Chương 5
The project had not failed.
A regional developer had made an offer to buy the entire Marshall Street property.
Julian’s share, transferred to me through his estate, was worth more than everything else I had inherited combined.
I stared at the figure until the diner noise seemed to recede.
“Is this real?”
“Yes.”
“When did you find out?”
“Yesterday.”
I looked again at the page.
The number remained there.
It did not change.
“Why did Julian never tell me?”
Thomas gave a tired sigh.
“You’ll have to be angry with him about that.”
“I am.”
“Good.”
I looked up sharply.
He lifted one shoulder.
“I’m angry with him about several things.”
His eyes filled, but his voice stayed steady.
“Death doesn’t make people stop being idiots.”
I folded the paper.
“What am I supposed to do?”
“There’s a vote next month.”
“What vote?”
“The remaining owners have to approve the sale.”
“And Julian’s share gives me a vote.”
“Yes.”
“How much of one?”
Thomas paused.
“Enough to stop it.”
For the first time since the funeral, something entered my life that grief had not chosen for me.
It was not comfort.
It was responsibility.
And before I understood what the Marshall Street vote could change, someone at Julian’s old firm leaked my name to a business reporter.
The reporter called me at work while I was holding a suction tube beside a patient who had spent the previous ten minutes explaining why floss was a conspiracy invented by dentists.
I let the call go to voicemail.
Twenty minutes later, the same number called again.
By noon, there were four missed calls and one email with the subject line REQUEST FOR COMMENT: MARSHALL STREET SALE.
I read it in the staff bathroom because privacy had become something I no longer trusted offices to provide.
The reporter’s name was Dana Brooks.
She wrote for the Richmond Ledger’s business desk and wanted to confirm that I had inherited Julian’s twenty-eight percent interest in the Marshall Street redevelopment group.
She also wanted to know whether I intended to approve a pending offer from Bellweather Urban Partners.
At the bottom, she added one sentence that made my stomach turn.
Several sources have described the vote as likely to determine whether the project proceeds.
I read it twice.
Then I opened the stall door and found Carmen washing her hands.
“You look awful,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“You know what I mean.”
I showed her the email.
She read it, frowned, and handed my phone back.
“Can reporters just do that?”
“Apparently.”
“Do you know what you’re going to say?”
“No.”
“Then don’t say anything.”
It was simple advice.
That alone made it appealing.
I returned to work and told myself I could deal with Marshall Street later.
At 2:40, Thomas called.
“You hear from Dana Brooks?”
“Yes.”
“I figured.”
“You knew this was coming?”
“No.”
He sounded irritated.
“But I know who probably started it.”
I stepped into the supply room and shut the door.
“Who?”
“Graham Wells.”
The name was familiar from Julian’s firm.
Graham had been one of the three original partners in the Marshall Street venture and the loudest advocate for selling.
“Why would he leak my name?”
“Pressure.”
“From a newspaper?”
“From everyone.”
Thomas sighed.
“If your vote becomes public, people start calling you.”
“What people?”
“Investors, neighborhood groups, Bellweather, the city, probably anyone who thinks they can influence what happens.”
“That’s insane.”
“That’s development.”
I leaned against a cabinet full of disposable masks.
“What did Julian want?”
Thomas went quiet.
“About the sale?”
“Yes.”
“He didn’t know there’d be this offer.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Another silence.
When he answered, his voice had changed.
“Julian didn’t want Marshall Street turned into luxury apartments.”
I closed my eyes.
“He talked about mixed-income housing.”
“He fought for it.”
“Then why would his partners sell to Bellweather?”
“Because they’re offering enough money to make principles expensive.”
I almost laughed.
“That sounds like something Julian would say.”
“It is.”
“You said he put more money into the project after two partners pulled out.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because the bank wanted more equity.”
“And he thought it was worth the risk.”
“Yes.”
I slid down until I was sitting on a box of nitrile gloves.
“What happens if I vote no?”
“The sale fails.”
“And then?”
“That part gets uglier.”
The project would need refinancing within months.
There were property taxes, maintenance costs, insurance, legal fees, and a loan coming due.
If the ownership group could not restructure, they might lose control of the property entirely.
“Could I lose Julian’s investment?”
“Yes.”
“All of it?”
“In the worst case.”
I looked at the metal shelves in front of me.
Boxes.
Labels.
Order.
I wanted every problem to come with a printed expiration date and instructions in six languages.
“How much do the others stand to make from the sale?”
“A lot.”
“And if I stop it, they lose that.”
“They delay it, at minimum.”
“Do they hate me already?”
Thomas gave a dry sound.
“Give them time.”
That evening, I searched Marshall Street online.
The first page of results was mostly old articles and public meeting notes.
I found renderings of the original proposal.
Brick buildings converted into apartments.
Ground-floor shops.
A daycare center.
Studio spaces.
A small grocery store.
One article quoted Julian.
He had said the point was not to “polish a neighborhood until the people already living there can’t afford to stay.”
I stared at the sentence.
I could hear his voice.
Not because the quote sounded beautiful.
Because it sounded irritatingly like him.
Julian collected arguments the way some people collected records.
He liked saying things at dinner that forced me to stop chewing.
Once he had spent forty minutes explaining why parking minimums were “a tax on human existence.”
I had told him no sane person wanted to hear about zoning over chicken parmesan.
May you like
He had said that was exactly why America was doomed.
I sat at our kitchen table with my laptop open until midnight.
