Chapter 8 - The Shattered Foundation
A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the front lawn.
My mother stared at her husband as if he had just grown a second head. The aristocratic mask finally dissolved entirely, replaced by a flash of pure, unadulterated murderous rage.
"You miserable, spineless coward," my mother hissed, taking a step toward him. "You are destroying this family over a hysterical ungrateful brat?"
"No, Emma," my father said, his voice surprisingly steady for a man whose entire world had just collapsed. "We destroyed this family a long time ago. I just didn't have the courage to admit it until today."
Miles let out a frantic, pathetic wail from the mud. "Dad! Are you insane? You're going to let them put us in prison? Tell them she's lying! Tell them we didn't do it!"
The local sergeant looked completely lost, his hand hovering uncertainly near his belt. He looked at Reyes, then at my father, and finally at my mother, who was now cornered by her own husband's confession.
"Investigator Reyes," the sergeant said, clearing his throat. "It... it sounds like we need to secure the premises and bring everyone down to the station for formal statements."
"Agreed," Reyes said, pulling out his radio. "I'm calling for transport units and a forensics team to process the vehicle and the house. Nobody leaves this property."
Before Reyes could finish his transmission, the sharp squeal of tires echoed from the end of the residential street.
We all turned.
A sleek black sedan whipped around the corner at high speed, careening onto our street and slamming on its brakes directly behind the local patrol cars. The doors flew open, and two men in sharp charcoal suits stepped out. They weren't local police, and they weren't fire investigators.
Their jackets were unzipped just enough to reveal heavy tactical shoulder rigs, and their demeanor was ice-cold and professional.
The lead man flashed a gold shield at the local sergeant before walking straight up to Investigator Reyes.
"Are you Fire Investigator Daniel Reyes?" the man asked sharply.
"I am," Reyes replied, narrowing his eyes. "Who's asking?"
"Special Agent Vance, FBI Portland Field Office, Financial Crimes and Insurance Fraud Division," the agent announced, pulling a document from his inner pocket. "We've been tracking an interstate insurance fraud and mortgage manipulation ring operating out of commercial properties in downtown Portland. Guess whose name just popped up on the primary commercial lease linked to the warehouse fire two blocks away from Ms. Whitman's apartment building?"
My stomach dropped.
Reyes looked at me, then back at the FBI agent. "Whose name?"
May you like
Agent Vance glanced down at his paperwork, then looked past Reyes directly at my mother, who was standing stiffly beside the porch pillars.
"Arthur and Emma Whitman," Agent Vance said clearly. "Owners of three commercial shell companies currently under federal investigation for arson-for-profit."
