Eliana will learn that lesson. Eventually. Or she won’t, and she’ll go blind and broke trying to save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.
Either way, it’s not my problem.
You know what? f**k this. I can’t sit here and wallow in stupid, useless, circular thoughts. I grab my keys and head for the door. The Project Olympus site is a twenty-minute drive—far enough to clear my head and close enough that I can pretend this is a legitimate business need and not me running from the ghost of poverty and the specter of whatever the f**k Eliana Hunter is doing to my head.
The site sits on the corner of Randolph and Clinton. On weekends, it’s usually deserted, since union rules mean most of the crews are off. Today, though, there’s a pickup truck in the lot. Moretti Construction stamped on the si
