I watched a married woman sell the last thing she owned so her little boy could breathe that night. Ten minutes later,
My hand tightened around the phone.
“What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You did something.”
His breathing turned uneven. “Emily found out. She found old medical reports. Oliver’s asthma got worse after we moved to Callaway.”
I stared down the stairwell into the dark.
“What was in that apartment?”
David said nothing.
I understood then.
Not everything.
Enough.
“You poisoned your own building,” I said.
“I didn’t know people were living in that unit when the contractors sealed it.”
“Liar.”
“It was supposed to be temporary. The mold, the chemical residue, all of it—Rourke said it was manageable. Then Oliver started getting sick, and Emily started asking questions.”
The whole world went still.
The asthma had not been bad luck.
Not completely.
It was negligence covered over with paint and rent checks.
And David had turned his son’s illness into a chance at insurance money.
I ended the call before I killed him through the phone.
At the basement level, the freight elevator stood open.
Empty.
The loading dock door swung in the rain.
Outside, tire tracks sliced through the puddles.
Nico pointed. “Black van. No plates.”
I was already calling every man I trusted.
“Clinic on Ashland,” I said. “Now.”
