Colton's Secret History

by Jennifer D. Bokal

  “So she’s mercurial?” Reese asked.

  Luke took another swallow of beer. “You could say that.”

  “Was she that way when you dated her before?”

  “No way, man. She was caring, smart, funny, beautiful, driven.”

  “And now?”

  “She looks better now than she did when we dated, and that’s saying a lot. She’s still smart, driven and caring. It’s just...” Luke stopped talking as the bartender set down plastic baskets filled with saucy and spicy wings. Plunging a wing into a side of ranch, he shook his head.

  “It’s just what?” Reese asked. “You don’t know what you want?”

  “Something like that,” said Luke, taking a bite of his wing.

  “And you haven’t seen this woman for years, right?”

  “A decade, at least.”

  “As far as I’m concerned,” said Reese, “that makes the two of you strangers. You want my advice? Avoid your old love. No reason to make yourself crazy over someone who means nothing to you.”

  If Reese was right, that left Luke with only one thing to do. He had to avoid Bridgette Colton at all costs.

  Chapter 8

  Friday morning, Bridgette arrived before any of her coworkers. She’d brought the dusty old box of disks with her and it sat in the middle of the communal conference table. Heart thundering, she stared at it with as much dread as she might a bomb.

  If her suspicion was right and the cancer cases were linked to her father’s company, the news would be explosive.

  The office door opened and Rachel, red-faced and sweating, stood pinned between the door and the jamb. She held a large box.

  Bridgette rushed to her coworker’s side. “Looks like you can use a little help,” she said, propping the door with her foot and taking the box. Immediately, the weight of the box pulled Bridgette forward. “Jeez, this is heavy. What did you bring? Bricks?”

  “This is one of the old computers I told you about. I thought it would be easier to bring it to work and see if we can get into the disks here than wait for me to take them to my friend.”

  Bridgette set the box on the table with a thunk, her arms and back thankful that she’d set down the burden. Lifting one of the flaps, she peered inside. There was a tangle of wires alongside cubes of almond-colored plastic. “What is that?”

  Rachel set a coil of wires on the table. “This is a computer circa 2005.”

  “Technology certainly has come a long way,” said Bridgette. “What can I do to help?”

  “You can start by telling me why we need this beast in the first place.”

  Bridgette removed one of the disks and waved it as she spoke. Over the years, her mother had written on each of the labels with her neat handwriting. The ink, once black, had faded with the passage of time to gray. “I want to cross-reference the names of our cancer victims to the names on these.”

  Taking the disk, Rachel read, “‘Employee Tax Information, Colton Construction.’” She paused. Lifting an eyebrow, she turned to Bridgette. “Colton Construction—as in your family’s business? What does this have to do with the cancer cases in Braxville?”

  Bridgette hesitated. At the moment, all she had was a theory—less than a theory, really. It was more like a hunch. What if she was wrong, something she hoped with all her heart? Was she really willing to jeopardize her family’s reputation on a guess?

  Then again Bridgette was here to do a job. Besides, how could she ask her coworkers to trust her if she wasn’t willing to trust them?

  “On Tuesday I noticed that my father’s old foreman, Ernest O’Rourke, was on the list of cases. I spoke to him and he mentioned that two of his buddies, both of whom had worked for Colton Construction, also developed esophageal cancer.” She approached the whiteboard with all the names of the cancer victims. Using a dry-erase marker, Bridgette circled Ernest’s name, along with his two compatriots. She continued, “Both of these men have since passed away. One died of cancer and the other had a heart attack.”

  “That’s peculiar,” said Rachel.

  “Then last night,” said Bridgette. “I learned that George Navolsky also worked for Colton Construction.”

  “We have a dozen men on the list and four of them used to work for Colton Construction,” said Rachel, summing up the issue. “Thirty percent is a lot.”

  “Exactly,” said Bridgette. “And these disks have information about the employees over the years. Once we access the data, we can cross-reference it with our list.”

  “I hate to ask, but how’d you get the disks?”

  “My mother used to be the office manager,” said Bridgette. “She kept everything organized by year. I asked for the disks and she gave them to me.”

  “I don’t want to be overly nosy, but did you tell her why you needed employee data?”

  Bridgette bristled at Rachel’s cautious tone. “I said it had something to do with work.” Already she could feel her shoulders tightening with the need to defend her actions. “Since she didn’t ask for any further explanation, I wasn’t obliged to give her one. Besides, I spoke to my father about Ernest and his friends already. He’s aware of the possible connection.”

  “It could also be said that since these people are your parents, you owed them complete transparency.”

  “Are you saying that I’m a bad daughter?”

  “Of course not,” said Rachel quickly. “But you know how these cases go. There can be lawsuits. Fines levied by the state.”

  Until now Bridgette had been concerned only about the impact the investigation would have on her relationship with her father. She could almost convince herself that if Colton Construction was somehow involved, he’d want to know. After all, there was nothing more important than the safety of his employees. Right?

  True, it was naive not to worry about the optics of Bridgette Colton investigating Colton Construction. Who would believe that the inquiry had been fair and impartial?

  It was then that Rachel voiced Bridgette’s deepest fear. “Can you do it?” she asked. “Can you really investigate not just the company your father owns, but that defines your whole family, as well? Can you honestly be impartial?”

  “I have a job,” said Bridgette. “It’s finding out what’s causing all the cases of cancer in Braxville. I intend to conduct this study fully and professionally, following all leads.” She gestured to the box of disks. “I brought those in, didn’t I?”

  Rachel shrugged. “I guess you did.”

  “If it will make you feel better,” Bridgette continued, “I’ll speak to both of my parents. I’ll be seeing them later this evening.”

  “It’s settled then,” said Rachel, looking into the large box again. “I’ll get this computer set up and we’ll see if we can access the disks.”

  Bridgette moved to the whiteboard and studied the names of each of the men on the list. They were more than victims of their disease. They were fathers, brothers, husbands and friends. Countless lives had been altered by their illnesses. In the silence of her heart, Bridgette vowed to make things right for each of the men. Then again, what would she do if it meant putting herself at odds with the entire Colton clan?

  * * *

  Getting information from the old disks had proved harder than Bridgette hoped. By the end of the day, her team was no closer to reviewing the data. Late on Friday afternoon, she called the team together for a meeting to wrap up their progress for the first week.

  “For now,” said Rachel. “I’ll continue to work on opening the disks. I have several more things I can try before I really am out of options.”

  “How long will that take?” Carson asked.

  Picking up a pen, Rachel tapped the tabletop. “Two days,” she said. “Maybe three.”

  “So, you keep working on your end until Wednesday. If we haven’t made progress then the disks will be s
ent to the state office,” said Bridgette.

  “Sounds like a plan,” said Rachel.

  “Carson and I have taken samples and sent them to the state labs. We’ll have results by the end of next week,” said Adam.

  “But we did a little investigating as well and found something interesting,” Carson added.

  “Do tell,” said Bridgette.

  Adam opened a file folder and spread out photocopies of old news articles. “It seems that twenty-two years ago, there was a massive flood in downtown Braxville. One of those once-in-five-hundred-years kind of flood.”

  Twenty-two years ago, Bridgette would have been in elementary school—probably second grade. She lived outside of town. Yet, she had a vague memory of school being canceled for several days because of a flood. Was it the same one? It seemed as if it had been. “Go on,” she urged.

  “The entire town was affected, including an old petroleum station that was never reopened. The cleanup effort was massive. From reading these old articles, it seems like the townsfolk pitched in.” He pointed to the whiteboard. “It’s our theory that those on the list all helped.”

  “So, what’s your conjecture?” Bridgette asked.

  “Carcinogens were released in the floodwater,” said Adam. “And then people were exposed during remediation.”

  “There’s a problem with your theory,” said Bridgette. “Lots of people helped rebuild downtown Braxville, correct?”

  “There were truly hundreds involved,” said Carson.

  “Then, why aren’t they sick, as well?”

  “A combination of factors—gender, age, working after the flood—that came together to make a perfect storm,” suggested Rachel.

  “Or,” said Carson, “maybe they all worked on removing debris from the same building. Could be something in the materials. Safety back when Braxville was founded isn’t the same as it is today.”

  “Or maybe they didn’t wear the proper gear for the type of cleanup they were doing,” said Rachel.

  Bridgette nodded. “I think you have found a trail worth following. Keep it up and let’s see where it leads. We’ve only been on the case for a week, and a shortened one at that. A lot of progress has been made. Good job, everyone.”

  “Thanks, boss,” said Adam.

  “Then if there’s nothing else to discuss,” said Bridgette. “I want you all to have a great weekend and I’ll see you on Monday.”

  Bridgette’s coworkers packed up tote bags and briefcases before saying goodbye. Bridgette remained at her spot.

  Carson stood at the door. “Aren’t you going home, too?” he asked.

  “I’m going to reread these articles you found. I grew up right here in Braxville but don’t remember anything about a big flood.”

  “How old would you have been two decades ago?” he asked. “You were a kid. Unless your house was flooded, you might have no memory.”

  What Carson said was true. Then again... “I feel like there was a lot I overlooked as a kid and am trying to find all the missing pieces.”

  “I’m going,” said Carson, gesturing to the hallway with his chin. “As long as you promise to follow your own orders.”

  “Oh, yeah? What are those?”

  “To enjoy your weekend.”

  “I will,” said Bridgette. “I promise.”

  “Why do I feel as if you’re planning on working every day?”

  “My parents have a bonfire and barbecue every year in the fall. Mom sets tables out on the yard, right near the lake. Then we have too much food and too many drinks. Tonight’s the night, so I can’t stay too long at work even if I wanted.”

  “All right then,” said Carson. “See you Monday.”

  Then it was Bridgette alone. She read all of the news coverage about the flood and the effort to rebuild and revitalize Braxville. To her, it seemed to be precursor to the Keep Braxville Beautiful initiative. Her father was mentioned in more than one of the articles. And in the quiet office—in the silence of her heart—Bridgette was more than a little relieved to have a lead that wasn’t connected to Colton Construction.

  Her phone pinged with an incoming text from Yvette. Are you almost here?

  Bridgette glanced at the time. It was 6:30 p.m.

  Damn. She was running late.

  Tapping out a reply, she rose from her seat. On my way.

  After rushing from her office, she made her way down Main Street. As she walked, Bridgette couldn’t help but imagine what downtown Braxville must have looked like during the flood. With water chest high, every building would have been submerged. She could well imagine the toxins that ended up in the waters.

  Was the flood to blame? Were the men who got sick sadly victims of being good citizens? Was it really what her father had said from the beginning—just bad luck?

  The sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the downtown in shadows. A breeze blew down the sidewalk, carrying a chill and the scent of rain. The door to her apartment was just ahead, but as she walked closer, Bridgette decided not to stop. She was late enough already and didn’t have time to waste with changing out of her work attire.

  Her car was directly in front of the hardware store. The convenient parking spot was a perk of renting the apartment from Luke. She cast a glance at the store as she passed. The lights were off, but that didn’t stop her from searching the dim interior.

  He wasn’t there.

  It was then that she caught sight of something in her periphery. The handle of a broken kitchen knife lay in the gutter. She knew what it meant before seeing anything further. Her tire had been slashed.

  Bridgette rounded her car, her anger a hot flame that burst into an inferno. It wasn’t just a single tire that had been cut. All four of them were completely flat. Replacing one flat tire with a spare was an inconvenience. Finding replacements for all four wheels, especially after six o’clock on a Friday night was damn near to impossible.

  * * *

  Like he did every Friday, Luke closed the store at five thirty. It didn’t mean his work was done, or even close. Preparing for the busy weekend, he always spent the evening stocking the shelves.

  “One hour in,” he said, glancing at the clock on the stockroom wall. “I’m almost halfway done.”

  Sure, there was nobody to hear him speak.

  And true, stocking shelves was a lame way to begin his weekend, especially since he was thirty-one years old and single.

  Grabbing a box of washers from the shelf, Luke walked back to the store. His eye was drawn to the window and the street beyond. Even with her back to him, he recognized Bridgette Colton. Her dark blond hair. Her long legs and shapely rear. He couldn’t look away even if he wanted. Then again, there was more to see than her nicely shaped female form. All four tires of her car were flat—an unlikely accident.

  For Luke, it was impossible to ignore someone in need. Setting the box on the counter, he opened the door and stepped onto the sidewalk. “Need some help, Bridgette?” he asked.

  “All of my tires have been slashed,” she said, gesturing to her car. “I guess some kids thinking they’re being funny.”

  “I can fix one tire,” said Luke with a shake of his head. “But not all four. You’ll have to get it towed in the morning. The garage should get it back on the road in a few hours.”

  “Tomorrow? A few hours?” Leaning on her car, she sighed heavily.

  Luke told himself that he didn’t care. He’d sworn not to get involved with the complicated Bridgette Colton. He knew all of that to be true, so why then did he ask. “Did you need to get somewhere? I can drop you off, if you’d like.”

  Bridgette waved away his offer to help. “It’s at my parents’ house. I can’t ask you to take me. You’d waste an hour with the round trip. I can’t ask you to ruin your Friday night on my account.”

  “Would it matter at all
if I said you aren’t ruining anything? I didn’t have any plans, so this will at least get me out of the apartment.”

  “You’re kidding?” She turned to face him. “A good-looking guy like you without a date on Friday night? I find that incredibly suspicious, Luke Walker.”

  Good-looking guy? Was she flirting with him? To be honest, he wouldn’t mind if she was so long as he remembered that her moods were as changeable as the Kansas weather. “Honestly,” he said with a laugh. “I haven’t had a date in months.”

  “Months? What do you do to keep yourself busy?” Bridgette held up her hands. “Forget I asked. My sisters, especially Jordana, are always pushing me to date more, get out more, get over...well, the past more. I understand that she cares, but at times it can be a touch intrusive.”

  “Is that sort of like all the well-meaning customers who want to know if I’m dating anyone. Or when I plan to get married. Or if I want to get married at all.”

  “Ugh.” Bridgette made a sour face. “You, too?”

  “Still,” he said, “I can give you a ride to your parents’ house. It’s not a problem.”

  “Sure,” she said. “So long as you do me one favor.”

  “Anything,” he said.

  “Stay at the bonfire. There will be lots of food. Barbecued ribs and chicken. My parents will be happy to see you. All my siblings will be there. You can catch up with Brooks and Neil.”

  “Really,” said Luke. “I shouldn’t.” He hooked his thumb toward the hardware store. “I’ve got lots to keep me busy.”

  “I mean, sure. I get it. You have responsibilities. But, really, I won’t make you drive me all the way to my folks if you aren’t staying. Maybe someone else is running late and can give me a ride. I’ll send a text or something.”

  Had Luke just turned down an invitation to go to the bonfire? Hadn’t he just been feeling sorry for himself and his lack of a social life? Had he said no just to avoid spending time with Bridgette, someone he wanted to be around a lot more?