The aroma of warm sourdough and sweet yeast filled the stairwell to Clara’s new apartment. The room was a narrow space on the third floor above the bakery, costing $65 a month.
She heated milk for Thomas over a single electric burner, the small flame casting dancing shadows on the peeling wallpaper. Her own $38,000 trust fund remained locked, a cruel reminder of Arthur’s power.
A week later, I met Donald Salinger in a crowded diner near City Hall. The clatter of plates and muffled conversations offered a shield. He was an investigative reporter for the *Philadelphia Inquirer*, his gaze sharp, his notepad worn.
I pushed Julian’s water-damaged letters across the Formica table. They detailed the M-119 shell premature detonations, the specific lot numbers.
Salinger picked up a page, his thumb tracing Julian’s hurried script. He leaned closer, his voice dropping.
“Holbrook Dynamics,” he said. “They failed three internal quality audits on those M-119 fuse assemblies.”
My breath hitched in my throat. I pictured Arthur in his grand office, the fireplace consuming Julian’s notebook.
“When?” I managed.
“Six months before Julian’s unit was issued them,” Salinger replied, his eyes on my face. “Your father signed off on shipping 12,000 units anyway.”
He put the papers down. “There was a $450,000 Pentagon contract deadline. Your father ensured it was met.”
Arthur knew. He knew those shells were defective and shipped them anyway. The revelation was a cold iron in my stomach, far heavier than any grief. Julian’s life, traded for a contract.
“Who was the inspector?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
“Colonel Curtis Albright,” Salinger said, tapping his pen. “Recently promoted, close ties to your father.”
I stood to leave, the diner’s warmth suddenly stifling. Salinger nodded, collecting the papers.
“I’ll follow up on Albright,” he promised. “We’ll find the proof.”
Outside, the streetlights painted the alley in stark yellow and black. The air was damp and cold against my face.
A flash caught my eye from behind a dumpster. A man with a camera.
Two men stepped out of the shadows as I hurried toward the bakery. They wore dark suits, their faces impassive as they followed me through the narrow alley, the camera clicking again and again.
They made no attempt to hide, their presence a calculated threat. It was a message from Arthur. He was watching. He was still fighting.
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