“What happened?” I say.

“Colin sold me out,” she says matter-of-factly. “I’m not sure exactly what he said, or what complaints he filed, but I’m sure he was the one who launched the audit.”

“Why would he do that?”

Now she looks at me as if the answer is so obvious she hates to have to point it out. “Optimal,” she says. “Of course.”

A buzz of excitement notches up my pulse.

“We butted heads almost from the start on how and when the environmental review should take place. I thought it was just his usual shit. He didn’t like that they appointed a co-head. He especially didn’t like that they appointed a woman.” She says this with no inflection at all, not even a catch of anger in her voice, as if it had nothing at all to do with her. A true pro.

“So he steamrolled you?”

“That’s what I thought at first—he always challenged my recommendations, questioned my reports. But this was different. It was as if he didn’t want to look at all. But that didn’t make sense. The compliance branch of OWQ had done an inspection, several years earlier, before I arrived. An inspection every two years is standard, unless issues of permitting or expansion make it necessary to test even more. So he wasn’t against it in principle. But when I checked the report, I knew something was wrong. Plastics manufacturing uses some of the most toxic chemicals in the world—and a lot of them. But there wasn’t a single fine. Not a single notice, zero safety concerns. No infractions at all. That never happens.” Her voice hangs there, climbing toward a peak. “There’s always something. I’ve never seen a report that clean, in my whole career. It isn’t possible.”

My pulse has turned into a joyful shout. Yes, yes, yes. “You think Colin was ignoring whatever he’d found in the inspections? Only one inspection was submitted into ICIS from your office,” I say. I’ve read through the same stack of briefs so many times I could probably tell her exact dates. “The other two inspections were subcontracted.”

She shakes her head. “Sure. But we depend on a third party to input reports into the system. A liaison who flows state information back to the federal level.”

“You’re saying even if the inspections were originally legit, they might have been changed afterward?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Both reports were actually entered by the same person. An agency coordinator named Michael Phillips. Lives in Indianapolis now.” Her eyes flare with a warning. “But he’s from just outside Barrens originally. I looked him up. He and Colin were together at the University of Indiana.”

Click. Another piece comes together. But it’s not enough—not nearly enough. Everything I learn makes the picture clearer, but also bigger—like climbing out of a ditch only to find myself at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. “I don’t understand why you didn’t report him.”

“The fact that they went to school at the same place at the same time doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” she says. “IU is a big school. And a popular one. Besides, their education wasn’t a secret. It obviously hadn’t raised flags before.”