Marcus looked down the steep, wooded slope of the canyon.

He knew the geology of Westlake Hills was notorious for shifting clay and hidden void spaces.

“I didn’t hear anything about a structural emergency,” Marcus said, pulling out his phone. “Richard didn’t mention this.”

“Richard is in Cabo or Miami or wherever he is with his new project,” I said, keeping my voice sharp and bitter.

That part, at least, was completely true.

“We couldn’t wait for him to check his emails, Marcus,” I said, leaning in closer. “The main water line ruptured under the slab at dawn.”

I pointed to a muddy patch near the exposed plumbing stacks where the crew had run a generator hose.

“The soil expanded three inches in four hours,” I added, remembering a phrase from my father’s old engineering notes. “If we left the weight on those piers, the central spine of the house would have snapped.”

Marcus stared at the mud, then at the flatbed trailer.

The crane operator chose that exact moment to rev the engine, sending a plume of black smoke into the blue sky.