I THREW HER HUSBAND'S THINGS INTO THE STREET—THEN SHE SHOWED ME WHO HE REALLY WAS

I should have stopped the deal that afternoon. I should have brought in an independent engineer, called the tenants, and told the bank what we'd found.

Instead, I asked Kent for forty-eight hours.

He gave me twelve.

“There's a buyer flying in,” he said. “The conversion works only if that rear wing is empty. At least get your maintenance people to shut it down.”

“Those are occupied apartments.”

“It's a temporary service isolation. Dennis knows which panel handles the vacant units.”

He spread the engineering diagram on the conference table. The colored boxes looked clean and manageable. The building was old, the wiring tangled, but I wanted to believe that somebody had thought it through.

I wrote an email authorizing the isolation, with a condition that occupants retain essential services. That condition made me feel responsible. It did not make the plan safe.

At seven that evening I was driving home when Nora called. I nearly let the phone ring out.

“There's no power on the third floor,” she said. “Mrs. Franklin's oxygen concentrator has switched to its backup battery. Dennis isn't answering.”

My hands tightened on the steering wheel. “It was only supposed to affect storage rooms.”

“Storage rooms don't call people for help.”

I made a U-turn.

By the time I reached Ash Street, the hallways were dark and tenants stood on landings with phone flashlights. The emergency lights near the rear stairs had failed, too. A man named Mr. Ellis was guiding Mrs. Franklin down carefully while Nora carried the woman's medical bag. Another neighbor had called for medical assistance to ensure her portable oxygen supply would last.

I climbed the stairs against the crowd.

“Where's Dennis?” I shouted.

“Looking for whoever he can blame,” Nora said.

The backup battery's alarm gave three thin beeps. I held the front door for Mrs. Franklin while paramedics brought a stretcher in. She was frightened but breathing comfortably with her portable equipment. I had met her twice at Christmas tenant breakfasts. I had forgotten her name until Nora shouted it.

“It's Evelyn,” Nora told me. “Not ‘the lady in 2A.’”

“I know her name.”

“Then act like it.”

The electrician Dennis had hired arrived and refused to reenergize the affected circuit until he could inspect the panels. He found mismatched labels and heat damage at one breaker. Our temporary isolation had interrupted occupied floors, and restoring power carelessly could create a fire hazard.

I had authorized it.

I walked outside to call Kent. He answered as if I were interrupting dinner.

“Do you know there are families in the dark?” I asked.

“Then get them hotels. It's one night.”

“A tenant nearly ran out of medical backup power.”

“That sounds like a liability issue. Don't put anything admitting responsibility in writing.”

“I'm calling the city,” I said.

“Call your lawyer first.”

“I already should have.”

Kent's voice flattened. “You don't have the money to be principled, Viktor.”

When he hung up, Dennis appeared beside me. “I used the diagram they sent. We can't be responsible for every old circuit.”

“Who sent it?”

“Kent's contractor.”

“And you didn't verify it?”

“You told me to make it happen.”

He was right about that much.

I called an emergency electrician, arranged hotel rooms at company expense for anyone who couldn't safely remain, and notified the city's buildings department of the outage and suspected unsafe systems. Marisol came to the property and began taking statements for her clients. We did not agree about much, but we agreed people needed light and a safe place to sleep.

An inspector arrived after nine. He documented the electrical hazard, blocked the rear stairwell, and issued emergency instructions. I signed the acknowledgment while a city employee photographed the broken railing Paulie had described months before.

Nora watched from the doorway, holding his notebook.

“You told him you'd walk those stairs with him,” she said.

“I know.”

“He was going to show you this exact breaker panel, too.”

I took a breath. “You don't have to forgive me.”

“I haven't decided whether I ever will.”

A young man from the neighboring apartment building approached. His name was Isaiah. He'd been working at the nearby shop on the night Paulie died.

“I've wanted to tell somebody something,” he said, looking at Nora. “The ambulance report says Mr. Perrone was alone when he fell.”