Chapter 5 - The Silent Partner
At 1:00 AM, the hallway outside Aunt Sarah’s guest room was silent.
Evan lay awake, staring at the ceiling patterns created by the streetlamp outside his window. Every time he drifted off to sleep, he saw Eli’s face as the police officers led him away through the station doors.
“You know I didn’t do it.”
Evan sat up, threw off the gray emergency blanket, and swung his legs over the side of the bed.
He walked barefoot down the hallway toward the small study where his father had been working for the past two days. The door was slightly ajar, a thin sliver of yellow light spilling onto the hardwood floor.
Evan crept closer, holding his breath, and peered through the gap.
Derek was sitting at the wooden desk, wearing reading glasses, typing frantically on his laptop. Spread across the desk were several thick manila folders, bank statements, and a large architectural blueprint of their home on Elm Street.
Derek picked up his phone, pressing it to his ear.
"Yes, this is Derek Carter," he said into the receiver, his voice hushed but urgent. "I'm calling to check on the status of Claim Number 884-B... Yes, the commercial property policy for the Elm Street residence."
Evan leaned closer to the doorframe.
"No, the police report hasn't been finalized yet," Derek continued, tapping his pen against the desk. "However, the primary suspect—the juvenile—has already been detained. The arson investigator, Miller, assured me the initial filing would be complete by Friday... Yes, I understand the two-million-dollar disbursement requires a signed affidavit from my wife. I will have her signature by tomorrow afternoon."
Derek paused, listening to the person on the other end of the line.
"No," Derek added, a dark, arrogant smile touching his lips. "She won't be contesting the claim. She’s fully aware of her son’s behavioral history. Just make sure the electronic transfer is directed to the Delaware holding account, not the primary checking."
Derek hung up the phone, closed his laptop with a sharp snap, and rubbed his face with both hands.
Outside the door, Evan felt a cold wave of revulsion wash over him.
It hadn't been an accident. It hadn't been a sudden tragedy.
His father had planned the fire. He had used his own family as chess pieces, burning their home, injuring their mother, and sacrificing Eli to cover his financial ruin.
Evan backed away from the door, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
He crept back into his bedroom, closed the door quietly, and pulled his backpack from beneath the bed.
He reached inside, searching the side pocket until his fingers brushed against a small, metallic object he had snatched from the garage floor thirty minutes before the fire started—a object his father had dropped while carrying a heavy plastic jug into the house.
Evan pulled it out into the pale moonlight streaming through the window.
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It was a custom brass pocket lighter, engraved with the initials D.C.
And on the side of the brass casing was a smear of dried blue paint thinner.
