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ChapterTwenty-Three
Emelia
Candace looks up from her computer as I walk in front of her desk.
“The plans?” she asks, reaching her hand out to take them from me.
“Emelia, bring them in,” Professor Barclay says from his office.
The door is cracked enough that there’s no pretending I don’t hear him.
Candace widens her eyes in a silent show of solidarity then tacks on a mouthed, “Good luck.”
My ankle wobbles in my heels as I continue on, past Candace’s desk. I feel dread akin to a child on her way to the principal’s office, and in those final steps before I make it into Professor Barclay’s office, I repeat to myself that I’ve done nothing wrong.
His workspace is a study in order versus chaos. He’s sitting at a long desk in front of a row of built-in cabinets and bookshelves that are expertly styled. Near his computer, other than a phone and notepad, the surface is spotless, but down on the left-hand side there are unfurled plans held down by paperweights, rulers, pencils, and an empty coffee cup.
He motions for me to come closer, and I’m conscious of the fact that I’ve left his office door open behind me. Not wide, but enough that it makes a point, I think.
Professor Barclay notices.
He stands and meets me at the end of his desk, near the mess. I pass him the cylindrical tube then step back to leave, but his gaze locks with mine and he shakes his head.
I peer over my shoulder, looking back at the door. I’m not sure what I’m expecting to find, but there’s no one there. Where we stand, I can’t see Candace at her desk, which means she can’t see us either. Still, someone could walk in at any moment.
“I should really be getting back to work,” I say quietly as I turn back to him.
“I’d like you to look at these plans.” He draws them out of the tube.
“Engineering isn’t really—”
“You’re a team member on the Belle Haven project. I assumed you were interested in keeping abreast on all the updates. If you’re uninterested, then leave.”
Adequately embarrassed, I nod eagerly. “Of course I’d like to know everything that’s going on with the project.”
He unrolls the plans onto his desk and drops paperweights on all four corners before smoothing out the site rendering with his palm.
“We were just given the survey and inspection report this morning. The foundation is in worse condition than we thought possible. It’s crumbling in most places due to the presence of an iron sulfide mineral. The foundation was done by the JJ Mottes Concrete Company, and we’ve been able to trace the concrete back to a quarry in Willington, Connecticut, that’s no longer in business.”
“What is there to do?”
“That’s what we’re trying to decide now. The engineering department is coming up with potential workarounds, but more than likely we’ll have to remove all of the existing foundation—”
“That means lifting the house. That’d beinsane.”
“The foundation is crumbling because of that iron sulfide mineral, and if it’s left there another year or two, it will continue to expand and the walls of the house will start to collapse. We’ll have to remove the foundation floor, footings, lally columns—all the concrete has to go.”
He starts to round the desk, and I look up from the plans to follow his path, my breath arrested in my chest.
“Now you’ll tell everyone that’s what we talked about if they ask.”
Panic seizes me.
I hold up my hand to block his path. “Don’t.”
“Emelia,” he chastises.
My hand drops instantaneously. He has more control over my body than I do.
