We're making a mess. A glorious, catastrophic mess.
"The chandelier!" I shout.
Grath looks up. The massive crystal fixture sways ominously, its chain rattling from where the henchman's shoulder clipped the support beam.
"That's not good," Grath says.
"No. It's not."
The assistant scrambles to his feet, blood trickling from his nose. He lunges for the folder Grath dropped. I dive. We hit the floor together, grappling for the papers. His elbow catches my ribs. I bite back a gasp and hook my foot behind his ankle, sending him sprawling.
Grath roars. The sound fills the hallway, primal and furious. The henchmen freeze.
Then the kitten leaps.
I don't know how. I don't know why. But that tiny ball of fur launches itself from Grath's hand with the precision of a heat-seeking missile and lands directly on the closest henchman's face.
Claws out. Teeth bared.
The man screams. High-pitched. Undignified.
He staggers backward, hands flailing, trying to dislodge the furious creature attached to his head. His foot hits a puddle of champagne. He goes down hard, skull bouncing off the marble with a sound that makes my teeth ache.
He doesn't get up.
The second henchman takes one look at his unconscious partner and raises his hands in surrender.
Smart man.
The assistant tries to run. Grath catches him by the collar, lifting him clean off his feet.
"I don't think so."
The crowd has found us by now. They pour into the hallway, a river of expensive clothes and shocked faces. Someone's already filming. Good. Let them. Let everyone see.
I snatch the folder from the floor and hold it high.
"The fake reports!" I shout. My voice cracks, but it carries. "Demolition plans dated three weeks before the purchase offer. Falsified inspection reports. Bribery. It's all here."
A murmur ripples through the crowd. The developer pushes forward, his face purple.
"This is slander! Lies!"
"Lies recorded on your assistant's own phone." I pull out a backup recorder we stashed with Ty. Hit play again.
The assistant's voice crackles through the speaker. Crystal clear. Every damning word preserved in digital perfection.
The crowd's murmur shifts, darkens, turns angry. The air changes temperature. Edith steps forward, her jewelry catching the light, her face transformed into something harder than steel. Gone is the cheerful neighbor who brings me day-old scones and gossips over coffee. This is Edith the investor, Edith the bulldozer, Edith who built a business empire in heels and never once apologized for taking up space.
"We trusted you," she says, and her voice could cut glass. "You came to our community meetings. You shook our hands. You looked us in the eye and said you wanted to improve the neighborhood. You promised preservation. Partnership."
The developer's face goes from purple to gray. He holds up his hands, backing away from the fury in her expression.
"I do! I did! This is all a misunderstanding, a terrible misunderstanding."
"The only misunderstanding," Grath says, still holding the assistant by his collar, "is that you thought we'd let you destroy our home."
More voices rise. The café regulars, other shop owners, residents from the rowhouses. They press closer, a wall of righteous fury.
