Page 119 of Crash Course
Thinking they’d be there a while, Cruz slid into the seat next to Ro, set his coffee down, and perused the list.
One file caught his eye and he pointed. "Drinking water."
"Didn’t you tell me Randolph built their own water reclamation facility?"
"Yeah. The town didn’t want them stressing theirs. Let’s look at that file."
Rohan clicked and they both leaned in, reading the file—dated eight years earlier—the second it appeared.
"This is bad, bro," Ro said. "Real fucking bad."
According to the report, Randolph Industries, as part of an EPA stewardship program that required committing to eliminating PFOA from emissions and their products, had hired outside contractors to test the soil and water in Morgan. The results showed Morgan’s drinking water contained PFOA, as well as PFAS concentrations six thousand times higher than the EPA’s latest health advisory.
Sixthousand. No way. Cruz read it again.
"Unbelievable." Cruz said. "That was eight freaking years ago. Scroll down."
Cruz continued reading.
"This gets crappier and crappier," Ro said. "According to this, over the years, emissions from the Randolph facility polluted the air and most likely settled in Morgan’s water wells."
Cruz pictured poison drifting from the air into the ground. If this air pollution theory stuck, who knew how many properties they had loaded with toxic chemicals.
Cruz sat back, stuck his hands on top of his head and sorted his thoughts. "It’s not just the soil on the Tate farm that made their daughter sick. If they’re drinking the town’s water, they’re fucked. The whole town is fucked."
19
At 5:30,Cilla had just stepped from the shower after hitting the snooze button on her phone one too many times and setting herself back a solid thirty minutes. Today would have to be an express primping day.
Not one to wear a ton of makeup, she still liked to take her time with it. Make sure the eyeliner matched on both eyes. She’d long ago realized her eyes—her mother’s crystal green— caught attention. For that reason, she played them up. Used them to her benefit. Particularly during media interviews.
Now she found herself cutting corners. Not a big deal since it was only on her morning routine, but she’d already experienced falling behind at work because of this PFOA issue and time spent with Cruz.
Being self-employed had its perks. She’d built her reputation on hard work and top-notch legal advice. All of which would suffer if she kept commuting from Charlotte and losing sleep.
"Cilla?"
Cruz’s voice. Wrapping a towel around herself, she slipped her fingers through her hair.
"Bathroom," she called. "Be right out."
Her slacks and blouse hung on a hanger on the door. She dressed quickly in case Cruz had any ideas of luring her back to bed. Which could not, would not, happen. As it was, she’d probably not get to the office until 9:30.
Swinging open the bathroom door, she found him in the living room. He sat on the sofa with a stack of documents in front of him and if his hardened cheeks were any indication, he wasn’t happy.
What could have happened in the hour since he’d left her? She cocked her head and pinned her gaze to him. "You okay?"
He peered up at her with those soulful eyes she’d never forget. "Yeah," He patted the cushion beside him. "Sit. Got something for you."
Oh no. There went her already taxed schedule. She pointed to her still-wet hair. "Cruz, I’m running late. Is this about the bullet again?"
Although, considering the prints the crime scene guys had lifted netted zero results, she wasn't sure what more there could be.
All she knew was the incident sat in the back of her mind like an annoying gnat.
"It’s important," Cruz said. "Trust me, you’ll want to see it."
Meaning it more than likely involved Randolph Industries. She moved to the sofa, claiming the space next to him. He pointed to the documents.
