He looked toward Karen.
Interesting.
I asked:
“Do you have my signed consent?”
“No, sir.”
“Health paperwork?”
He hesitated.
Karen interrupted.
“We need access.”
I looked at the contractor.
“Did you know those were registered broodstock?”
His face changed too.
“Some were tagged.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Karen stepped closer.
“Robert.”
“If those fish reproduce, this becomes significantly more complicated.”
There it was again.
Fear.
“What happens if they reproduce?”
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
“Then you shouldn’t be worried.”
Karen handed me a letter.
SILVER RIDGE PROPERTY MANAGEMENT EMERGENCY AQUATIC REMEDIATION AUTHORIZATION.
I read the heading.
Then the signature.
Silver Ridge’s own property manager.
I handed it back.
“This authorizes your contractor to work on Silver Ridge property.”
“Not mine.”
“Our counsel disagrees.”
“Your counsel should come explain it.”
Karen exhaled sharply.
“We’re trying to protect the community.”
“No.”
“You’re trying to undo something before I learn why you did it.”
Her expression went flat.
That told me I was finally asking the right question.
They left without touching a fish.
That afternoon, Daniel called.
“The state confirmed the tag registry.”
“How bad for Karen?”
“Stop enjoying this.”
“I’m sixty-eight.”
“Let me have hobbies.”
Daniel ignored me.
“The fish are tied to Riverstone Genetics Conservation Trust.”
“Some are high-value breeder animals.”
“Estimated replacement value of the existing verified stock could run between eighty and one hundred forty thousand depending on survival.”
“That’s lower than the numbers we heard.”
“That’s physical stock.”
“Commercial breeding rights could be worth more.”
“Much more if somebody develops them properly.”
I walked to the window.
“Then why would Silver Ridge throw them away?”
“That is now the most important question.”
We got the answer from Martin Cole.
Martin was seventy-four.
Former fisheries manager.
Current trustee of the Riverstone Genetics Conservation Trust.
Daniel reached him through old state records.
Martin drove to my property two days later in a dented Subaru carrying three binders and a cooler of sandwiches.
The moment he saw one of the tagged bass, he swore.
Not softly.
“Where did these come from?”
“Silver Ridge.”
He stared east.
“All of them?”
“As far as we know.”
Martin removed his cap.
“I’ve been trying to locate that stock for five years.”
The story he told us explained almost everything.
Riverstone Fisheries collapsed financially in stages.
The company died.
The breeding program did not.
A group of former operators, researchers, and landowners formed a trust to preserve several selected lines.
They maintained records.
Licensed broodstock occasionally.
But the system was fragmented.
Some ponds lay on property later sold for development.
As Silver Ridge expanded, the HOA inherited retention ponds and drainage areas containing fish populations descended from Riverstone stock.
At first, nobody cared.
Then a consultant identified tagged broodstock during a pond-management survey.
Martin contacted Silver Ridge.
He proposed a formal recovery agreement.
They ignored him.
“Why?”
I asked.
“Land.”
He said.
“What land?”
“The eastern aquatic corridor.”
Silver Ridge’s next expansion phase required grading and utility work across much of the old Riverstone channel.
If the area were formally recognized as an active breeding or conservation facility again, environmental review became more complicated.