Site 4

Elias Reid. Forty-four years old. "A valued member of the Corvale family for six years, tragically lost in an on-site accident at our Site 4 facility." No further detail. No mention of what kind of accident, no mention of what machine, no mention of what report had cleared that machine the week before.

I knew this story already, or thought I did. I was eighteen when it happened. The version I grew up with was simpler and crueler: my father had been careless around a hydraulic press, hadn't followed protocol, and the company had settled with my mother quietly, quickly, the way companies do when they want a problem gone before a lawyer gets involved.

I had never once heard the words Site 4. I had never heard the words Corvale Industries, either — not until the staffing agency placed me here nine weeks ago, in a building I'd walked past a hundred times without knowing my father died inside it.

I went back to the database, searched for the inspection report closest to his accident date. There should have been one — Corvale ran quarterly checks on that unit, according to the maintenance log stapled to the newsletter.

The record existed. Filed three days before he died. Signed by Fenwick.

No deficiencies noted requiring immediate correction.

Same ten sentences.

I pulled the physical file to check it against the others, needing to see the paper itself, needing my hands to prove what my eyes already knew — and the folder in Box 47 marked with his accident date was empty except for a single sticky note in blue ink.

Replaced — see updated file, it said. No date. No initials.

I searched the shelf where an updated file should have been.

There wasn't one.