Chapter 3 - The Suburbs at Dawn
The sun was just beginning to drag its pale, gray light over the manicured lawns of Lake Oswego, casting long shadows across my parents' brick-front colonial home. It looked peaceful, almost idyllic, with its neat hedges, blooming hydrangeas, and my father's silver Subaru Outback parked neatly in the driveway—mud still caked thickly inside the wheel wells, exactly as it had appeared on the traffic camera footage.
Three unmarked police cruisers rolled silently down the residential street, their headlights off, stopping fifty yards short of the driveway.
I sat in the passenger seat of Reyes's car, my hands clenched so tightly in my lap that my fingernails dug deep into my palms.
"Stay here, Claire," Reyes instructed, adjusting his tactical vest over his dress shirt. "Protocol requires we execute the search warrant with local backup. We're going to secure the premises, locate your father's vehicle, and search the study for the lockbox and any accelerant residues."
"Can I come?" I asked, my voice tight. "I know where they keep the spare keys, I know where my dad hides his spare garage clicker, and I know every dark corner of that house."
Reyes looked at me for a long moment, weighing the risk. Then he nodded. "Stay behind me. If your mother starts talking, do not engage. Let us handle it."
We moved up the concrete walkway in a tight, disciplined formation. Two officers flanked the side doors to prevent anyone from slipping out the back, while Reyes and a local detective stepped up to the heavy oak front door.
Reyes didn't bother ringing the bell. He struck the wood three distinct, heavy times with the flat of his hand.
"Police! Search warrant!"
Silence answered from within. The house looked asleep, its plantation shutters closed tight against the morning light.
Reyes waited five seconds, then signaled the officer to his left. A heavy steel battering ram was positioned against the lock, but before it could strike, the front door clicked and swung inward.
My father stood in the foyer, wearing a plaid flannel bathrobe over his pajamas, his silver hair uncombed and his face pale, gaunt, and dripping with cold sweat.
"What... what is the meaning of this?" my father stammered, his eyes darting past Reyes to land directly on me standing behind him on the porch. His breath hitched. "Claire? What are you doing here? Your mother said your apartment..." He stopped, swallowing hard as he saw the uniform badges glinting in the morning light.
"Good morning, Mr. Whitman," Reyes said smoothly, stepping past him into the foyer without waiting for an invitation. "I'm Investigator Reyes, Portland Fire Bureau, alongside local detectives. We have a warrant to search this residence and your vehicle for evidence related to arson, burglary, and destruction of property."
My father staggered back a step, gripping the polished banister of the staircase for support. "Arson? That's insane! We were home all day yesterday! Ask Emma—my wife was right here baking bread!"
"Where is your wife, Mr. Whitman?" Reyes asked, his voice cutting through my father's nervous bluster.
"She's... she's upstairs getting dressed," my father whispered, his eyes wide with rising panic.
May you like
Suddenly, a sharp, cold voice echoed down the sweeping staircase from the second-floor landing.
"Arthur, stop babbling to the trash and call our lawyer."
