turn this into a total disaster."

"Because it’s not a disaster yet!" he shouted. The volume of his own voice surprised him. "It’s a project. It’s a build. Projects have cycles. We’re just in a trough."

"This isn't a trough! It's a grave!" Sarah’s eyes were bright with tears she refused to let fall. "Look at you. You’re obsessed. You’re chasing a ghost in the mud, and you’re taking us down with you. What happens when the money is gone? When the partners sue? Do you think Veridian will still be making offers then?"

David felt the walls of the small kitchen closing in. This was the Florida reality. The beautiful dream of Cypress Bend had withered into a small, hot room where a husband and wife tore each other apart over a pile of sand.

"I have a meeting tomorrow," David said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "A new investor. Private equity."

"You're lying," she said.

He was. He was lying because the truth was too heavy to carry alone, and he couldn't let her hold any more of it. 

"I'm going to take a shower," he said.

He spent twenty minutes under the spray, hot water pounding his shoulders. He leaned his head against the tile, closed his eyes, and saw the man in the yellow slicker again. Standing by the water. Watching.

When he came out, the house was dark. Sarah was in bed, the lump of her body turned away from his side of the mattress. The dinner he hadn't eaten sat on a plate with a piece of aluminum foil over it.

David didn't go to bed. He went to the small desk in the corner of the living room and opened his laptop. He pulled up the Veridian offer.

The terms were predatory. They’d take the land, the structures, and the permits for pennies on the dollar. But they’d also take the debt. They’d take the Lawson calls. They’d take the masonry liens.

He hovered his cursor over the 'Reply' button. 

His phone buzzed on the desk. A text message from a blocked number.

*The water isn't the problem, David. It’s what’s under it. Look at the deed for Parcel 4 again. Closely.*

David’s heart thudded against his ribs. Parcel 4 was the backbone of the development. It was where the main road came in. It was the highest ground on the property.

He went to his filing cabinet and pulled out the physical property records. He’d read them a hundred times during the due diligence phase. He knew every metes-and-bounds description, every easement.

He laid the deed out on the coffee table, his flashlight clicking on. He traced the lines of the legal description. 

*...thence North 89 degrees 42 minutes 15 seconds West, a distance of 450.00 feet to a point on the easterly right-of-way line of the Old Canal Road...*

He followed the survey map. Everything looked standard. Everything looked correct.

Then he saw it. A tiny, handwritten notation in the margin of the 1974 survey that had been scanned into the record. It was almost invisible, a smudge of ink that most would dismiss as a coffee stain or a printer error.

*Subject to Mineral Rights Reservation — G. Thorne, 1922.*

David frowned. Mineral rights were common in Florida, usually held by oil companies or old cattle families. They rarely affected residential development unless someone wanted to start a fracking operation in the middle of a gated community.

But Thorne wasn't an oil company. 

He typed the name into a search engine. G. Thorne. Cypress Bend. 1922.

The results were sparse. A few mentions in local historical archives about a man named Gideon Thorne who had owned half the county before the Great Depression. He’d been a land speculator, a man who bought up swamp for nothing and sold dreams to northerners—much like David.

But there was one entry from a defunct local paper: *Thorne’s Folly. The eccentric millionaire’s attempt to find 'The Vein' ends in disappearance and legal chaos. Property tied up in probate for decades.*

David’s phone buzzed again. Same blocked number.

*He didn't find oil, David. And it wasn't gold. Check the core samples from the north quadrant. The ones the first engineering firm suppressed.*

David felt a cold sweat break out. He hadn't used the first engineering firm. They had been replaced by the bank’s preferred vendor before he’d even closed on the land. He’d never seen their original report.

He sat back, the blue light of the laptop reflecting in his eyes. He thought about the man in the yellow slicker. He thought about the Veridian Group’s sudden, "generous" offer to take a failing asset off his hands.

They didn't want the townhomes. They didn't care about the masonry liens or the bank financing. 

They wanted the dirt.

David looked at the kitchen door, where Sarah was sleeping, dreaming of a way out. He looked at the rain still streaking the windows.

He picked up his phone and began to type a message to Benny. 

*I need the name of the engineering firm we fired in '21. And I need a shovel.*

He knew he should be exhausted. He should be defeated. But as he looked back at the deed, the predatory weight of the day began to shift. He wasn't just a failing developer anymore. He was a man who had just found a secret in the mud, and in Florida, secrets were the only thing more valuable than dry land.

As he reached for his car keys, his hand stopped. 

On the kitchen counter, next to his cold dinner, was a single, wet leaf. It was long, dark green, and smelled faintly of rot and prehistoric mud. 

A cypress leaf.

The back door was locked. The windows were shut. 

David looked at the leaf, and for the first time since he’d arrived in Cypress Bend, he felt the true weight of the land—not as a commodity to be sold, but as something ancient that had been waiting for him to arrive.

He tucked the leaf into his pocket, grabbed his mud-caked sneakers, and stepped out into the humid night. The drone of the neighbor’s AC was gone, replaced by a silence so thick it felt like it was pressing against his chest.

He drove toward the site, the headlights of the SUV cutting through the mist that was beginning to rise from the canal. He didn't know what he was looking for, but he knew he couldn't wait until morning.

The site gate was chained, but the lock was a joke—a cheap master lock he had the key for. He swung the gate open, the metal groaning in the dark.

He drove to the north quadrant, the area behind the Townhome A structure. This was the highest point. The centerpiece.

He stepped out of the car, the sugar sand clumping under his feet. He walked to the edge of the foundation, where the dark earth had been excavated for the pool house. 

The rain had stopped, but the water was still gurgling in the trenches.

David pulled a small garden trowel from the trunk of the SUV—the only tool he had. He knelt at the edge of the pit and began to dig.

Five inches. Ten inches. The white sand gave way to dark, peaty soil. 

At two feet, his trowel hit something hard. Not a rock. Rocks in this part of Florida were soft limestone. This was metallic. Hollow.

He stopped, his heart hammering against his ribs. He used his hands to clear the rest of the mud.

It was a pipe. A heavy, cast-iron pipe that didn't appear on any of the utility maps. It was ancient, pitted with rust, and it ran deep into the earth, disappearing into the darkness of the trench.

As David reached out to touch the metal, he heard a sound behind him.

The crunch of gravel. A slow, deliberate footstep.

He froze, his fingers inches from the rusted iron. He didn't turn around. He didn't breathe.

"You really should have taken the offer, David," a voice said. 

It was the voice from the phone. Smooth. Calm. And terrifyingly close.

David looked down at his shadow, cast long and distorted by the SUV’s headlights. Behind him, another shadow was growing, taller and wider, holding something long and thin in its hand.

David didn't look back; he looked at the pipe, and realized with a jolt of pure, cold terror that it wasn't a utility line—it was a vent.

And something was breathing on the other side.