Chapter 4 - The Fire in Dad's StudyBy the time I reached the driveway, firefighters had already broken the window of my father's study.
Smoke rolled through the shattered frame.
Mom made a sound beside me that I had never heard before.
Not a scream.
Something quieter.
The sound of someone watching a second funeral.
“Dad's things.”
I grabbed her shoulders.
“Stay here.”
She tried to follow anyway.
A firefighter blocked us near the front walk.
“Ma'am, you can't enter.”
“My brother is inside.”
“No civilians are inside.”
“Where is he?”
The firefighter pointed toward the curb.
Grant stood beside Vanessa near an ambulance.
He wore jeans now.
Dad's robe was gone.
Vanessa had changed into an expensive cream sweater, and both of them were performing distress with remarkable discipline.
Grant saw me.
His expression lasted half a second too long.
Surprise.
Then grief.
“Natalie!”
He hurried toward me.
“Thank God.”
I didn't move.
“What happened?”
“Electrical fire.”
“In Dad's study?”
“Apparently.”
“The locked study containing six years of financial records?”
His face tightened.
“Don't start.”
Vanessa approached.
“We almost lost everything.”
I looked toward the house.
Only one section appeared damaged.
Dad's study.
Convenient.
“When did the fire start?”
Grant shook his head.
“We don't know.”
“You were home.”
“We were upstairs.”
“At eleven in the morning?”
Vanessa crossed her arms.
“We don't owe you our daily schedule.”
The fire investigator did not share her opinion.
His name was Detective Marcus Bell, though technically he worked with the county fire marshal's investigative unit.
Forty minutes later, he separated us.
I told him about the forged deed.
Then the loans.
Then the power of attorney.
His posture changed after the first thirty seconds.
“You have copies?”
“Yes.”
“I need them.”
Sam, who had followed us in his own car, gave him everything we had.
Bell listened without interruption.
When I finished, he glanced at the broken study window.
“Interesting timing.”
“That's one description.”
“Don't confront your brother about the fire.”
“He invited me here tonight because he supposedly found something in that room.”
Bell's eyes narrowed.
“Did he send that in writing?”
“Phone call.”
“Any recording?”
“No.”
“Call log?”
“Yes.”
“Save it.”
Mom sat on the stone retaining wall holding her handbag in both hands.
Bell walked over.
“Mrs. Parker, I'm sorry to ask this right now. Do you know whether there were smoke detectors inside the study?”
“Yes.”
“Working?”
“Yes. Natalie had the security system upgraded before she left.”
That caught my attention.
“The security system.”
I took out my phone.
The original system had included cloud-backed cameras.
I hadn't opened the application in years.
I tried logging in.
Password incorrect.
I reset it using my email.
Account not found.
Grant had changed ownership.
Of course he had.
But hardware systems leave histories.
And companies keep records.
I called the security provider from the sidewalk.
After identity verification, a representative confirmed that the account had been transferred four years earlier.
“Transferred by whom?”
“We have an authorization document.”
“Signed by me?”
“Yes.”
Another forgery.
“Can you preserve the account history?”
The representative hesitated.
“I'm unable to release—”
“My attorney is standing beside me, and a fire investigator is standing ten feet away.”
Sam took the phone.
Things moved faster after that.
Bell eventually allowed Mom to retrieve essential medication from the unaffected portion of the house.
I went with her under supervision.
The damage stopped near the hallway.
Dad's study was black.
Shelves collapsed.
Cabinets charred.
His oak desk had become a scorched skeleton.
But fire behaves unpredictably.
It destroys some things and preserves others.
Near the doorway, Bell crouched.
“What is that?”
Part of a metal lockbox protruded beneath fallen plaster.
Mom recognized it.
“George's document box.”
Dad kept original birth certificates, military records, insurance policies, and sentimental papers inside.
A firefighter removed it.
The exterior was black.
The locking mechanism had warped.
But it had remained closed.
Bell wouldn't let us open it.
“Evidence now.”
Grant overheard.
“That's family property.”
Bell looked at him.
“Whose?”
Grant hesitated.
“Mine.”
I almost admired the arrogance.
Bell wrote something in his notebook.
“What makes it yours?”
“I own the house.”
“With all due respect, Mr. Parker, ownership is currently disputed.”
Grant looked at me.
His eyes were no longer pretending.
He hated me.
Not like a sibling angry about inheritance.
Like an enemy threatening his survival.
Later, as firefighters packed their hoses, Bell pulled me aside.
“I can't make conclusions yet.”
“Understood.”
“But I can tell you the origin appears localized.”
“What does that mean?”
“The fire didn't start in the wall.”
My pulse jumped.
“Electrical?”
“Unlikely.”
He glanced toward Grant.
“We'll know more after laboratory analysis.”
Sam drove Mom back to the hotel.
I stayed to speak with the insurance investigator.
That's when Vanessa approached me alone.
She had been waiting.
“Natalie.”
I turned.
For once, her expression held no superiority.
Only calculation.
“You're making this bigger than it needs to be.”
“I didn't forge anything.”
“Grant made mistakes.”
“That is an unusually polite term for stealing nearly a million dollars.”
Her mouth tightened.
“You've always thought you're better than him.”
“This isn't about me.”
“It has always been about you.”
I studied her.
She stepped closer.
“Do you know what your father did to Grant?”
“Dad gave him the printing company.”
“A dying business.”
“He gave me no business at all.”
“He gave you respect.”
That surprised me.
Vanessa continued.
“Your father talked about you constantly. Natalie got promoted. Natalie bought the house. Natalie works internationally. Natalie saved us.”
Her voice sharpened with each sentence.
“Do you know what he said about Grant?”
I waited.
“Nothing.”
For the first time, I understood part of the wound.
Not an excuse.
But a wound.
“Then Grant should have gone to therapy.”
Vanessa laughed bitterly.
“You really haven't changed.”
“And you haven't answered something.”
“What?”
“Why is my mother dressed like a maid?”
Vanessa looked away.
That mattered.
“Grant said she needed structure.”
“Structure?”
“She was interfering.”
“In her own home.”
“Our home.”
“You actually believe that?”
“I believe we spent six years dealing with her while you sent money and got praised for it.”
There it was.
Resentment dressed as justification.
“She cooked,” Vanessa continued. “She cleaned. It made her useful.”
My jaw tightened.
“She is seventy-one.”
“So?”
“So you're lucky I'm speaking to you instead of—”
“Instead of what?”
Vanessa smiled.
She wanted anger.
Something she could photograph.
Record.
Use.
I lowered my voice.
“Instead of letting my attorney do all the talking.”
Her smile faded.
I walked away.
That afternoon, something unexpected happened.
A woman called my hotel room.
“I need to speak to Natalie Parker.”
“This is Natalie.”
“My name is Rebecca Sloan.”
The notary.
I sat straight.
“How did you get this number?”
“Your brother gave it to me years ago.”
“That's interesting.”
“Please don't hang up.”
I didn't.
She sounded frightened.
“I heard about the fire.”
“Why would that concern you?”
Silence.
Then:
“Because Grant called me this morning.”
My pulse accelerated.
“What did he want?”
“He told me to remember our agreement.”
“What agreement?”
“I can't say over the phone.”
“Then why call?”
“Because I didn't know he was going to do this.”
“Do what?”
“All of it.”
I looked toward the bedroom where Mom was sleeping.
“How much did you know?”
Rebecca began crying.
“I notarized signatures.”
“My signatures.”
“Yes.”
“Without me present.”
“Yes.”
The admission was so clean that for a second I had nothing to say.
“How many?”
“I don't know.”
“You're a notary.”
“I know.”
“How many?”
“Maybe nine.”
Nine.
Not one.
Not two.
Nine.
“Why?”
“Vanessa said it was temporary. Grant said you approved everything from overseas.”
“You believed that?”
“At first.”
“And later?”
She started crying harder.
“Later they paid me.”
I closed my eyes.
“How much?”
“Twenty thousand total.”
Twenty thousand dollars.
That was the price of helping steal my home.
“I want immunity.”
“You need a lawyer, Rebecca.”
“I'll tell you everything.”
“Tell the police.”
“I will.”
She lowered her voice.
“But there's something you need to know first.”
“What?”
“The house wasn't the target.”
I stopped breathing.
“What was?”
“Your father's company.”
Dad's old printing company?
Grant had inherited it.
It was barely surviving when Dad died.
“I don't understand.”
“Grant didn't forge the deed because he wanted the house.”
Rebecca swallowed.
“He needed the house as collateral because he had already lost something much bigger.”
“What did he lose?”
“Your father's company.”
My confusion deepened.
“You mean it failed?”
“No.”
Her next sentence changed everything.
“He sold it three years ago for twelve million dollars.”
I stood so quickly the chair fell behind me.
“That's impossible.”
“That's what Grant wanted everyone to think.”
“What happened to the money?”
Rebecca went silent.
Then she whispered:
“That's why someone burned the study.”
The call disconnected.
I tried calling back.
Straight to voicemail.
Twenty minutes later, Detective Bell called.
His tone was serious.
“Ms. Parker, do you know a woman named Rebecca Sloan?”
“Yes.”
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“Why?”
“Because someone just found her car abandoned near Lake Lanier.”
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