My pulse jumps.
"Who?"
"Mrs. Patterson."
"What did she say?" I yell.
She doesn't answer. She walks to the sound system, grabs the cord, and yanks it from the wall.
The music dies mid-scream. The silence crashes down, thick, weighty. It presses against the walls and settles deep in my chest.
"She told me about a town," Maddy says, voice hard but shaking. "Silver Creek."
The name strikes hard, hitting me like a steel beam to the gut.
"She told me about the Hadleys. About the glassworks. A family-run business that lasted four generations. Until it didn't. Until it was wiped out because Richard Kingston wanted the land."
I stay frozen, every muscle locked.
"She told me how it happened," she continues. "Lowball offers. Lawsuits. Shell corporations. Anonymous tips. Surpriseaudit. The bank gets bought out, the loans get called in. Everything gone. And when the dust settles? A man's dead. His family's legacy, destroyed."
Her gaze pins me in place.
"She said it wasn't Richard pulling the strings. It was you."
I don't look away. Because I can't lie to her.
"That's what you meant, wasn't it?" she says. "When you told me you weren't proud of everything."
I meet her eyes. Everything else slips away.
"You weren't talking about bad business decisions or office politics."
Her voice softens, but it cuts sharper. "You were talking about casualties. Real ones. The kind that don't walk away. The kind you don't get to forget."
My chest tightens. My jaw locks. Because she's right. I didn't carry it out. I didn't file the lawsuits. I didn't call the state auditor or direct the bank acquisition. But I built the plan that made it possible. I was twenty-eight. Ambitious. Hungry to prove myself. Proud of how airtight it was. I didn't know the family. Didn't ask who lived there. It was flagged for acquisition, and I solved the obstacles like they were math problems. I thought I was doing my job. Until I saw the fallout. Until I saw the obituary.
She doesn't know what came after. That I paid off the Hadleys' debts anonymously. That I funneled money through a fake insurance payout so his widow would receive a check, no strings, no name, enough for a lifeline.
That I covered her rent for five years, through a nonprofit that exists in name alone. That I made sure her bills were always paid, that the heat stayed on, that her credit stayed clean. That I set up college funds for both kids, labeled as scholarships from an anonymous foundation, so they'd never have to carry their father's ruin into their futures. That I've carried this withme, quietly. Not because I thought it would fix anything. But because I couldn't live with myself if I didn't try to give them a piece of their life back.
Not because I'm noble. Because I'm guilty. Because I didn't mean to destroy a man, but I did. And now I'm watching it happen again, only this time, I know the person breaking in front of me.
"I'm not that man anymore," I say. And I mean it. But the words feel thin. Like they can't carry the weight.
Her head tilts, like she's trying to recognize what's left of me.
"Aren't you?" she asks. "Because I see it now. The way you moved in. Took control. Cataloged everything. Everyone. I thought you were helping. But maybe you were managing. Like I was another broken thing to repurpose."
I want to say no. I want to shout it. But I hear it too. "That's not what this is," I say, though even I can hear the hollowness.
She steps back. Then again. Like being close to me physically hurts. "I can't," she says. "I can't be near someone who thinks that way, who uses their mind to tear things down."
Each word strikes with the finality of a gavel.
She turns. Walks to the table. Grabs her keys. Slings her bag over her shoulder.
No hesitation. No pause.
