Chapter 4 Late Nights and Loaded Questions
Isla
Tuesday night bleeds into Wednesday, which dissolves into Thursday. I lose track of time in the fluorescent-lit conference room, surrounded by blueprints and permit applications and the growing certainty that nothing about my father's death was accidental.
The Kennedy Development offices are nearly empty by 9 PM. By 10, I'm alone—or think I am—with only the hum of the HVAC system and the city lights bleeding through floor-to-ceiling windows.
I spread another set of blueprints across the table, comparing the environmental impact assessment from ten years ago to the current site layout. The discrepancies are there if you know where to look. Sections flagged for toxic soil remediation that were somehow cleared for construction within weeks. Fast-tracked approvals that should have taken months.
"You're still here."
The voice makes me jump. I spin to find Ellis Kennedy standing in the doorway, two paper cups in his hands. He's shed his jacket, rolled his shirtsleeves to his elbows. Even exhausted, he's unfairly attractive.
"So are you," I manage, hating how breathless I sound.
He crosses to the table, sets a cup in front of me. Our fingers brush as I take it. The contact is brief, electric. Neither of us moves away immediately.
"Find anything interesting?" he asks, studying the papers spread between us.
This is a test. I can feel it in the careful neutrality of his tone.
"Inconsistencies in the permit approvals," I say, watching his face. "Sections of the site that were flagged for environmental review but somehow got fast-tracked."
"City bureaucracy. Happens all the time."
"Does it?"
The air between us crackles. He holds my gaze, and I see something flicker there—warning, maybe. Or recognition that I'm not going to let this go.
"Be careful how deep you dig, Isla." His voice drops lower. "Not everything buried wants to be found."
It's not a threat. It's something worse—concern.
"Is that advice?" I ask. "Or a warning?"
"Both."
He leaves before I can press further, his footsteps echoing down the empty hallway. I stare at the coffee he brought me, still warm, and wonder what game we're playing.
Wednesday night, I'm in the archives when I find it.
The environmental review from my father's project, signed off by a junior city official I've never heard of. A nobody bureaucrat with no authority to approve major construction permits.
Except three months after my father's death, that nobody was promoted to city council.
Councilman Samuel Lloyd. Now one of the most powerful men in the city.
My hands shake as I photograph the document with my phone. This is it—the thread that unravels everything. A nobody who approved questionable permits, then got rewarded with political power.
I keep digging.
An hour later, I find the insurance records. Kennedy Development received a $10 million payout after my father's accident. Equipment failure compensation.
Ten million dollars.
For a crane malfunction.
The numbers swim before my eyes. That's not standard compensation. That's hush money. That's—
"What are you looking for?"
I nearly drop the file. Ellis stands in the archive room doorway, expression unreadable.
"The truth," I say, shoving the insurance documents back into their folder with shaking hands.
"And if the truth is something you can't handle?"
I stand, facing him across the narrow aisle between filing cabinets. We're too close in this cramped space. I can smell cedar and smoke, see the shadow of stubble on his jaw.
"Then I'll handle it anyway."
His jaw tightens. For a long moment, neither of us speaks.
"Your father—" He stops himself, something pained crossing his face.
"What about my father?"
"He was a good man."
The words hit like a punch. "You didn't know him."
"Didn't I?" His voice drops to barely above a whisper.
Before I can respond, his phone rings. The sound shatters whatever moment we were building. He steps back, answers with clipped professionalism. I catch fragments—something about contractors, permits, delays.
When he ends the call, his expression is shuttered. Closed off.
"Go home, Isla. It's late."
"I'm not finished—"
"That's not a suggestion."
The command in his voice should make me angry. Should make me push back against his authority.
Instead, it sends heat pooling low in my stomach. A visceral response I can't control.
"Why do you care if I stay late?" The question comes out more vulnerable than intended.
"Because someone needs to."
He walks away before I can parse that statement, leaving me alone with ten million questions and no answers.
I leave the building just after midnight, exhausted and wired simultaneously. The parking garage is nearly empty—just my car and a handful of others scattered across multiple levels.
And there, idling near the exit: a black SUV.
The same one that followed me Monday. I'm certain.
This time, I'm prepared. I pull out my phone, photograph the license plate as I walk to my car with forced casualness. The SUV doesn't move, doesn't follow as I drive away.
But I feel eyes watching until I turn the corner.
At home, I collapse onto my couch with my laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard. The license plate search is simple—public records, basic information.
The vehicle is registered to a company called Meridian Holdings LLC. I've never heard of them.
I dig deeper.
Meridian Holdings is a shell company. No employees listed. No physical address beyond a P.O. box. Just a registered agent and incorporation papers filed twelve years ago.
My stomach knots as I cross-reference the name against my father's project files.
There.
Meridian Holdings LLC, listed as a "consultant" on the east district development. The same project where my father died.
The same company that's been following me.
I sit back, mind racing. They're still watching. Still invested in whatever happened ten years ago. Which means whatever my father discovered, whatever got him killed—
It's not over.
Someone thinks I'm getting too close. And they want me to know they're watching.
The question is: are they warning me away, or waiting to see what I'll do next?
