My father had died two years before the fire. Heart attack. Sudden. Clean. People called that kind of death merciful because it ended quickly, but they never stayed to watch what it did to the living.
Fire Marshal Briggs nodded.
“This was recovered from the alley behind your house the night of the fire. It was logged incorrectly and stored with unrelated debris. When we reopened the investigation, Caleb Turner identified it.”
Richard finally spoke.
“My son was a child. He has no idea what he saw.”
Officer Hale turned.
“Mr. Turner, you were instructed not to speak unless asked.”
Richard’s jaw tightened.
Vivian stared at the table.
I looked at her.
“Where is Caleb?”
No one answered quickly enough.
“Where is he?” I repeated.
Officer Hale’s expression softened.
“He came to the station at 4:38 this morning.”
My heart kicked.
“Why?”
“He brought evidence.”
“Evidence of what?”
The fire marshal looked at Richard.
Richard looked back at him with cold hatred.
Then Fire Marshal Briggs pressed a small recorder onto the table.
“There is an old emergency call from the night of your fire. It was archived with dispatch records. We need your permission to play it.”
My mother shook her head immediately.
