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We head for the front doors, the girls chatting about classes and making up work while a decision crystallizes within me like ice forming in my veins. I’ve had almost three years of carrying this poison inside me. Three years of letting my father dictate my happiness, my future, my very identity.

It’s not Vinny Huhn who holds all the cards or even my father; it’s me.

“I’ll catch up with you guys later,” I tell the girls as I split off for the elevator.

Brynn calls after me, “Text us if you need anything,” but I can only manage a halfhearted wave as the elevator doors close between us.

My mind is racing faster than my heartbeat by the time I reach my floor. The hallway stretches before me. Fluorescent lights hum as I make my way down the hall, my stride heavy with purpose.

My key slides into the lock with a familiar click, and I push the door open, tossing my bag unceremoniously inside. It lands with a dull thud against the wall.

Without removing my coat, I sink down into my desk chair and power on my laptop. The soft blue glow illuminates my face as I dig into my pocket, fingers closing around the small metal object I’d pocketed during the confrontation with Vinny.

The USB drive feels heavier than its actual weight as I pull it out, turning it over in my hand before sticking it inside my computer.

A folder labeled “Astor Walkway Project” appears on my screen. I double-click, and a cascade of files spreads before me?everything Vinny Huhn had collected over the years.

My breath catches as I open the first document, then another, and another. Email threads between my father and contractors, demanding cheaper materials while maintaining the appearance of luxury. Architectural plans with redlinedmodifications, systematically weakening critical support structures. Correspondence with building inspectors, including copies of checks with suspiciously round numbers. Photos of the construction site showing rusted rebars where there should have been reinforced steel.

Each file is more damning than the last. The evidence is meticulous, overwhelming. I feel sick, but I keep reading, forcing myself to confront the full scope of what my father did. Six people died because of these decisions—these deliberate choices to prioritize profit over human lives.

I’m not sure I fully understood the gravity of it until now. Until the evidence of it is right in front of me.

And suddenly, I know what I need to do.

My hands tremble as I close the spreadsheet. There’s no ambiguity here, no room for misinterpretation. No way to pretend this was just a business decision gone wrong.

I take a deep breath and open a new browser tab. My fingers hover over the keyboard for just a moment before I type “Pittsburgh Police Department” into the search bar. The results load instantly, the main number for the department displayed prominently at the top of the page.

This is it. The moment where I choose.

Seven simple digits stand between my past and my future. I can either wait for Vinny Huhn to call my bluff, or I can be the kind of person who isn’t afraid of the fall if it means doing the right thing.

With a deep, shuddering breath, I reach for my phone, punching in each number with deliberate precision and wait as it rings.

Chapter 34

DAMON

Isit next to our gate in Departures, waiting to get on a plane back to Ann Arbor, wondering for the millionth time if Avery’s okay. She hasn’t answered any of my calls or texts, which I’m taking as a bad sign. The only reason I even know she landed safely yesterday afternoon is thanks to Chris and Jace.

“You good, bro?” Chris asks, slapping a hand over my shoulder.

“Yeah, it’s all good,” I say, wishing I believed it. I don’t blame Avery for being pissed, but to ignore all of my calls?

I shake my head as I continue scrolling on my phone, trying to occupy my mind and waste time until we board.

I need to stop overthinking everything and relax. I can apologize for what I said when I get back. We can talk this out. Everything will be fine.

But no sooner than the thought crosses my mind do I come across a headline on Instagram from an entertainment news site. Straightening in my chair, my eyes widen as I click the link and begin to read:Breaking News?Hotelier Reginald Astor questioned for Involvement in the Astor Walkway Collapse. Is An Arrest coming?

A gasp dies in my throat as I click on a video and Reginald Astor’s face fills the screen—him being shoved aside, face ashen, as investigators descend on his house like bees in a hive—while a reporter talks in the background. “Authorities are searching Reginald Astor’s home, the CEO of the Astor Hotel Group, in connection with the Astor walkway collapse that claimed six lives nearly three years ago. Sources expect an arrest as early as this week.”

“Holy. Shit.” The words drop from my mouth like stones.

“What’s going on?” Jace asks, peeling a headphone from his ear as he glances up at me.

I shake my head, dazed. I’d be the first to say Reginald Astor deserves to pay for his crimes. His greed and selfishness went too far, and people were hurt. But I know firsthand how this will affect more than just his own life, and I hate how his actions have the power to destroy his family—his wife, little Katie.