The coffee shop window framed Ashworth Academy like a surveillance photograph. Morgan Vale catalogued each detail—the limestone facade, the bronze gates, the hedge maze visible beyond the eastern wing. Three-fifteen. Sophie Hendricks would emerge in twelve minutes.
Morgan's pen scratched across the notebook. 3:15 PM—awaiting dismissal. Weather: overcast, 52°F. Security guard at east gate shift change occurred 3:08 PM. New guard: male, 40s, checks phone every 90 seconds.
The espresso had gone cold an hour ago. Morgan's fingers wrapped around the ceramic, absorbing what little warmth remained. Around the coffee shop, conversations swelled and receded—college students debating philosophy, a woman negotiating something tense over her phone, two men laughing about a golf game. The noise pressed against Morgan's skull like static.
"Excuse me." A businessman squeezed past, his briefcase grazing Morgan's shoulder.
Morgan jerked sideways, breath catching. The pen clattered against the saucer. The businessman didn't notice, already absorbed in his phone, moving toward the counter. Morgan's heartbeat hammered against ribs. Counted breaths. Four in, seven hold, eight out. The technique Dr. Kade had taught, back when Morgan still believed techniques could fix what was broken.
Three-twenty. The bronze gates swung open.
Morgan lifted the camera—a Canon with a telephoto lens that looked professional enough to avoid suspicion. Through the viewfinder, Sophie Hendricks materialized. Thirteen years old, blonde hair in a French braid, navy blazer with the Ashworth crest embroidered in gold thread. Sophie walked beside two other girls, their laughter visible even at this distance, heads thrown back, carefree.
Click. Click. Click.
Morgan zoomed in on Sophie's face. No bruises. No signs of distress. Happy, even. The daughter of a predator, untouched by her father's crimes. Protected by money and lawyers and a legal system that rewarded men like Richard Hendricks for destroying lives.
The pen moved faster now. 3:20—Sophie exits with friends (same two from previous observations: Emma Zhao, Charlotte Price). All three wearing regulation uniforms. Sophie carrying violin case (Tuesday lesson confirmed). Driver waiting: same black Mercedes, license plate 7KJH-942.
The Mercedes pulled to the curb. Sophie hugged her friends goodbye, climbed into the back seat. Morgan captured it all—the angle of Sophie's head, the way the driver held the door, the exact moment the vehicle pulled into traffic.
Morgan gathered the camera, the notebook, the cold espresso. Left exact change on the table—no receipt, no credit card trail. The barista called out a goodbye. Morgan didn't respond.
Richard Hendricks conducted his meetings at the Pinnacle Club, where membership cost more than most families earned in a year. Morgan waited across the street, positioned behind a newspaper kiosk that provided clear sightlines to the club's entrance. The recording device sat in Morgan's jacket pocket, calibrated to pick up conversations through restaurant windows if the target sat close enough to the glass.
Four-forty. Richard emerged with two other men—developers, based on the architectural plans tucked under one man's arm. They positioned themselves at a sidewalk table despite the autumn chill, and Morgan understood why. Privacy. No servers hovering. No one close enough to overhear.
Morgan adjusted the recorder, aimed it toward their table. Through the directional microphone, Richard's voice crackled through the earpiece.
"—the tenants have month-to-month leases. Legal already confirmed we can terminate with thirty days' notice."
"The optics?" The second man stirred sugar into his coffee. "Displacing that many families right before the holidays?"
Richard laughed. The sound scraped against Morgan's teeth. "We'll offer relocation assistance. Two months' rent. Makes us look generous, costs us nothing compared to the property value once we redevelop."
"How many units?"
"Seventy-two. Most are single mothers, elderly, disabled. No one with resources to fight us."
Morgan's hand tightened around the recorder until the plastic creaked. Seventy-two families. Erased with paperwork and lawyers and thirty days' notice. The law wouldn't stop Richard Hendricks. The law had been written by men like Richard Hendricks.
The third man leaned forward. "Timeline?"
"Notices go out Monday. We'll have the building emptied by Christmas. Construction starts in January." Richard checked his watch, platinum glinting in the fading light. "I need to get home. Sophie has a recital tonight."
Sophie. Who would play violin in a warm auditorium while seventy-two families scrambled to find shelter before winter. Sophie, who had never missed a meal, never worried about eviction notices, never understood that her comfort was built on other people's suffering.
Morgan saved the recording, labeled it with the date and location. Added it to the file that already contained twelve other recordings, forty-three photographs, detailed financial records showing Richard's previous developments, each one built on displaced families, each one perfectly legal.
The law protected Richard Hendricks. But Morgan didn't answer to the law anymore.
Morgan's apartment occupied the third floor of a building scheduled for demolition. The landlord had stopped caring about repairs two years ago. The heat worked intermittently. The water pressure fluctuated. But the rent was cheap, and no one asked questions.
Morgan unlocked three deadbolts, pushed the door open. The walls had disappeared beneath layers of research. Photographs of Richard Hendricks at charity galas, Sophie at school, the family's vacation home in Martha's Vineyard. Maps showing Richard's properties, highlighted in red where families had been displaced. Timelines tracking the family's movements, color-coded by day and time. Articles about rent-controlled housing laws, corporate tax shelters, the legal mechanisms that allowed the wealthy to devour the vulnerable and call it business.
In the corner, a mattress lay directly on the floor. No frame, no headboard. A sleeping bag served as blankets. Nearby, the microwave sat on a milk crate, surrounded by frozen meals—all identical, all efficient.
Morgan moved to the kitchenette, pulled a plastic tray from the freezer. Chicken and rice. Three minutes on high. The microwave hummed, and Morgan stood motionless, watching the tray rotate.
On the shelf above the microwave, a single photograph occupied the space where most people kept dishes. Young Morgan, maybe nineteen, standing beside Dr. Elias Kade. Morgan's smile in that photograph belonged to someone else, someone who still believed the system could be fixed from inside, someone who thought justice and legality meant the same thing.
Dr. Kade's hand rested on young Morgan's shoulder. Proud. Protective. Before everything shattered.
Morgan lifted the photograph, traced the edge of Dr. Kade's face. "You were wrong," Morgan whispered to the image. "The system doesn't protect people like us. It protects people like Richard Hendricks."
The microwave beeped. Morgan set the photograph back, retrieved the meal. Ate standing up, mechanical bites that served function rather than pleasure.
The pill bottle sat beside the sink. White tablets, prescribed by a doctor who asked too many questions Morgan had learned to deflect. Morgan swallowed two tablets dry, felt them scrape down the throat.
The phone rang.
Morgan checked the screen. No caller ID. Answered on the third ring.
"The background check is complete." Yuki's voice carried no inflection, pure information transfer. "Elena Reyes is clean. Single mother, works two jobs, no criminal record. She's been cleaning houses in the Hendricks' neighborhood for three years. Access to their property, familiar face to security. The frame-up is solid."
Morgan moved to the wall, traced the timeline for Sophie Hendricks. Tomorrow, four-fifteen. Violin lesson. The instructor's house sat on a quiet street, security cameras positioned at predictable angles. "And Sophie?"
"Approved. Pattern matches the previous operations perfectly. Father's crimes documented. Daughter represents maximum leverage. Sophie Hendricks is a go."
Morgan stared at Sophie's photograph—blonde hair, bright smile, completely unaware. The daughter would pay for the father's sins. The innocent would suffer because the guilty remained untouchable.
No. Not innocent. Complicit. Living in luxury built on suffering.
"Tomorrow night then," Morgan said. "Just like the others."
"Confirmed. I'll have the final details to you by morning."
The call disconnected. Morgan stood in the apartment's center, surrounded by evidence of Richard Hendricks' crimes, evidence that meant nothing to courts and judges and a legal system designed to protect wealth. But Morgan didn't need courts anymore.
Morgan had learned to deliver justice the law refused to provide.