Chapter 6

Next morning i didn’t even try to fake small talk. what was the point? i saw his truck rolling in and it was like my body moved before my brain did, weaving through stacks of lumber, the noise of nail guns pounding in my ears. he climbs out, sunglasses hiding everything, coffee like it’s the only thing he needs, clipboard like armor.

“morning,” he says like i’m one of them, like i’m no one.

“we need to talk,” i throw at him.

he keeps moving. doesn’t even flinch. i catch up, three steps, plant myself in his way. “about the guy with the camera.”

His jaw, i see it, tight, but he barely shows it. “we’re not doing this here.”

“yes we are. who was he?”

“i don’t know.”

“you’re lying.”

that stops him. finally. lowers the clipboard, tips his glasses just enough and there it is, that look, the warning like i’ve just stepped onto a landmine. “careful, izzy.”

“careful?” i laugh, but it’s not a laugh, it’s air slicing out of me. “some stranger’s aiming a lens at me and you want me to be careful?”

he says it low, restrained, like he’s holding himself back. “i’m telling you to stop making a scene. crews are here, vendors, your father—”

“this isn’t about my father,” i spit, too loud maybe. “this is about you knowing more than you say.”

and then he studies me—long enough to make me burn—and just walks around me, into the trailer. “inside.”

i follow. pulse like thunder in my ears. door shuts. suddenly the air is too small, too tight, pressing down.

“you want the truth?” he drops the clipboard on the desk. “there are eyes on this site all the time. competitors, reporters, union guys sniffing around. a guy with a camera isn’t new.”

“this one was different,” i push back hard. “he wasn’t after blueprints or cement trucks or whatever—he was looking at me.”

his eyes flicker, tiny shift, shadow over a wall, and i catch it. he shakes his head fast. “you’re seeing patterns that aren’t there.”

i step closer, words hot. “tell me i’m wrong. look me in the eye and tell me i imagined it.”

he does. locks his gaze on me, so steady i almost fall into believing. then: “drop it, izzy. whatever you think you saw, it’s not your fight.”

“not my fight?” my voice cracks upward, sharp. “he was photographing me like i’m some target and you’re saying it’s not my fight?”

he exhales hard, shoulders pressed back into the desk, like the desk’s the only thing holding him up. “if you knew what was at stake, you’d stay out of it.”

“what’s at stake?” softer now, because the way he said it—there’s weight in it.

he looks at the blinds like they’ve got answers. “your father’s working a partnership deal. big one. money. politics. not all clean.”

my stomach pulls tight. “what kind of deal?”

“not your business.”

“he’s my father.”

“it’s his business,” dom fires back, sharp enough to sting. “and you sticking your nose in? that’s worse than any guy with a camera.”

i take a step back because that hurts, more than i expected. “so you’re protecting him? or yourself?”

and for one second, something dangerous flickers in his face—anger or grief or both—and then he says it like he’s slamming a door: “i’m protecting you, izzy.”

the silence after that nearly breaks me. i want to believe it, want to grab onto it like it’s enough. but he won’t meet my eyes, and that ruins it. i walk out. don’t look back.

the day drags like tar. conversation sits in my chest like a splinter. i watch him from across the site—phone out between calls, eyes scanning the street like he’s waiting for the camera man to reappear.

lunch. i sit in dad’s office with a sandwich that tastes like cardboard. he’s laughing on the phone, fake laugh that doesn’t touch his eyes. he keeps glancing at the blinds. blinds closed tight. does he know? did dom tell him? is that why dom shut me down so fast?

by midafternoon i crack. find dom at the shed, bent over blueprints with some crew guy.

“we’re not done,” i snap. step up beside him.

his sigh—long, tired, exaggerated, like he’s been rehearsing it. “izzy—”

“no. don’t ‘izzy’ me. you’re going to tell me what this deal is, and why some creep is taking pictures of me over it.”

the crew guy bails. mutters about the north wall. gone.

dom folds his arms, blocking me out. “you’re not letting this go.”

“not till you give me a real answer.”

for a second i see it—he almost talks. his mouth opens, jaw tight, shuts again. then: “it’s a construction contract. multi-year, multi-million. your dad’s got investors sniffing around who don’t like sharing. that’s all you need to know.”

“that’s not an answer.”

“it’s the only one you’re getting.”

the heat in my throat bursts out. “you act like i’m some fragile kid who can’t handle the truth. newsflash—I’ve handled worse.”

he steps closer. so close i tilt my chin up just to keep the eye contact. “and maybe that’s the problem. you’ve already been dragged through hell once. i’m not letting you walk into another fire.”

my breath stutters—not because of the words but the way he says them, low, fierce, promise and threat at once.

and then his phone buzzes. harsh. breaks everything. he looks at it, curses, pulls back. “we’ll talk later.”

but i know that means never.

home. kitchen. dad at the table with his papers, pen scratching, head barely lifting when i walk in.

“good day?” he asks, smile faint, already gone.

i think of the camera. dom’s dodging. the word partnership like smoke in the air.

“busy,” i mutter.

he nods, back down. pen, signature, done.

i stand there, watching, wondering how much he knows, how much dom’s protecting him, how much dom’s protecting himself.

upstairs, i slam the blinds shut, sit on the edge of the bed. outside it’s quiet, peaceful even, but i can’t shake it—like eyes are still on me, camera lens stretched between me and the night.

and dom—dom thinks warning me off is enough. that i’ll back down.

but he doesn’t know me half as well as he thinks he does.