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Sublevel.

There are cordoned-off spaces here too, though more cleverly hidden. Storage, according to the labels. Mechanical access. Restricted staff utility. Equipment intake.

Except the square footage is wrong. The flow is wrong.

No architect designs dead space like this by accident. No contractor fails to question why a rehabilitation center needs private rooms that can be accessed without entering public corridors.

Unless…

They’re paid not to ask.

No donor touring the building will see any of this, of course. The public areas will show sunlight and trees and serenity.

But anyone with the actual plans will know.

Something is off.

Blatantly off.

“Christ,” I whisper.

My father is many things, but careless is not one of them. Which means either he believes no one will ever see the full plans…

Or he doesn’t care who sees.

My stomach turns.

I don’t know exactly what my father intends to do here.

That’s not my job.

I sit on committees. I manage public exposure. I clean up messes before they become scandals. I know where some of the bodies are buried, metaphorically and otherwise.

But I’m not privy to everything my father does. And I don’t want to be.

I look down at the second-level coaching areas again.

This is my reason to call my father.

I can make it about optics, exposure, donor risk. I can tell him the plans are too obvious, that any independent reviewer will spot the inconsistencies, that we need a redesign before construction proceeds.

Then I can ease into asking about Samson and Delaney.

I pick up my phone before I can think too long.

My father answers on the third ring. “Nathaniel.”

Not hello.

“Father.”

“I assume there’s a reason for this call.”

“I’m reviewing the VexleyARC plans.”

“Why?”

Because I’m looking for a way to ask if you sent my younger brother to destroy my older brother.