The photograph hit the table with a sharp slap, the edges curling upward from damp fingers. Julia’s voice trembled—not from fear, but fury held too long. “How long were you going to hide this from me?”
Brandon froze mid-step, his confusion immediate and genuine. “Hide what?”
She shoved the photo closer, her hand shaking. “Don’t you dare pretend. Your family killed my father!”
The words cracked through the small apartment like thunder, splitting the air in two.
Brandon’s face drained of color. He looked down at the image—the inferno swallowing the factory, black smoke devouring the sky—and then up at her. “What are you talking about?” His voice was barely a whisper.
“The Bailey Factory incident,” she said, the syllables splintering on her tongue. “He died covering for faulty equipment
