The elevator ride felt like a slow climb into enemy territory. When the doors opened, Drew stepped into a hallway that could have been a hotel. Marble. Mahogany. Silence that seemed paid for.
Carl’s assistant, Joan Elliot, guided him into a corner office with floor-to-ceiling windows. The city sprawled below like something Carl owned.
Carl Turner sat behind a desk the size of Drew’s kitchen table. He didn’t stand. He wore a navy suit that probably cost more than Drew’s mortgage payment.
“Drew,” Carl said, voice smooth, as if this was a minor inconvenience. “This is unexpected.”
“I won’t take much of your time,” Drew said.
He remained standing. He refused to take the visitor’s chair and become smaller.
“I want to know why I’m not invited to Thanksgiving.”
Carl’s expression didn’t change. “That’s Margaret’s domain.”
“This isn’t a seating chart,” Drew said. “This is my family.”
Carl leaned back slightly, like a man settling in to teach a lesson.
“You’ve been married to my daughter for seven years,” he said. “In that time, what have you contributed to the Turner legacy?”
Drew held his gaze. “I’m a good father. I’m a good husband. I have a career I’m proud of.”
“A career,” Carl repeated, faint amusement in his voice. “You make forty-eight thousand dollars teaching children who mostly don’t care. You live in a house worth less than my wife’s car. You have no connections, no prospects, no ambition.”
“My life is not a résumé,” Drew said, teeth clenched.
Carl’s eyes were calm. “Mediocrity is contagious. Miranda is starting to see that.”
Drew felt heat climb his neck. “You don’t get to talk about my marriage like it’s a stock portfolio.”
“History is written by victors,” Carl said, voice almost gentle. “And victors are rarely high school teachers.”
Drew turned to leave. At the door he stopped, hand on the frame, because he couldn’t let it sit unchallenged.
“I teach about empires,” Drew said. “I teach about people who built everything on money and contempt. Every one of them collapsed.”
Carl’s mouth twitched. “Empires fall when they’re weak.”
“No,” Drew said quietly. “They fall when they forget what matters.”
He walked out before his anger could turn him into someone he didn’t recognize.
In the parking garage, he sat in his Civic for ten minutes with both hands gripping the steering wheel, breathing hard. Then he pulled out his phone and called his oldest friend, Glenn Davies.
Glenn answered on the second ring. “Drew? What’s up?”
“I need a favor,” Drew said. His voice sounded strange to his own ears, like metal being bent.
“Anything.”
“I need you to look into Turner and Associates,” Drew said. “Quietly. Irregularities. Lawsuits. Anything that smells wrong.”
Glenn was silent for a beat. “This is about Miranda’s family.”
“Yeah.”
“This could get messy,” Glenn said.
“It’s already messy,” Drew said. “I just want to know what I’m dealing with.”
Glenn sighed, long and low. “All right. Give me a week.”
Thanksgiving morning arrived cold and gray, rain tapping the windows like impatient fingers. Drew woke at six in the guest room, fully alert, his mind already running through possibilities.
Miranda was gone. Her car wasn’t in the driveway. The house felt hollow, like it had been evacuated.
Drew showered, dressed in his best charcoal suit, the one he wore to parent teacher conferences and funerals. He made coffee he barely tasted, staring out at the wet street as though he could see the future in the rain.
His phone buzzed with a message from Glenn.
Happy Thanksgiving. I’ve got more info. Turner’s in deeper trouble than I thought.
Drew’s stomach tightened.
Glenn’s message continued in pieces, each one heavier than the last.
Śledztwo EPA w sprawie nielegalnego wysypiania.
Pozew zamknięty z 2019 roku. Oszustwa księgowe. Spokojnie się usadował.
Turner zbankrutowałby w 2008 roku bez pomocy ze strony ojca Margaret. Carl korzystał z jej pieniędzy.
Naciskają na ogromną przebudowę Riverside. Już kupili nieruchomości obstawiając zmiany w zagospodarowaniu przestrzennym. Głosowanie jest w przyszłym miesiącu. Jeśli się nie uda, są przeciążeni.
Drew przeczytał ją dwa razy, potem trzeci raz, tak jak czytał wypracowania uczniów, gdy chciał się upewnić, że czegoś nie przeoczył. Jego kawa stygła w jego dłoniach.
To był punkt nacisku. Pieniądze i reputacja, splecione razem.
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