Chapter 11 - The Fire
The warehouse belonged to a Hawthorne subsidiary.
It had been leased to Sterling Development eighteen months earlier.
I hadn’t known.
At Hawthorne’s scale, routine property leases never reached my desk.
That was exactly why Beatrice chose it.
By the time we arrived, flames had already punched through part of the roof.
Fire trucks filled the street.
Police blocked the entrance.
Daniel swore beside me.
“If their records were inside—”
“They’re destroying evidence.”
Detective Morales arrived ten minutes later.
She was furious.
“Tell me you didn’t warn Julian about the unit.”
“We didn’t.”
“Someone did.”
“Beatrice?”
“Maybe.”
Cynthia arrived under police escort.
When she saw the warehouse, she started crying.
“Oh God.”
Morales turned.
“You knew?”
“Not about the fire.”
“The building.”
Cynthia nodded.
“Mom stored old company files here.”
“How old?”
“Years.”
“Paper records?”
“Yes.”
“Financial?”
“Yes.”
Morales closed her eyes.
I looked at Cynthia.
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
“I forgot.”
“You forgot a warehouse full of evidence?”
“I didn’t know it mattered.”
Before I could answer, a firefighter approached Morales.
“We found something.”
We followed him to the command vehicle.
He placed a partially melted metal container on the table.
A fireproof document box.
Inside, despite water damage, were ledgers.
Arthur’s ledgers.
Cynthia gasped.
“My father moved them.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“He must have.”
“How do you know?”
“Mom never used those boxes.”
Morales carefully turned one ledger.
Handwritten columns.
Dates.
Payments.
Names.
Some pages were damaged.
Enough survived.
Then Morales stopped.
A line item.
M. CRANE — policy coordination.
Another.
E. FOSTER — document notarization.
Then something worse.
J. STERLING — Bennett profile expenses.
The date was fourteen months earlier.
I stared at Julian’s initial.
Bennett profile.
He had paid for the photographs.
He had paid investigators to research me.
There was no longer room for the fantasy that Beatrice manipulated an innocent son.
Julian had participated from the beginning.
I felt something inside me break.
Quietly.
Permanently.
Daniel touched my arm.
“Claire.”
“I’m fine.”
I wasn’t.
But I would be.
A second firefighter approached.
“We found a person.”
Everything changed.
“Alive?” Morales asked.
“Yes.”
My heart jumped.
“Who?”
“Older male. Smoke inhalation. He was near the rear exit.”
Cynthia’s face drained.
“My father.”
We reached the ambulance as paramedics loaded Arthur onto a stretcher.
He was conscious.
Barely.
“Dad!”
Cynthia rushed forward.
Arthur saw me behind her.
His eyes widened.
He removed the oxygen mask.
“Claire.”
“Don’t talk.”
“Phone.”
“What?”
“My phone.”
He pointed weakly toward his coat.
A paramedic handed it to me.
“Video.”
Arthur coughed violently.
“Look at the video.”
Then they loaded him into the ambulance.
Cynthia followed.
I remained with Morales.
Arthur’s phone was locked.
I knew his birthday.
It didn’t work.
Morales said, “We’ll need consent.”
I looked toward the departing ambulance.
“He gave it.”
Ten minutes later, Arthur texted the passcode through Cynthia.
The video had been recorded less than an hour before the fire.
Arthur entered the warehouse.
He filmed rows of boxes.
Then Beatrice’s voice appeared.
“What are you doing here?”
The camera jerked.
Arthur turned.
Beatrice stood near the entrance.
Julian beside her.
I stopped breathing.
Julian had left my office less than forty minutes before the fire was reported.
The video continued.
Arthur shouted,
“You’re destroying everything.”
Beatrice replied,
“I am protecting this family.”
Julian looked angry.
“You shouldn’t have come, Dad.”
Arthur said,
“Claire knows.”
Beatrice’s face changed.
“How much?”
“Enough.”
Then Julian noticed the phone.
“Are you recording?”
The video blurred.
There was shouting.
Arthur backed away.
Beatrice yelled,
“Take that phone!”
Then the recording ended.
Morales immediately issued instructions.
Find Beatrice.
Find Julian.
But Julian’s phone was already off.
Beatrice’s too.
At 8:40 that night, police located Beatrice’s car at O’Hare Airport.
Empty.
Cameras showed her entering an international terminal.
Julian was not with her.
Her ticket?
Zurich.
Departure 9:05.
Morales called federal authorities.
The aircraft was held before takeoff.
Beatrice Sterling was removed from first class in front of more than two hundred passengers.
The woman obsessed with public appearances finally received an audience.
Julian remained missing.
At midnight, I sat beside Arthur’s hospital bed.
Cynthia was asleep in a chair.
Arthur opened his eyes.
“Did you get the video?”
“Yes.”
“Beatrice?”
“Arrested.”
He closed his eyes.
“And Julian?”
“Missing.”
Arthur looked at me.
“He’ll come to you.”
“Why?”
“Because he has nowhere else.”
“I’m the last person he should come to.”
Arthur slowly shook his head.
“No.”
“He still believes you love him.”
Pain moved through me.
“Maybe part of me does.”
Arthur looked sad.
“That’s what he’ll use.”
My phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
One message.
Claire, please. I can explain everything.
A second arrived.
Come alone.
May you like
Then a location.
The church where Julian and I had been married two days earlier.
