Chapter 5 - THE PHOTOGRAPH FROM THE NIGHT OF THE FIRE"Someone used a dead man's identification number to look at my mother's case?"
Grace's voice was barely above a whisper.
I had put Marisol on speakerphone.
She explained that the original investigator's login credentials had been used to access archived fire documents through a county records terminal.
"Do you think someone is trying to destroy the evidence?" I asked.
"Possibly. But someone trying to retrieve it is just as likely."
Grace stood beside the kitchen window.
"Can you find out who?"
"I'm working on that," Marisol replied.
Before ending the call, she warned us again not to confront Victor without legal protection.
I agreed.
For once in my life, I understood that having money didn't mean having control.
After the call, Grace remained silent.
I watched her carefully.
"Are you okay?"
She gave me a tired smile.
"That's a strange question to answer when you've just learned someone may have rewritten the story of your mother's death."
"I'm sorry."
"You've said that several times today."
"Because I mean it."
She looked at me.
"I know."
That small acknowledgment meant more than she probably realized.
I pulled out the chair opposite hers.
"Tell me about your mother."
Grace seemed surprised.
"What do you want to know?"
"Anything you want to tell me."
She looked toward the garden.
"My mother had this terrible singing voice."
I smiled faintly.
"Really?"
"Absolutely terrible. She loved old Motown songs, but she never remembered all the lyrics."
Grace laughed softly.
"She would invent entire verses and sing them while making pancakes."
"Sounds like someone I would have liked."
"You would have."
Her smile faded.
"She was stubborn. She worked too hard. She believed people should be honest even when honesty made their lives difficult."
Grace rubbed her thumb across her palm.
"When I was little, we didn't have much money. But every Sunday, she made enough food for at least one extra person."
"Why?"
"Because she said an empty chair was an opportunity to practice kindness."
I sat quietly.
That sounded exactly like Grace.
She looked at me again.
"She called me Princess because I hated my name when I was a child."
"Grace?"
She nodded.
"I thought it sounded like an old woman's name. So she told me I could be Princess Grace whenever I wanted."
I smiled.
"And it stayed?"
"Unfortunately."
"Why unfortunately?"
"Because grown men occasionally call me Princess like they're flirting with a fairy-tale character."
I nearly choked.
She watched my reaction.
Then, for the first time since sunrise, we both laughed.
It was a small moment.
But after everything that had happened, it felt precious.
By noon, the police had interviewed Eli and Leah.
Leah provided a detailed statement about the attack on her vehicle.
She agreed to remain in protective medical accommodation arranged through an independent attorney rather than return to my estate.
I paid for her transportation and treatment, but made certain the decisions remained hers.
Grace stayed with her until the arrangements were complete.
When she returned, I was waiting in my father's old library.
The room smelled of leather, cedarwood, and old paper.
A portrait of Richard Reed hung above the fireplace.
For most of my life, that portrait had comforted me.
Now I couldn't look at it without wondering what else I had failed to see.
Grace entered carrying two mugs.
"Coffee?"
I took one.
"Thank you."
She stood beside the bookshelves.
"Do you ever miss him?"
"Every day."
"Even now?"
I studied her face.
"Especially now. I keep wanting to ask him questions he can no longer answer."
Grace nodded.
"I know that feeling."
At three that afternoon, Marisol called with new information.
"I identified the person who accessed the fire records."
"Who?"
"Ruth Bell. August Bell's daughter."
I leaned forward.
"His daughter?"
"She's thirty-four. She works as an independent records researcher. She apparently retained access to an old legacy archive account belonging to her father."
"Why would she use his credentials?"
"According to her, it's the only account that can still retrieve some of the original documents without the later corrections."
"Did you speak to her?"
"Yes. She says she's been waiting years for someone connected to Clara Ellis to ask the right questions."
Grace gripped the arm of her chair.
"Where is she?"
"She's willing to meet tomorrow morning at my office."
Grace stepped forward.
"Tell her we'll be there."
Marisol hesitated.
"Grace, I need you to understand something. Ruth says her father received threats after refusing to approve the revised fire report."
"What happened to him?"
"He died in a vehicle collision the following year."
"An accident?"
"That's what the official record says."
No one spoke.
Finally, Grace whispered, "Just like my mother."
The next morning, Marisol's office felt unusually cold.
Ruth Bell was already waiting when we arrived.
She was a thin woman with short brown hair, wire-framed glasses, and an expression that suggested she had slept badly for years.
When she saw Grace, her eyes filled with tears.
"You look like your mother."
Grace stopped.
"You knew her?"
"Not well. But Dad talked about her."
Ruth stood and extended her hand.
"I'm sorry we never contacted you."
Grace took it.
"Why didn't you?"
Ruth swallowed.
"Because my father told me not to."
We sat around the conference table.
Ruth opened a worn leather bag and removed a folder.
"My father spent twenty-seven years investigating fires. He wasn't easily frightened."
She looked down.
"But that case frightened him."
"Why?" I asked.
"Because the physical evidence contradicted the final report."
She spread several photographs across the table.
"The warehouse had two main exits. One opened into the loading yard. The other led to a narrow service alley."
I studied the photographs.
A brick building.
Rusting fire escapes.
A heavy metal service door.
Ruth pointed to a close-up image.
"My father found damage on the rear door that suggested someone had tried to force it open from inside."
Grace leaned forward.
"Was the door locked?"
Ruth nodded.
"From the outside."
My stomach tightened.
"Then how did the fire start?"
"Someone deliberately introduced an accelerant near the records storage area. That was his original conclusion."
"Who changed it?"
Ruth shook her head.
"The paperwork went through several offices. Dad believed someone with considerable influence had intervened."
She reached into her folder again.
"This was the last photograph he kept hidden."
She placed it on the table.
At first, I couldn't understand what I was seeing.
The image was grainy, taken from a security camera across the street.
Two men stood beside the warehouse.
One was broad-shouldered, wearing a dark jacket.
The other wore a gray suit.
I recognized the first man immediately.
Garrick Shaw.
Victor's security director.
Then my eyes moved to the second.
I knew his posture.
His profile.
The way he stood with one hand in his pocket.
I had seen that man thousands of times.
In family photographs.
At birthday parties.
Beside my mother at charity events.
I reached for the photograph.
"No."
Grace looked at me.
"Nathan?"
My hand trembled.
Ruth spoke quietly.
"The timestamp puts them there approximately twelve minutes before the fire was reported."
I stared at the man in the gray suit.
Richard Reed.
My father.
And he was standing outside the warehouse beside the man now accused of threatening Leah Morales.
Grace pressed both hands against her mouth.
I wanted the photograph to be fake.
I wanted the timestamp to be wrong.
I wanted anything other than what was directly in front of me.
But Ruth wasn't finished.
She turned the photograph over.
May you like
Someone had written five words on the back in black ink.
"RICHARD KNEW THE DOOR WAS LOCKED."
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