Chapter 42
Chapter 42
Joanna's POV
The car slowed as we entered a rundown neighborhood in the Bronx. Crumbling red brick buildings lined the street, their walls peeling and facades cracked. Trash spilled from overflowing bins where stray cats prowled, searching for scraps.
When I stepped out, musty, damp air hit me like a wall.
"This is it?" I asked, pulling my jacket tighter against the morning chill.
"One of the communities affected by Sebastian's demolition project," Zayne said, his voice unusually solemn.
I followed him deeper into the neighborhood, past several elderly people hunched on their stoops, staring vacantly into the distance. My heart sank as memories flooded back – memories I'd tried so hard to bury.
When I was little, Mom would drag Daniel and me from one cheap rental to another, always one step ahead of eviction notices. During the worst times, we couldn't even afford bread. We'd sit on stoops just like these, with that same empty look in our eyes, wondering if things would ever get better.
"The company plans to tear all this down," Zayne said quietly. "I wanted you to see what these people's lives are like."
I nodded, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.
---
Zayne led me to a third-floor apartment in one of the buildings. The hallway smelled of mildew and boiled cabbage, the carpet threadbare beneath our feet. He knocked on a door where paint peeled in long strips.
A white-haired woman answered, deep wrinkles mapping her face, but her eyes still held warmth despite years of hardship. She wore a faded sweater that had seen better days, patches visible at the elbows.
Inside her apartment, dim light filtered through yellowed curtains. The furniture was worn, and water stains marked the corner of the ceiling.
'She lives here alone. How hard must her life be?'
The old woman looked confused. "Who are you?" she asked, her voice raspy from age.
"We're reporters," Zayne said with a reassuring smile. "We're looking into the demolition situation."
I shot him a startled glance, but he gave me a small nod. Later, he whispered, "We wouldn't get the truth otherwise."
"Come in," the woman said, stepping aside.
She shuffled to a cabinet and pulled out a small loaf of bread, hard as a rock. Her hands shook as she sliced it onto a chipped plate.
"I don't have much, but please, have some. I bought it yesterday." She held the plate out to us.
Tears stung my eyes. 'That bread is probably all she has, and she's offering it to strangers. How can I possibly accept it?'
"That's very kind," I said, gently refusing. "But we've already eaten. Can you tell me about the demolition plans? I understand this building is scheduled to be torn down."
The old woman sank into a creaking chair with a heavy sigh. "They've been talking about it for years now. At first, they promised each household would get enough compensation to move somewhere better and start over. But then, someone came to tell us the compensation would be much less than originally discussed – not even enough to rent a new place. What are old folks like us supposed to do?"
My chest tightened.
Zayne remained silent beside me, but his eyes spoke volumes.
---
Before the old woman could continue, a knock came at the door. Several elderly neighbors entered, having heard that outsiders were asking about the demolition.
An old man leaning heavily on a cane spoke first. "We've lived here our whole lives. The buildings might be falling apart, but at least we have a roof. With the compensation they're offering now, we'll have nowhere to go."
I couldn't meet his eyes. 'Their voices are so full of helplessness, and there's nothing I can do.'
Another woman, wearing thick glasses, joined in. "The company people have come a few times. They always say 'just wait a little longer,' but we can't afford to wait. My husband died last year, and I'm alone now." Despite her complaints, she smiled at me warmly. "You have a kind heart, dear. Please speak up for us if you can."
Tears threatened to spill. 'They're suffering so much, yet they're still so polite to me. How can I possibly deserve this?'
An elderly man with a bent back pressed a small jar into my hands. "Homemade jam. It's sweet. Take it home and try it."
I accepted the jar with trembling hands.
"Thank you," I said quietly. "I'll try to find out more about the situation." But doubt was eating me alive. 'Try to find out more? What can I possibly do? Sebastian, I'm starting to be afraid... afraid that you really did this.'
Story after story poured out – decades of memories in apartments marked for destruction, health problems that made moving impossible, the terror of homelessness after a lifetime of work. Each word pressed heavier on my chest.
---
Back in Zayne's car, I clutched the jar of homemade jam, unable to speak. Their faces haunted me – the resignation in their eyes, the quiet dignity despite their circumstances.
Zayne started the engine but didn't immediately drive away. "Joanna," he said, his voice low and serious, "you've seen for yourself now. It's pretty clear King Enterprises is behind this, possibly embezzling funds meant for proper compensation. What are you going to do about it?"
My muscles went rigid. 'Embezzling? That's a serious accusation. I still can't believe Sebastian would do something like this.'
"Zayne, I haven't seen any contracts or concrete evidence," I said hesitantly. "There could be other factors involved. It might not be Sebastian's direct responsibility."
He sighed, disappointment clear in his voice. "You're still defending him? Joanna, if you keep working as his assistant, you might get implicated too. Think about your mother – with her health problems, she doesn't need to worry about you getting caught up in something illegal."
I bit my lip hard.
"I know you care about these people," Zayne continued, gesturing toward the building we'd just left. "Don't they deserve better than this?"
I stared out the window, watching as an elderly couple slowly made their way down the sidewalk, supporting each other with each careful step. 'They do deserve better. Everyone deserves better than this.'
---
As we approached Sebastian's mansion, Zayne suddenly broke the silence. "Joanna, if you're not convinced yet, I'll tell you something that might help. Sebastian has this habit of keeping important documents in the second drawer of his desk in his study. You could check the contracts yourself and see if there's anything suspicious."
I turned to him, surprised. "How do you know that?"
Zayne smiled slightly. "He's my brother, after all. I know some things about him." He pulled up to the curb. "It's your decision. I just don't want you to be kept in the dark."
I got out of the car, still holding the jar of jam. Standing at the mansion's entrance, I felt torn apart by conflicting emotions.
I stared down at the homemade jam in my hands, thinking of the old man's kindness, the residents' quiet dignity in the face of impending homelessness. The contrast between their crumbling apartments and Sebastian's mansion had never felt more stark.
'What if Zayne is right? What if Sebastian really is taking advantage of these vulnerable people?'