“Don’t do it, Mallerie,” Carl’s voice cut through the damp air.

Mallerie spun around, dropping the wrench onto the concrete floor with a deafening crash.

She looked wild, her eyes darting toward the shadows.

“Carl?” she called out.

“Show yourself.”

Carl stepped out from behind the oil tank.

I stayed back, but I kept my eyes on Mallerie’s hands.

“This building has been here for ninety years,” Carl said, his voice remarkably calm.

“My grandfather laid the first boiler pipes.”

Mallerie scoffed, stepping back toward the brass valve.

“Your grandfather is dead, and this building is a money pit,” she said.

“It’s worth more to me as an insurance write-off.”

“You won’t get a dime if you deliberately destroy the infrastructure,” I said, stepping out beside Carl.

Mallerie’s eyes narrowed when she saw me.

“You,” she spat. “The busybody tenant.”

“I am the owner,” Carl said. “The courts will recognize that by next week.”

“Next week is too late,” Mallerie said.

She reached down quickly and snatched up the wrench.

She jammed the end of the wrench into the brass wheel of the pressure valve.