“There it is,” Dom said, rolling down the window as they crossed the bridge. He pointed to a stretch of desolate land that bordered the East River. Hunter followed his gaze, taking in the fifteen acres that his father had snapped up in a deal that had fallen into his lap as the mortgage crisis had taken down smaller developers and speculators. The new property connected two other parcels that Dom had purchased a few years earlier, giving him dominion over a breathtaking swath of land along the river. Right now it was just empty lots and weed-filled patches of grass, with stretches of chain-link fence protecting nothing worth stealing. But one day it would be a fortress of silvery apartment towers, green lawn, and outdoor cafés that would spill out of ground-level retail spaces. Hunter had seen the renderings. Finch Properties was slowly transitioning from sprawling suburban subdivisions, on which they’d built their fortune and reputation, to more urban high-rise buildings, meant for a younger demographic. The economy would bounce back, eventually, and when it did, people would want to live here, in shiny new apartments with million-dollar Manhattan skyline views.

“And there’s the crown jewel,” Dom said. He wrapped his arm around Hunter’s shoulders and pulled him forward in the seat, to see better. There, at the end of the stretch of empty land, were the ruins of an old factory, long defunct. It was eight stories tall, built in grimy but solid brick, and Hunter could just make out the pale ghost of a massive white slogan painted across the walls. A single brick smokestack rose from one end, and the windows that dotted the facade were high and arched. On the lower floors they were boarded up, but the upper windows were empty, providing a glimpse of clear blue sky. It was nothing but a shell.

Hunter had been nervous about this trip. Things had gone off the rails so quickly: first Collegiate Prep threatening that he might not graduate, and then the pressure to take a plea in that stupid house party case. The newspapers had focused on his role in the party—it made for a great story, and his father had been eager to offer up Hunter’s guilty plea as a way to bring the media cycle to an end. It seemed like every conversation he had with his dad started or ended with yelling, by either one or both of them. And then, finally, getting word that he was out at Princeton.