Page 50 of The Best Wild Idea
“He’s not nineteen,” Silas starts to say, before I give him a look that makes him stop talking. His hands stretch toward me like he’s drowning under my accusation and I’m supposed to pull him out. “Ryan did hire the company that tested Grant’s building for anything that might be harmful before I let him move in. I knew it hadn’t been occupied since, God, I don’t know when my father last had someone in that building . . .”
“And you saw the results? Personally?”
I wait, watching the color drain from his face so quickly that he doesn’t need to answer.
“You never checked the report.” My voice cracks, confirming my worst fear. I cover my eyes and collapse down to the couch, unsure whether my legs can hold up under the weight of the news. “You stuck him in a decrepit building and then watched him die.”
“That whole time of my life is foggy,” he admits, looking bewildered, still shaking his head. “It was the year my father died . . .” He trails off, looking absolutely tortured like he’s morbidly reliving the months he spent plastered across every tabloid as the little rich boy driven off the rails with his dead daddy’s money. There wasn’t a soul in the world during that time who wasn’t aware of his mental state. It was a tumultuous time for Grant — helping Silas get through that phase of his life as he found himself to be the most famous orphan in the world. It’s also when I started to hate him. And that was long before I knew what he was capable of letting happen right under his nose out of sheer laziness.
“How many people have you told about this?” he asks, weakly.
“How many other people?” I repeat, nearly shouting back at him. “Is that your greatest concern about what I’ve just said? How your public image might be dragged through the mud again? Whether or not your floozy groupies are going to catch wind of this and hate you for it? Not whether or not you’re responsible for how he died?”
“No,” he shoots back, looking like I’ve just slapped him across the face for a second time. “I want to know why you never asked to have the building tested yourself after he died.”
“After Grant passed, I sold the nonprofit to Velon Development who took the whole operation across town to their own building. I then sold the Smithfield for next to nothing and told the new developer that I felt like it was unsafe. I was in a fog at that point. A complete haze. I put it in writing, then just wanted it gone. All of it. There were so many loose ends to tie up, and given the location of the building, it was easy to hand over to someone else with the caveat that it may need further testing. Grant’s parents had no interest in knowing whether or not their son might have lived if that building was the issue. They told meto just let it go after the sale, and I did at first. It wasn’t until a few weeks later that I drove by and it was already demolished. The new developer destroyed it soon after taking possession to build something else on the parcel.”
“I remember,” he whispers. “I drove by and saw that it looked as if the building had never existed. Why didn’t you tell me that’s how you felt?”
“Everything happened so fast. It wasn’t until after he was gone and his parents stopped coming around that I finally had the energy to look into it more. I was trying to find answers about how it happened so quickly. I read that it may have been preventedifthe cause was truly environmental, which there was no medical test to determine whether it was or not. Just a hunch when you look at the history. Which means he would be here with me right now instead ofyouif you hadn’t been so irresponsible with that stupid building. He trusted you, and your lazy ass kill—”
My words hitch in my throat and I drop my eyes toward the floor. I’ve said nearly everything I’ve wanted to say for months, except that. But instead of feeling better like I hoped I might, I couldn’t feel any worse.
Chapter 21
Silas sits back down in his chair opening his mouth and closing it again, like a fish gasping for air as he absorbs my accusation. Fighting to find the right words.
I wait as my heart pounds out of my chest.
It sounds so loud in this deafeningly quiet room.
Finally, he speaks. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” His voice comes out controlled, like he’s measured each word before letting it out.
“By the time I had any energy to try and connect the dots, the building was gone. Right after he died, I listened to his parents. I wanted to forget about everything and never think about those last few months again. I figured why make things harder for everyone — me, his family, our friends — by proving my hunch was right? Would it change anything if we knew that it could have been prevented? No. And adding that extra layer of pain didn’t seem worth it.”
“Until now?” he asks. “Why now?”
I shake my head and my voice bends as the truth finally comes out. “Because I don’t know how to be here with you in allthis—” I fling my arms out, waving at the room we’re sitting in — “without knowing for sure. How can I enjoy it — your fancy jet and your ridiculous hotel rooms — if the money that bought all this might have also killed him? I tried to follow his letters, to be a good sport. To come along and not destroy what he clearly wanted us to do. But now that I’m here, and I felt so happy today after that skydive, I’m wondering how I can be so awful to actually enjoy this?”
“The money?” Silas asks, weakly.
“And the fact that you might have been the one to know about the building’s condition, but didn’t care to change it,” I nearly whisper. “I don’t know how to be in the same space asyou without knowing if it’s your fault or not. I’ve tried. I swear to God, I’ve tried. But I don’t know how to be here with you and your money without an answer.”
“You want to know whether or not you should blame me?” he asks.
I nod.
“For retribution?” he adds, calmly.
I don’t answer, but instead stare back, watching his face grow cold.
I don’t want to cry, but I don’t know how to get through this conversation without it. Silas has never looked at me like he is now. Like I’m the monster instead of him.
“Ah.” He sits back silently. A grave understanding washes over his body and he sniffs toward the floor. “So, you’re looking for a settlement? You want to prove I’m guilty?”
“Christ, not everything is about money, Silas,” I nearly scream. “Can’t you see that? Money has nothing to do with what I’m looking for right now.”
He either doesn’t react, or he’s too locked up in his own thoughts to hear what I’ve just said.
