Chapter 4 - The Man Who Chose the Fire
Rebecca arrived at the state police station shortly after nine that evening.
Lily ran into my arms so hard I staggered backward.
“Mommy!”
I dropped to my knees and held her.
Her hair smelled like strawberry shampoo.
Her little fingers clutched my shirt.
I kissed her forehead again and again.
“I missed you.”
“I missed you more.”
“Impossible.”
She giggled.
For the first time in twenty-four hours, I could breathe.
Then she leaned close to my ear.
“Mommy, Grandma Becky was scared.”
I looked over her shoulder.
Rebecca stood beside Detective Brooks.
Her face was pale.
Her hands were shaking.
Lily whispered, “The man with Grandpa's face said he was going to take me to a better family.”
My chest tightened.
I held her a little closer.
“Nobody gets to decide that, sweetheart.”
“Not even Grandma?”
“Not even Grandma.”
Sarah collected Lily after we arranged for an officer to accompany them to a protected location.
I watched my daughter climb into Sarah's car.
Before the door closed, Lily blew me a kiss.
I returned it.
Then I walked back into the station.
Rebecca was waiting in an interview room.
She stood when she saw me.
“Grace.”
I sat across from her.
“Don't ask me to forgive you.”
She lowered her eyes.
“I wasn't going to.”
“Good.”
Brooks activated the recorder.
Rebecca looked at it.
“Do I need an attorney?”
“You may have one,” Brooks answered.
Rebecca considered the question.
Then nodded.
“Yes.”
I stood.
“Then we'll wait.”
Rebecca reached for my hand.
I pulled away.
She flinched.
I hated that it hurt me to see her hurt.
I hated that I still loved her.
Rebecca's attorney arrived thirty minutes later.
She was a sharp-eyed woman named Claire Donovan, who specialized in representing witnesses facing potential criminal exposure.
She explained the process without promising Rebecca immunity.
Then Rebecca began.
She told us about Saint Catherine's.
About the children transferred through private adoption arrangements.
About Eleanor's control of the board.
About Samuel's transportation routes.
And about Thomas.
My father.
The man Rebecca had married at twenty-one.
He'd been a maintenance contractor at Saint Catherine's.
He was good with electrical systems.
Good with locks.
Good with finding ways into places he wasn't supposed to enter.
Charles Whitmore hired him to repair the center's outdated security system.
Soon Thomas began receiving additional payments for work that didn't appear on any invoice.
He disabled cameras.
Opened service gates.
Provided access to record rooms.
At first, Rebecca said, he claimed it was harmless.
Then he discovered what was happening to the children.
He didn't report it.
He asked for more money.
I stared at Rebecca.
“Why didn't you leave him?”
She looked at me.
“Because I didn't know that part until after the fire.”
“Did you know he was working for Eleanor?”
“I knew he was taking extra contracts.”
“That wasn't what I asked.”
She closed her eyes.
“Yes. I knew he was doing jobs for Eleanor.”
“And you stayed.”
“I believed him when he said he was gathering information for me.”
I laughed bitterly.
“He was taking their money.”
“Yes.”
I rubbed my forehead.
“Go on.”
Rebecca explained that she discovered the illegal transfers after a child named Aaron Reed returned to Saint Catherine's with injuries.
He'd been nine.
He wouldn't speak to anyone.
He slept beneath his bed.
He flinched whenever a man entered the room.
Rebecca tried to contact his mother.
His file listed her as deceased.
But two weeks earlier, she'd personally spoken to the woman.
That was the first time Rebecca realized the records were being falsified.
She began copying documents.
Margaret Hensley, another nurse, helped her.
They found eleven children whose placements couldn't be verified.
Some had been sent to wealthy families under forged adoption orders.
Others had disappeared into private medical facilities.
One little girl had been declared dead three times under three different names.
Rebecca prepared to contact state investigators.
Then Eleanor summoned Thomas.
“She offered him seventy-five thousand dollars,” Rebecca said.
I looked at her.
“To burn our house.”
Rebecca nodded.
“They wanted to destroy the copied files. Thomas was supposed to take you and me away first.”
“But he didn't.”
“He tried.”
She wiped her eyes.
“Samuel arrived earlier than planned.”
I remembered my father's letter.
The basement.
The fire.
The bathroom window.
Rebecca continued.
“Samuel knew where I'd hidden the documents. He made me go downstairs. Then he locked the door.”
My stomach tightened.
“Did he start the fire?”
“Yes.”
“Where was Thomas?”
“Outside, moving the car.”
I looked at her.
“He knew Samuel was going to burn the house.”
“Yes.”
“And he left us inside?”
Rebecca lowered her head.
“He believed Samuel would wait.”
I stared at the wall.
“How could he?”
“I don't know.”
She began crying.
“I've asked myself that question every day for twenty-three years.”
Brooks leaned forward.
“What happened after Samuel locked you in?”
Rebecca swallowed.
“I heard glass breaking upstairs. Then smoke began coming through the vents.”
Her voice shook.
“I thought Grace was still in her bedroom.”
I closed my eyes.
I remembered heat.
A hallway.
My father's hands lifting me.
The smell of burning curtains.
“Thomas saved me,” I whispered.
Rebecca nodded.
“He climbed through the upstairs bathroom window.”
“And you?”
“Samuel came back.”
I looked at her.
“Why?”
“He didn't want my body found.”
Silence.
Rebecca stared at her hands.
“He opened the basement door after the fire had spread. He drugged me. When I woke up, I was in a private hospital.”
“Westhaven?”
“That's what it's called now.”
“How long?”
“Eight years.”
I couldn't breathe.
Eight years.
I remembered my eighth birthday.
My ninth.
My first school dance.
The afternoon I learned to ride a bike without training wheels.
All those years, while my father smiled for photographs, my mother was locked underground.
“Did Thomas know where you were?”
Rebecca nodded.
“Eventually.”
I looked at her.
“Did he ever try to get you out?”
“Yes.”
The answer surprised me.
“Then why didn't he?”
“Because Eleanor threatened to take you.”
Rebecca's voice broke.
“She sent him photographs of you going to school. Playing outside. Sleeping in your bedroom.”
I closed my eyes.
“She told him if he interfered, you'd disappear too.”
I wanted to hate him.
I did hate what he'd done.
But I remembered the man who stayed awake beside my bed when I had pneumonia.
The man who worked extra shifts to pay for college.
The man who cried when I married Daniel.
I couldn't make those memories disappear.
And I couldn't make his betrayal disappear either.
Both belonged to me.
When the interview ended, Rebecca asked to speak with me privately.
I agreed on one condition.
Brooks would remain outside the room.
Rebecca sat with her hands folded.
“Grace, there's something about Daniel you need to understand.”
I looked at her.
“You gave Nathan his location.”
“Yes.”
“And Daniel died.”
“Yes.”
“Those are the facts.”
She nodded.
“I know.”
“Then why should I hear another explanation?”
“Because Daniel found me before Nathan did.”
I stared.
“What?”
“Three months before the crash. He came to a motel where I was staying.”
“How?”
“Margaret contacted him.”
I frowned.
“Why Daniel?”
“Because she knew I couldn't safely approach you. Daniel had been asking questions about your mother's death after he noticed inconsistencies in the fire records.”
I looked down.
Daniel had always been curious.
He asked questions that made other people uncomfortable.
At restaurants, he read the fine print on menus just to make me laugh.
When our landlord tried to charge us for a broken heater, Daniel found the original lease and made him pay for the repair.
He wouldn't have ignored an inconsistency in my mother's death certificate.
Rebecca continued.
“He wanted to surprise you with proof that I was alive.”
My throat closed.
I imagined Daniel driving home.
Holding documents.
Planning to tell me something that would change everything.
Instead, he'd never walked through our front door again.
“Why didn't he tell me he'd found you?”
“He said he wanted to make sure nobody could take you away from Lily.”
I wiped my eyes.
Rebecca leaned closer.
“He also told me something about Thomas.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“Before your father died, he left Daniel a safety-deposit receipt.”
My stomach tightened.
“What receipt?”
“Daniel believed it was connected to the watch.”
“Where is it?”
“I don't know.”
I stared.
“Did Daniel ever tell you?”
“He said it was somewhere only you would think to look.”
I thought about our house.
The drawers.
The closets.
The boxes of Daniel's belongings I still couldn't bear to open.
“Did Nathan know about the receipt?”
Rebecca hesitated.
“I think so.”
I stood.
“Then he'll be looking for it.”
Rebecca nodded.
“Grace, please don't go home alone.”
I looked at her.
“I won't.”
Then I reached for the door.
“Grace?”
I stopped.
Rebecca's voice cracked.
“I know you may never forgive me.”
I didn't turn.
She continued.
“But I loved you every day I was gone.”
I closed my eyes.
“Then you should have trusted me enough to tell me the truth when you came back.”
I walked out.
At 11:42 p.m., Sarah called.
Lily was asleep.
The officers were outside.
Everything was quiet.
Then Sarah said, “Grace, I found something in Lily's backpack.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
“A little envelope.”
“From school?”
“No.”
Sarah swallowed.
“It's addressed to you.”
“Who sent it?”
“There's no name.”
I closed my eyes.
“Open it.”
Paper rustled.
Then Sarah went silent.
“Sarah?”
“Oh, my God.”
“What?”
She inhaled sharply.
“It's a photograph of Daniel.”
My heart stopped.
“Where?”
“In a hospital room.”
I gripped the phone.
Sarah continued.
“He's standing beside an older man in a wheelchair.”
I couldn't breathe.
“Who is the man?”
“There's a name written on the back.”
“What name?”
Sarah swallowed.
“Charles Whitmore.”
I stared at the wall.
Charles Whitmore had supposedly died in 2018.
Daniel had died in 2024.
But according to Sarah, the photograph was dated only three months before Daniel's crash.
I felt a cold sensation spread through my chest.
Another death that didn't fit.
Another funeral.
Another lie.
May you like
And beneath the photograph, someone had written:
THOMAS WASN'T THE ONLY MAN THEY BURIED WITHOUT A BODY.
