Page 11 of Crash Course
A memo regarding the attached toxicology report for a parcel of land in Morgan, North Carolina, the home of Dad’s east coast manufacturing facility. According to the memo, the land sat two miles from the plant and Randolph Industries intended to purchase it. Dad's team had arranged for soil testing.
Cilla skimmed the report and flipped to page two.Whoa.She let out a hard breath. "Jesus."
If this report were right, the land held three times the limit of Perfluorooctanoic Acid, aka PFOA, a now-banned chemical compound that, for years dating back to the 1950s, had been used to create a variety of products including nonstick cookware, grease resistant goods and, yes, fireproof garments. PFOA, a forever chemical, stayed wherever it landed. It simply did not break down in the body or the environment.
Once the government had banned the chemical, manufacturers like Randolph Industries created new, similar compounds that did the same thing as PFOA, but were nontoxic.
Dad had assured her his company didn’t use banned substances and that they complied with EPA guidelines.
She believed him. He might be a ruthless businessperson, but when it came to saving lives? Protecting firefighters? Dad was all-in. He had to be. It built his success. The company went as far as creating a nonprofit to aid the families of fallen firefighters. Sure, the PR didn't hurt, but the human element made her proud of her father’s commitment to the firefighting community.
This report? Not good.
She flipped through page after page of details, all chemical-related lingo that reinforced her decision to study law instead of science.
Having seen enough, she flipped back to page one. No names anywhere in the report. All the cover page said was MEMO, stamped at the top. Totally generic.
Did Dad know about this?
He couldn’t have. And they certainly wouldn’t buy land contaminated with a forever chemical. Never mind excessive amounts of it.
When the EPA banned chemicals, Randolph Industries complied. Every time. Dad employed top scientists to create safer forms of the compounds used in their products.
Whoever this report belonged to, she couldn’t leave it on the plane. As soon as they landed, she’d head to her office and bring the folder to her father.
Friday.
He’d told her he’d be out of town. Charleston. They'd be using the plane as soon as she and Cruz landed. Perhaps she'd see him at the airport.
She moved across the aisle and set the folder on the small table. She snapped photos of each page of the report. If she didn't run into Dad, she'd email the images.
Just as she took the last photo, Cruz stepped onto the plane and glanced into the seating area.
Could he have seen this file? The thought slammed into her and she met his gaze while her mind kicked to warp speed.
She’d been first on the plane that morning. Hadn’t she? Yes. But the door had been open. Maybe he and Phin had arrived earlier and went back into the office? If so, she could have missed them when she’d arrived. All she knew was she’d walked right up the steps and onto the plane.
NDA. Of course. As fast as her mind moved, it halted just that quickly, locking on to those three little letters. N. D. A.
BARS had made Dad sign a nondisclosure agreement that protected both parties. It included anything Cruz and Phin would hear or see regarding Dad’s company or personal information while in Cilla’s presence. Dad had asked her to review it and at the time, she considered it overreaching. It amounted to a gag order for both parties. Dad didn’t seem to mind and the document had been legally sound so she’d given her blessing for Dad to sign it.
Right now? Seriously happy she hadn’t made a fuss over the document. If Cruz or Phin had seen the toxicology report, they were bound by the NDA.
And that might be an excellent thing. She’d know by the time they landed, because she intended to read this entire report while in the air.
Then she’d tell her father he couldn’t buy that property.
After landing in Charlotte,Cruz, mighty happy with his piloting skills and the trip in general, stepped out of the cockpit, ducked into the cabin to check on Cilla and stopped short. She sat, head back, staring straight ahead.
He dropped his backpack and strode toward her, pausing in the aisle next to her seat. "You okay? Motion sickness?"
Three seconds. That’s how long it took her to lift her chin, slap a fake smile on her face, and shake her head. "I’m fine. Just . . . tired. Some days it feels like there's never enough time."
In her lap sat a stack of papers marked confidential at the top. He averted his gaze. Being the curious type, he enjoyed snooping. Hell, BARS benefited from his research skills. But she was a lawyer, a good one, and he wasn’t about to nose into one of her cases.
"No offense," he said, "but you look like someone stole your puppy."
She flipped the buckle on her seat belt and shook her head while gathering her purse and briefcase and shoving the folder inside. "Sorry. Guess the week caught up with me."
