Chapter 5
I tried to run toward the house.
A firefighter stopped me.
“You can’t go through there.”
“That’s my home!”
“Not right now.”
Flames poured from a second-floor window.
Grandpa’s bedroom.
I stood in the street and watched my childhood burn.
The kitchen where we made pancakes every Sunday.
The stairs where Mom used to sit while tying my shoes.
The living room where Grandpa fell asleep during every movie and denied it afterward.
Gone.
Helen stood beside me.
She had already called Detective Lewis.
I didn’t care.
“Tyler did this.”
“We don’t know that.”
“He called me from here.”
“We need evidence.”
“I heard the fire.”
“I know.”
“He told me to come get the truth.”
“I know.”
I turned on her.
“Why are you defending him?”
“I’m not. I’m trying to make sure he goes to prison if he did this.”
Police arrived.
I gave them Tyler’s number.
Helen gave them everything she knew.
The fire department found signs of forced entry at the back door.
That mattered.
So did the neighbor’s security camera.
At 5:42 p.m., a black SUV entered the alley behind Grandpa’s house.
At 6:11, it left.
Smoke appeared seven minutes later.
The license plate was blurry.
But I knew the vehicle.
So did the police.
Tyler’s SUV.
This time, they issued a warrant.
But Tyler had disappeared.
Denise claimed she didn’t know where he was.
Nobody believed her.
The fire burned for two hours.
When it was finally controlled, the second floor was destroyed.
Part of the roof had collapsed.
I sat on the curb.
Helen sat beside me.
Neither of us spoke.
Eventually, an older woman crossed the street carrying a blanket.
Mrs. Alvarez.
She had lived next door since before I was born.
The second she saw me, she started crying.
“Evan.”
I stood.
She wrapped the blanket around my shoulders and hugged me.
“I thought you were dead.”
“What?”
“Your aunt said you were in a treatment center.”
My eyes met Helen’s.
“What treatment center?”
“She said after Walter died you had some kind of breakdown.”
Mrs. Alvarez looked confused.
“She told everyone you were getting psychiatric care.”
My face burned.
Of course she did.
If neighbors asked where the fifteen-year-old boy had gone, Denise needed an answer.
“She kicked me out.”
Mrs. Alvarez’s hand flew to her mouth.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“That woman.”
She looked toward the burned house.
Then something occurred to her.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“Walter gave me something.”
Helen stood immediately.
“What?”
Mrs. Alvarez looked at her suspiciously.
“And you are?”
“Helen Brooks.”
Recognition flashed across her face.
“Oh.”
“What did Walter give you?”
Mrs. Alvarez lowered her voice.
“A key.”
My pulse jumped.
“What kind?”
“I don’t know.”
She led us to her house.
Inside, she opened a kitchen drawer.
Then another.
Finally, she removed an old coffee tin.
From the bottom came a small brass key attached to a red plastic tag.
The tag had two numbers.
17-4.
Helen stared at it.
“Did Walter say what it opened?”
Mrs. Alvarez nodded.
“He said if anything ever happened to him, I should give it to Evan.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Denise told me Evan was sick.”
She looked at me.
“I asked to visit you. She said visitors were not allowed.”
My jaw clenched.
Mrs. Alvarez continued.
“Then she told me you became violent.”
“Did Grandpa say anything else about the key?”
She thought.
“One thing.”
“What?”
“He said, ‘Tell Evan the lake was never about the house.’”
Helen inhaled sharply.
I turned to her.
“You know what that means.”
“I think so.”
“Tell me.”
“Your grandfather owned a lake house in Wisconsin years ago.”
“Lake Geneva.”
“Yes.”
“I went there when I was little.”
“You probably don’t remember much.”
“I remember a dock.”
Helen nodded.
“Walter sold the property after your mother died.”
“So how does a key help?”
“Maybe it isn’t for the house.”
I looked at the tag again.
17-4.
“A storage unit?”
“Possibly.”
Mrs. Alvarez suddenly touched my arm.
“There’s something else.”
She went upstairs.
When she returned, she carried a photograph.
My mother was in it.
So was Grandpa.
And Denise.
They were standing at the lake house.
I was maybe four.
Mom held me.
Dad stood behind her.
Michael.
I barely remembered his face.
In the photograph, he had his arm around Mom.
They were smiling.
Denise wasn’t.
She stood at the edge of the picture, watching them.
On the back, Mom had written:
July 18.
The last good weekend.
I swallowed hard.
“Can I keep this?”
“It belongs to you.”
Back at Helen’s house, we searched Grandpa’s trust documents for anything containing 17-4.
Nothing.
Then Helen searched old invoices in her digital files.
At 11:38 p.m., she found it.
LAKE GENEVA PRIVATE STORAGE.
Unit 174.
My heart started racing.
“Is it still active?”
“I don’t know.”
“Call them.”
“It’s almost midnight.”
“Then we go tomorrow.”
Helen hesitated.
“What?”
“If Tyler knows about the file—”
“He burned the house because he thought it was there.”
“Maybe.”
“So he doesn’t know about the storage unit.”
“Maybe.”
I hated that word.
My phone buzzed.
A text from an unknown number.
You should have stayed homeless.
I showed Helen.
She immediately called Detective Lewis.
He told us not to respond.
Then another message came.
Grandpa ruined this family.
A third.
Your mother knew what he was.
My hands shook.
I typed before Helen could stop me.
What happened to my mother?
Three dots appeared.
Then disappeared.
Then appeared again.
Finally:
Ask your father.
I stared at the screen.
Helen went silent.
“You said Michael was in treatment when Mom died.”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Wisconsin.”
“Near Lake Geneva?”
She closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
Everything shifted.
“Was he at the house that weekend?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“You knew about the letters. You knew about Mom’s fight with Grandpa. Now there’s a file named after Lake Geneva and Tyler tells me to ask my father.”
“I don’t know what the file contains.”
“But you know something.”
Helen looked exhausted.
“There was a police report after your mother’s death.”
“For the accident?”
“No.”
I stopped breathing.
“What police report?”
“Your grandfather filed it.”
“Against who?”
“Michael.”
My father.
“For what?”
“He accused Michael of threatening him.”
“When?”
“Two days before your mother died.”
My head started pounding.
“What kind of threat?”
“Michael allegedly said that if Walter kept him away from you and your mother, Walter would regret it.”
“Did Dad deny it?”
“Yes.”
“Was he arrested?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“There wasn’t enough evidence.”
I walked away from the table.
“Everybody lied.”
“Evan.”
“Grandpa lied about Dad. Denise lied about the trust. You knew pieces and said nothing.”
“I was your grandfather’s attorney.”
“You’re my guardian now.”
“Yes.”
“So stop protecting dead people.”
That hit her.
Good.
She stood.
“You’re right.”
I hadn’t expected that.
“You’re right,” she repeated. “I spent years treating your grandfather’s secrets like privileged information even when the legal reasons ended. Some of that was loyalty. Some was fear of destroying your image of him.”
“That image is already gone.”
“I know.”
“Then tell me everything.”
Helen took a breath.
“Walter believed Michael had returned to drinking shortly before your mother died.”
“Was he?”
“I don’t know.”
“He believed Michael was pressuring your mother to leave Chicago with him.”
“Was he?”
“Yes.”
That surprised me.
“Your mother had planned to take you and move to Wisconsin.”
“With Dad?”
“Yes.”
“Did Grandpa know?”
“He found out.”
“And that was their argument?”
“Yes.”
I stared at the photograph of Mom.
The last good weekend.
“What did Denise have to do with it?”
“I never understood that part.”
“Grandpa did.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Because years later he hired a private investigator.”
My skin prickled.
“Why?”
“To reconstruct the final weeks of your mother’s life.”
“And?”
“Helen?”
She looked at the storage key.
“I think that investigation is what Tyler just tried to destroy.”
We left Chicago at seven the next morning.
Detective Lewis insisted an officer accompany us.
The storage facility sat twenty minutes outside Lake Geneva.
Unit 174 was in the back row.
The brass key worked.
The metal door rattled upward.
Inside were six boxes.
A metal filing cabinet.
An old laptop.
And one locked black case.
Nothing looked touched.
I stepped inside.
Helen opened the first box.
Bank statements.
The second had photographs.
The third had files marked with dates.
Then I saw one with Mom’s name.
LAURA HAYES.
My hands froze.
Helen said, “You don’t have to read it here.”
“Yes, I do.”
I opened it.
Phone records.
Police reports.
Printed emails.
A private investigator’s notes.
Then a photograph slid onto the floor.
I picked it up.
My mother stood outside the Lake Geneva house.
She was crying.
A man stood in front of her.
Dad.
The timestamp was the night she died.
11:08 p.m.
My chest collapsed.
Helen whispered, “Michael told everyone he wasn’t there.”
Behind the photograph was another image.
11:11 p.m.
Mom getting into her car.
Dad reaching for the driver’s door.
May you like
And in the far corner of the picture, almost hidden by darkness, stood Aunt Denise.
Watching them both.
