Page 211 of The Right Wrong Promise

What if the best thing to do is to keep the devil talking?

Listen to his venom, his threats and promises, his deranged grudge against a man who couldn’t have possibly done anything to drive him to violence.

“Why are you here?” I whisper when he takes a few steps away, slowly studying the abandoned art, the small glass door.

Enough space so I can breathe.

“To right a wrong,” he whispers darkly before facing me again.

“What’s wrong? What did Kane do to you?” I shake my head, showing my confusion. “Did you know him in his hockey days?”

“Hockey?” Surprise flashes across his face before that lifeless mask drops again. “He really didn’t tell you, did he?”

“Jesus, no. Please. Help me understand.”

He hesitates, fondling the gun with his free hand before he drops it at his side.

“Kane Saint took my life.” He slides down the wall in front of the stairs, gun held more loosely now but still pointed at me. “As soon as his company launched that fucking software, I was out of a job in months. My clients, ghosting overnight. I had to limp back to the ceramics work I did in college before I ever consulted on a multimillion-dollar home. And no one buys this shit—not nearly enough to keep food on the table, much less live.”

Oh, OptiSynth.

I should’ve guessed.

Because Kane gave me a very good idea how many lives were thrown into turmoil with the corporate betrayal.

Still, I didn’t think too deep. I couldn’t visualize how much it must’ve wrecked good, hardworking, talented people on the ground.

And some of them were clearly unstable.

Neither of us could’ve guessed how deep the damage went.

Yet here it is, all sharp teeth, ready to tear through me, through Kane, through thekids.

I draw in another deep, shaky breath.

It’s all I can do to keep from breaking down on the spot.

“I was at the top of my field,” he whispers, lost in his own mind. “My work won awards. I made homes out of blank slates for rich people like you. Years of service, many awards—and when I had a chance to sign on to a new pilot program in its testing phase that promised to make everything I do faster and better, how could I say no? And even if I had, there was no stopping the inevitable. My career was destined to die. A sacrifice for the gods of AI.”

Finally, a spark.

Something human.

Something hurt.

Something dangerous.

I believe him, too.

I believe he was the rock star he claims to be because he’s taken this so personally. And if his ceramics weren’t paying the bills, he didn’t skimp on the quality. They have this attention to detail that’s so rare.

Crazy or not, the man is gifted—and now that gift is useless.

All because he was born in the wrong time.

All because we live in a time where art can be fabricated by an algorithm.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, trying to find sympathy. “I really am. You didn’t deserve that, Lee, but you can’t believe it justifies this. Don’t you see? You can’t put that broken piece of your life back together by carving away someone else’s.”