Chapter 6 - THE SECOND ATTACKAt 2:13 the next morning, someone tried to burn down our temporary kitchen.
The call came from the property owner's alarm company.
Smoke sensor.
Rear loading entrance.
Fire department dispatched.
I was awake before the phone finished ringing.
Detective Ortiz's warning had convinced me to spend the night at Sarah's house instead of mine.
By the time we arrived, firefighters were already rolling hoses back toward the trucks.
No flames.
Minimal damage.
But behind the temporary kitchen, someone had stacked cardboard boxes against the rear service door, soaked them in gasoline, and lit them.
The fire burned upward, blackening the brick and damaging the door.
It had gone out before reaching the roofline.
A firefighter showed me why.
“Sprinkler line above the loading area activated.”
I stared at the wet concrete.
“Lucky?”
“Very.”
Sarah stood beside me in jeans and an old college sweatshirt.
“Or someone wanted it to look worse than they actually intended.”
The firefighter looked at her.
“Could be.”
Police arrived.
Not Ortiz.
A uniformed officer took our statements.
At 3:05, Ortiz called.
“Do not assume it's your family.”
“I didn't.”
“You thought it.”
“Yes.”
“That's fine. Don't say it publicly.”
“Was it them?”
“I don't know.”
“Are my parents still free?”
“Your mother and sister are. Your father was released pending further proceedings.”
Wonderful.
“Where are they?”
“I can't monitor adults who aren't under detention.”
“So one of them could've done this.”
“So could a hundred other people.”
“Who hates my temporary kitchen?”
She sighed.
“I understand.”
Security footage solved part of the question by sunrise.
A hooded figure entered the service alley at 1:57.
Average height.
Medium build.
Gloves.
Face obscured.
They carried a red gasoline container.
No visible vehicle.
They lit the boxes, watched for roughly fifteen seconds, then walked away.
Not ran.
Walked.
My insurance investigator examined the footage.
“This changes things.”
“How?”
“Second intentional loss connected to business operations.”
“Will they cover it?”
“Likely, but that's not what I mean.”
He pointed at the figure.
“Someone wants your company unable to operate.”
That sentence stayed with me.
Not destroyed.
Unable to operate.
Whoever did this understood that our temporary location had saved us.
That meant they were watching.
By eight, reporters knew.
By nine, a television station had parked across from the temporary facility.
By ten, my mother called.
I answered.
I shouldn't have.
But I did.
“Claire.”
Her voice sounded small.
That was unusual enough to silence me.
“You need to stop.”
“Stop what?”
“All of this.”
“I didn't set the fire.”
“I know.”
My grip tightened on the phone.
“How do you know?”
Silence.
“Mom?”
“I meant I know you're not doing it yourself.”
“That isn't what you said.”
“You're twisting my words.”
“No. I'm listening very carefully.”
She began crying.
My mother almost never cried.
Even at funerals, she became busy.
She organized food.
Folded coats.
Corrected flower arrangements.
Tears were something other people did.
“Your father made mistakes,” she whispered.
I looked at Sarah, who was sitting across the table.
I put the phone on speaker.
“What mistakes?”
“He was scared.”
“Of what?”
“Losing everything.”
“What did he do?”
“I can't talk about this over the phone.”
“Then come to the police station.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because they'll arrest me.”
Sarah wrote something on a legal pad.
KEEP HER TALKING.
I swallowed.
“Did you set the fire?”
“No!”
“Did Dad?”
“I don't know.”
“Madison?”
“I don't know.”
“Then what are you calling about?”
“To tell you this has gone too far.”
I almost laughed.
“My kitchen was destroyed.”
“I know.”
“Someone tried to burn the replacement.”
“I know.”
“Your husband forged an ownership document.”
“He did not.”
“Then who did?”
Silence.
There it was.
Not denial.
Deflection.
“Mom.”
“I have to go.”
“Wait.”
She didn't.
The call ended.
Sarah immediately saved the recording from my phone.
“She knows something.”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“I don't know.”
At 11:30, federal agents arrived at Bennett & Bloom's original facility.
Three unmarked vehicles.
Five people.
One introduced herself as Special Agent Naomi Price.
Financial crimes.
That title answered several questions without answering any.
She sat with me, Sarah, and Detective Ortiz in the conference room.
“The investigation involving Mads & Co. now overlaps with matters concerning your company.”
I stared at her.
“Federal matters?”
“Yes.”
“My parents?”
“I can't discuss targets.”
“Madison?”
“I can't discuss targets.”
I looked at Sarah.
She gave the smallest possible shrug.
Agent Price opened a laptop.
“We need your cooperation regarding several transactions.”
“I'll cooperate.”
She showed me a wire transfer.
$180,000.
Sent eighteen months earlier from a Bennett & Bloom operating account to a company called Sterling Market Development.
I almost stood.
“I didn't authorize that.”
“Do you recognize the company?”
“No.”
She showed another.
$95,000.
Another.
$210,000.
My hearing seemed to narrow.
“How is this possible?”
Sarah leaned forward.
“Claire's accountants would've caught half a million leaving operating accounts.”
Agent Price nodded.
“They did.”
I stared.
“What?”
“These transfers were reversed within hours.”
I looked closer.
Money left.
Then returned.
Sometimes minus small fees.
“What does that mean?”
“We're investigating.”
I hated that phrase.
Agent Price showed another page.
The authorization credentials belonged to—
“Denise.”
My controller.
The woman who had managed my books for eight years.
“She authorized these?”
“Her login did.”
I remembered the remote-access logs.
Six months.
But these transfers went back eighteen months.
“Is Denise involved?”
“We'll speak with her.”
“She has access to everything.”
“Not anymore,” Sarah said.
Correct.
We had locked all accounts.
Agent Price closed the laptop.
“Claire, has your father ever worked directly with Denise?”
“No.”
“Socially?”
“Not that I know.”
“Your sister?”
“No.”
Then I remembered last year's company holiday party.
Madison had attended.
She'd spent half the night complaining about her skincare launch.
Denise had been there.
They had talked near the bar.
But everyone had talked.
It meant nothing.
Maybe.
At 1:20, Miguel entered the conference room.
He looked sick.
“Claire, Denise isn't here.”
“What?”
“She was supposed to meet the insurance accountants at noon.”
I pulled out my phone.
No messages.
I called.
Straight to voicemail.
Again.
Voicemail.
Agent Price stood.
“What's her address?”
I gave it to her.
They left immediately.
For the next two hours, I couldn't focus.
At 3:46, Ortiz called.
“We found Denise.”
My knees weakened.
“Is she okay?”
“Yes.”
Thank God.
“Where?”
“At the airport.”
My relief disappeared.
“What?”
“She had a one-way ticket to Costa Rica.”
I sat down.
“Why?”
“We're finding out.”
“Was she arrested?”
“I can't discuss—”
“Please don't say you can't discuss it.”
She went quiet.
Then:
“She is currently being detained for questioning.”
I closed my eyes.
Eight years.
Denise had attended my birthday dinners.
She knew employee children's names.
She had cried in my office when her mother died.
She had sat with me through audits and loan applications and two years of brutal pandemic recovery.
Why would she run?
Ten minutes later, I received the answer.
An email arrived from Denise's company account.
Scheduled delivery.
Subject:
I'M SORRY.
My hands shook as I opened it.
Claire,
If you're reading this, then everything has already come apart.
I never meant for your business to be hurt.
Your father approached me almost two years ago. At first, he said he needed information because he had money invested in the company and wanted to understand whether his investment was safe.
I knew that wasn't exactly true.
I helped anyway.
Then he offered me money.
I told myself I was only giving him numbers.
Revenue.
Insurance limits.
Debt.
Valuations.
I never believed he would destroy anything.
That was the first lie I told myself.
There were many after that.
I kept reading.
The room became colder with every sentence.
Denise had given Dad internal reports.
Passwords.
Remote access.
Copies of contracts.
She had helped produce the forged ownership agreement.
And the transfers?
Tests.
Dad wanted to determine which banking controls would trigger alerts.
He had been studying my company.
Preparing to move money.
Preparing to make his fake ownership claim appear financially legitimate.
Then I reached the final paragraph.
There is one thing you do not know.
Your father isn't trying to get one million dollars.
That is only what he told Madison.
He needs much more.
Ask him about Fairmont Ridge.
Ask why he owes $3.7 million.
And Claire—
the fire wasn't him.
My breath stopped.
May you like
The email ended with one sentence.
It was Madison.
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