Chapter 3: The Fire
The fire happened sixteen years ago.
I was twelve.
My mother was still alive.
And my father hadn't met Vanessa yet.
We had lived in a small two-story house at the end of a quiet street, where my mother grew roses against the fence and Dad kept an old blue pickup truck in the driveway.
I remembered almost everything about that night.
The smell of smoke.
The screaming.
The heat against my face.
And my mother's hand pushing me toward the back door.
“Run, Emma!””
“I won't leave you!””
“Go!””
Then the ceiling came down.
I woke up in a hospital three days later.
My mother didn't.
Dad told me she'd died trying to save me.
For years, that was the story.
Until Vanessa mentioned the fire at the airport.
Now I was sitting in Dad's car with Lily asleep in the back seat, and I couldn't stop staring at my hands.
“Dad,” I said quietly.
He kept driving.
“What did Vanessa mean?””
“I don't know.””
“You do.””
He sighed.
“I know what the official report said.””
“That isn't what I asked.””
Dad pulled into a gas station and parked.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Finally he turned toward me.
“After the fire, there were questions.””
“What kind?””
“The fire department found evidence that the fire may have started in the kitchen.””
“I know.””
“There was also a missing can of gasoline.””
I stared at him.
“What?””
“They believed it had been stored in the garage.””
“But Mom always kept chemicals locked away.””
“I know.””
“Then why didn't you tell me?””
“Because you were twelve.””
I swallowed.
“And now?””
Dad looked toward the back seat.
Lily was sleeping with her cheek pressed against the window.
“Now you're an adult.””
I waited.
Dad rubbed his forehead.
“Your mother had life insurance.””
My stomach tightened.
“How much?””
“Two hundred thousand dollars.””
I stared at him.
“And?””
“The insurance company paid it.””
“To you?””
“Yes.””
“Dad…”
“I never spent it.””
He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a thin envelope.
“I put it in an account for you.””
The same account Vanessa had been draining.
My fingers trembled as I opened the envelope.
Inside was an old photograph of my mother.
On the back, she had written:
*For Emma. When she's old enough to understand.*
I looked at Dad.
“What does this mean?””
“I don't know.””
I turned the photograph over.
There was another line beneath it.
*If anything happens to me, ask about Vanessa.*
The air disappeared from my lungs.
“Dad.””
He stared at the photograph.
“I found that this morning.””
“You knew Vanessa before Mom died?””
“No.””
“Then why did Mom write her name?””
Dad looked at me.
“She didn't.””
My blood ran cold.
“What?””
He pointed to the handwriting.
“That's not your mother's writing.””
I examined it.
He was right.
Someone had added the final line later.
My phone suddenly buzzed.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Hello?””
A man's voice said, “Emma?””
“Yes.””
“My name is Daniel Brooks. I was the fire investigator assigned to your mother's case.””
I sat upright.
“Why are you calling me?””
“I saw the news about what happened at the airport.””
My heart started pounding.
“What news?””
“Your father freezing Vanessa's accounts.””
I glanced at Dad.
Daniel continued.
“I need to tell you something I should have told you sixteen years ago.””
Dad leaned closer.
I put the phone on speaker.
Daniel took a breath.
“Your mother's death was never as straightforward as the report made it look.””
Dad gripped the steering wheel.
“What are you saying?””
Daniel answered.
“I believe the fire was deliberately started.””
Dad went pale.
May you like
Then Daniel added,
“And I believe someone in your family helped make it happen.””
