The Poisoned Legacy
Blood in the Water
The water smells like blood today.
It clings to the back of my throat when I brush my teeth, metallic and sour, turning my stomach before the day even begins. I shouldn’t use it. I know that. Bottled water is safer, but bottled water doesn’t come cheap. And God knows nothing does anymore. Not when every cent I have goes to medical bills, rent, and the scraps of food I can afford to keep Caleb fed.
I sit at the kitchen table, staring at the duct tape holding the corner together. The adhesive is curling again, edges dusty, clinging to the wood like it knows it’s got one last job to do before giving up entirely. Across from me, Caleb picks at the hem of his sweatshirt. His head bows low, and his knuckles—raw and cracked—keep moving, scratching at the angry red patches crawling up his arms.
“Stop that, baby,” I say, reaching over to tug his hands away. He flinches at my touch but doesn’t look up.
“You’re making it worse,” I add softly, smoothing his sleeve down over the worst of it. The rash is spreading, deeper and angrier, the edges raw where he’s scratched too much.
He shrugs, a tiny gesture that tears at my chest. It’s been three weeks since the hospital called with his test results. Elevated lead levels, they said. Too high to be safe. But it’s not like that’s news to anyone around here. Half the kids in Maple Ridge have the same diagnosis. Some of the adults, too.
A doctor handed me a pamphlet—smiling cartoon fruits and vegetables plastered across the front with cheery captions like, “Iron-rich foods can block lead absorption!” As if a few bowls of spinach or beans will fix what the water’s already done.
“Do I have to go to school?” Caleb mumbles. His voice is barely audible, so thin it trembles on its way out.
I reach out, brushing his hair back from his face. His scalp is warm under my fingers—too warm—but maybe it’s just me.
“Not today,” I say. What I don’t tell him is that the teachers have gone on strike again. They want hazard pay now that half the students are sick.
He doesn’t ask why, and I don’t offer more. Instead, I glance at the clock hanging crooked on the wall. It’s 8:15. I have a meeting at nine.
“Momma has to go out for a bit,” I tell him, pulling my coat from the back of the chair. “But Miss Ginny’s gonna come sit with you, okay?”
He nods, but his eyes stay fixed on the table. His small shoulders slump under the weight of a sickness he doesn’t understand.
I press a kiss to his hair. “Be good,” I whisper.
The water smells like blood, and I don’t know if I’ll ever wash it off.
The Meeting
The library basement smells like mildew and cheap coffee, the kind that burns at the bottom of the pot. Folding chairs are arranged in crooked rows, and every seat is filled. People pack together shoulder to shoulder, not out of solidarity but necessity. The heating’s been off for weeks, and the damp air settles into your bones if you stand still too long.
Claire Summers stands at the front of the room, tall and polished. Her shiny brown hair gleams under the flickering fluorescent light, and her blazer probably costs more than I make in a month. She’s not from around here. That much is obvious.
She clears her throat, and the murmurs in the room fade. The sound carries over the shuffle of boots against the concrete floor, the rustle of winter coats.
“Thank you all for coming,” she begins, her voice smooth and practiced, the kind of voice that commands attention.
“This lawsuit has been filed on behalf of every resident of Maple Ridge who has been impacted by lead contamination,” she says, glancing down at the papers in her hand. “The defendant, Concordia Mining, knowingly discharged toxic waste into the groundwater for over two decades—”
“We know that already,” a man in a flannel jacket calls out from the back of the room. His voice is rough, edged with impatience. “What we wanna know is when we’re getting our damn money!”
There’s a ripple of agreement through the crowd. People nod, voices murmuring their support. My fingers curl tighter around the edges of my chair, the metal cold and biting against my palms. I glance at Claire. She doesn’t flinch, but there’s a flicker of something in her eyes—something uneasy—before she pastes on her lawyer’s smile.
“This process takes time,” she says. “Cases like this can last years, even decades. But we’re confident—”
“Decades?” another voice pipes up, louder this time. “My husband’s already dead. Half of us’ll be gone by then.”
The murmurs grow louder, angrier.
Heat rises in my chest, a familiar frustration bubbling to the surface. My voice cuts through the noise before I can stop myself.
“What’s the point of suing if none of us live to see the settlement?”
The room quiets. Heads turn. Claire looks directly at me, her expression steady but unreadable.
“The point,” she says evenly, “is holding Concordia accountable for what they’ve done. Not just for you, but for your children and their future.”
Her words hang in the air, heavy and hollow. They mean nothing to people like us.
I stand, pushing my chair back. The legs scrape against the floor, loud and sharp. I walk out of the room, the cold air slapping me as I step outside.
The Reminder
I don’t expect to see Claire again so soon.
It’s late afternoon by the time I finish running errands, the sky overcast and heavy. I’m walking back from the pharmacy, the paper bag crinkling in my hands, when I see her car parked outside the grocery store.
It’s a sleek black sedan with out-of-state plates—the kind of car that doesn’t belong here.
For a moment, I stand there, the cold biting at my cheeks, my breath fogging in the air. Then, before I can talk myself out of it, I push open the grocery store door.
She’s in the produce aisle, examining a bag of apples like it’s the most important thing in the world.
“You’re awfully comfortable here, aren’t you?” I say, my voice cutting through the quiet.
She looks up, startled. “Maria,” she says.
“You swoop in here with your fancy degrees and your shiny car,” I snap, stepping closer. “You don’t know what it’s like. You don’t care about us.”
“That’s not true,” she says quickly, her voice softening.
“Isn’t it?” I demand. “You said this case could take decades. My son doesn’t have decades, Claire. None of us do.”
She opens her mouth, but no words come out. For once, the lawyer has nothing to say.
I turn on my heel and leave her standing there, the paper bag crinkling in my hand as I push out into the cold.
The Offer
The library basement is packed again the next monday. The air smells like damp wool and exhaustion, the kind of fatigue that sinks into your marrow.
Claire stands at the front, her posture stiff. She adjusts her papers as she speaks, her voice steady but lacking its earlier sheen.
“Concordia Mining has offered a settlement,” she announces. The room erupts—gasps, murmurs, angry shouts.
“It’s not enough,” she continues, raising her voice to be heard. “It won’t undo the damage they’ve done. But it’s a step forward. It’s a start.”
Her eyes flick to mine, locking on me for a brief moment. There’s something different in her gaze today—not pity, not condescension. Maybe determination. Maybe even hope.
I sit silently as the meeting unfolds around me. People argue, plead, rage. Some demand more. Others say they’ll take whatever they can get.
When the checks arrive, I take the $50,000 and tell myself it’ll help.
The Loss
Six months later, Caleb is gone.
The $50,000 bought medications, water filters, and a headstone. It didn’t buy time.
The cemetery is quiet when I bury him, the trees bare and skeletal against the gray sky. The air smells of damp earth and decaying leaves, sharp and bitter. I kneel by the fresh grave, pressing a cheap plastic flower into the cold dirt. My fingers ache from the cold, the soil gritty under my nails.
Claire doesn’t come to the funeral. She doesn’t even send a card.
The Truth
A year passes.
I try not to think about Claire Summers until her name pops up in the news.
Attorney Claire Summers Secures $6 Million bonus from Landmark Settlement.
I read the article twice, my chest tightening with each word. The piece praises her brilliance, her tenacity, her knack for squeezing a reluctant corporation.
The $50,000 she fought for us is nothing compared to the millions she pocketed.
I dig deeper, sifting through legal filings and public records. Concordia Mining is still operating. The dumping never stopped.
The rage burns hotter with every discovery. My chest feels like it’s caving in, the air thick and heavy. The walls of my house seem to close in around me, the smell of bleach and stale coffee turning my stomach.
I can’t stop shaking as I form my plan.
The Plan
I call Claire. I tell her I have evidence of another violation—worse than before.
“They’re dumping arsenic now,” I lie. “Near the old processing plant. I have proof.”
Her sharp intake of breath is audible over the phone. She bites.
“Well that could certainly be significant,” she murmurs. “So long as none of what you have is already covered in the settlement, we could really bring them to their knees.”
Her voice, so calm and measured, ignites something inside me. My hands tremble as I grip the phone, but my voice stays steady.
“Meet me,” I say.
She does. I hand over a treasure trove of manufactured evidence.
I can almost see Claire’s eyes spin like the dials on a cash register as she sorts through it.
“Where did you get all of this?” she asks.
“Never underestimate the love a mother has for her dead child,” I say. “Somebody needs to pay.”
“And we’ll make sure they do,” she says. “You know how this goes. First, we’ll meet with their board, and if they don’t settle in the room, then we’ll file our motions and get to work. I’ll set up the meeting.”
She sticks out her hand to shake mine as if we’re somehow co-collaborators on a business deal. I feel the bile rise in my throat and swallow it as I return the gesture for the sake of my larger plan—vengeance! When I am clear of her office, I vomit. Everything about this is too much to bear and yet I bear it anyhow. I miss Caleb. Why did they do this to him?
The Meeting
The meeting happens on a Friday, downtown in Concordia’s headquarters.
I sit in my car, parked across the street, and watch Claire step out of her sleek sedan. She’s wearing a tailored coat, her heels clicking against the pavement. Her briefcase swings at her side.
Through the glass doors, I see her greet the security guard before stepping into the elevator. The cold wind bites at my face as I step out of the car, the gas can heavy in one hand. My satchel of destruction just as heavy in the other.
The Fire
The lobby is a cathedral to corporate greed—high ceilings, polished marble, dark wood that reeks of money. Long drapes from floor to ceiling. The receptionist looks up, startled, as I stride in.
“What are you—”
“Out.” My voice cracks like a whip, sharp and raw. She freezes, her eyes wide. I pull out my pistol. It’s not loaded, but she doesn’t know that.
She flinches.
“Now,” I say menacingly.
She puts her hands in the air and stumbles away, her heels clicking against the tile, her perfume lingering faintly in the air as I pull the first canister from my bag.
The gasoline smells sharp and acrid, the fumes stinging my eyes and throat as I douse the rugs, the walls, the polished desks. The wood soaks it up, dark streaks spreading like blood across the grain.
Security rushes in, their voices raised in panic.
“Stop!” one of them shouts.
I don’t stop.
The first Molotov crashes against the wall, shattering glass and igniting a burst of fire. The flames leap up, orange and hungry, licking at the curtains and racing along the gasoline-soaked floor.
The heat slams into me like a wave, blistering and suffocating. My skin prickles, sweat pouring down my back as the flames roar higher. Smoke billows thick and black, clogging my lungs. My throat burns with every breath, the acrid stench of burning fabric and wood choking me.
“You’re insane!” one of the guards yells, his voice barely audible over the roar of the fire.
Upstairs, I know the boardroom is full. The people who poisoned my son, who signed the checks and made their millions, are trapped behind glass and steel. The fire will find them, just like it’s found me.
The flames crawl closer, licking at my coat, the heat blistering my skin. My vision blurs, the edges of the room swimming in waves of red and orange. My lungs scream for air, every breath a struggle against the thick, acrid smoke.
I stagger to the center of the room, my legs trembling. The flames are everywhere now, a living, breathing thing, consuming everything in its path.
For Caleb.
I strike the last match. Light the last molotov. Drop it at my feet. I hear it shatter.
The heat is unbearable as the fire engulfs me, searing through my coat, my skin, my bones. Pain blooms sharp and white-hot, radiating through every nerve. My body feels like it’s unraveling, piece by piece, dissolving into the inferno.
And then, nothing.
The Aftermath
The fire makes national headlines.
MURDER-SUICIDE AT CONCORDIA MINING HEADQUARTERS: 24 DEAD, INCLUDING BOARD MEMBERS AND ATTORNEY.
They call me unhinged. A grieving mother pushed too far.
But in Maple Ridge, the story is different. People speak of me with quiet reverence, their whispers cutting through the smoky air. They say I did what no one else could.
The water still smells like blood.
But for the first time, so does the air.
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