Chapter 12 - THE FIRE AT THE REPAIR SHOP
I called emergency services before I called Margaret.
By the time I reached Dad's shop, two fire engines blocked the street.
Smoke rolled from a rear storage bay.
A firefighter stopped me from crossing the tape.
“My brother is inside.”
“He's been brought out,” she said.
I found Owen sitting on the curb beneath a silver emergency blanket.
His face was streaked with soot.
His forearm was bandaged.
When he saw me, he tried to stand.
I knelt beside him.
“Don't move.”
He gripped my hand.
“They took the files.”
“What files?”
“The originals Dad kept in the steel cabinet.”
A fire investigator was already documenting the scene.
The cause had not been determined, and I refused to treat suspicion as proof.
But Owen described two figures entering through the rear bay before he heard breaking glass.
He had hidden near the loading door and escaped when the fire alarm sounded.
He had not seen their faces.
The next morning, a local reporter called asking whether our family was involved in a financial fraud investigation.
Someone had leaked enough details to turn our pain into a headline.
Margaret advised me not to discuss the evidence publicly.
At my office, I watched a video clip of Patricia speaking outside her church.
She called me vindictive.
She said my accusations had brought shame and danger to innocent people.
Then she cried for the camera.
I recognized her performance.
For seven years, tears had been how she turned accountability into cruelty.
This time, though, I was not her audience.
I went to see Owen at the hospital.
He handed me a damaged memory card he had hidden in his sock.
“Dad had a security camera behind the register,” he said.
“I saved a copy of the footage before those people arrived.”
We turned the card over to investigators through counsel, preserving the original.
A preliminary review showed a dark pickup arriving behind the shop.
The driver wore a brown jacket.
I recognized the silhouette from the restaurant parking lot.
The passenger remained inside the vehicle.
At one point, the passenger window lowered.
A profile appeared for a fraction of a second.
Owen stared at the still frame.
“That's not Daniel.”
“No,” I said.
I had seen that face at family dinners for years.
The passenger looked like Robert.
The image was not clear enough for me to claim certainty.
But it was clear enough to make me afraid.
As I left the hospital, I received a voicemail from Daniel.
His voice was strained and unusually quiet.
“Clare, listen to me carefully.”
I stopped beside the elevator.
“Whatever Dad told you, he isn't the one you need to worry about.”
A door slammed in the background.
Then Daniel said, “Patricia has the original.”
May you like
The voicemail ended before he said what the original was.
