Chapter 2 - The Empty Station
The precinct waiting room smelled of industrial floor wax, stale instant coffee, and rain-soaked wool. It was past midnight, the city outside quiet except for the occasional hiss of tires on wet asphalt.
I sat on a hard plastic chair, staring at my reflection in the dark, smeared window pane. My face was smudged with soot, a dark streak running from my cheekbone to my jaw, and my eyes were rimmed in red from hours of crying that had finally dried into a numb, hollow ache.
Investigator Reyes pushed through the swinging double doors holding two paper cups of terrible-smelling black coffee. He handed me one, sitting down in the chair beside me.
"Forensics pulled the serial number off the lockbox recovered from your bedroom," Reyes said, keeping his voice low so the desk sergeant across the room couldn't overhear. "It was pried open with a flathead screwdriver or a heavy-duty pry bar. No fingerprints on the metal—whoever did it wore gloves."
"My mother or Miles," I said flatly, staring into the dark liquid of the coffee cup. "They're the only ones who knew where I kept it. And they're the only ones who cared about Grandma's will."
"We checked traffic cameras around your apartment complex," Reyes continued, pulling a small tablet from his jacket and tapping the screen. "Your complex doesn't have private cameras facing the alley, but the city traffic cam at the corner of 4th and Hawthorne captured a vehicle turning onto your street at 2:14 PM yesterday. Exactly forty minutes before the neighbor called 911."
He turned the tablet toward me.
On the screen was a still frame captured through the heavy rain. It was a silver SUV. Muddy license plate, distinctive roof rack, and a small bumper sticker on the rear window of a local private golf club—the exact country club where my father held a lifetime membership paid for by my mother's family money.
"That's my father's car," I whispered, a cold spike of adrenaline piercing the numbness in my chest. "A 2022 Subaru Outback. My dad drives it everywhere. But... my dad hates driving into the city. He complains about the traffic and the parking. He wouldn't come to my neighborhood unless..."
"Unless he was sent," Reyes finished for him.
"Or unless Mom made him do it," I added bitterly. "My dad is an accountant. He loves routine, balance sheets, and golf. He lets my mother run every aspect of his life. If she told him to drive down here and retrieve that box, he would do it without asking questions."
"Even if it meant setting a fire?" Reyes asked, his eyes narrowing.
"No," I said instantly, shaking my head. "My dad is weak, and he's completely whipped, but he's not a pyromaniac. He wouldn't burn a building down. He's too terrified of prison, too terrified of scandal. But..." I hesitated, the horrifying thought blooming in my mind. "What if he went there just to steal the lockbox, and someone else covered their tracks? Or... what if Miles was with him?"
"Who is Miles?" Reyes asked, pulling out a notepad.
"My brother. Twenties, unemployed by choice, professional scam artist living off our parents' indulgence, and up to his eyeballs in sports betting debt." I let out a harsh, humorless laugh. "If anyone in my family has the reckless stupidity to start a fire to hide a burglary, it's Miles."
Reyes stood up, his jaw set. "Alright. We have a vehicle linked to a suspect, a duplicated key with hardware store receipts we can trace, and a clear motive involving inheritance fraud and arson. I'm writing up an emergency warrant for your parents' residence right now. But Claire..." He stopped, looking down at me. "You need to understand what happens the second we knock on their door. There's no going back to Sunday family dinners after this."
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I stood up, the weariness dropping away, replaced by a cold, steady surge of pure fury.
"Sunday family dinners ended the moment my mother told me my life was 'not her problem,'" I said. "Let's go get the warrant."
