Chapter 4 - The Night of the Fire
Caleb walked into the stairwell.
I followed but stopped several feet away.
“Caleb.”
“Don’t.”
I stopped.
He gripped the railing.
“I knew he’d do this.”
“Do what?”
“Make you look at me differently.”
“I’m not.”
“You will.”
He turned toward me.
“You want your son back.”
“I want you.”
“You want the ten-year-old you lost.”
“No.”
“You kept his room.”
His words landed hard.
“I thought that showed hope.”
“It showed you were waiting for someone who doesn’t exist anymore.”
I nodded slowly.
“You’re right.”
He looked surprised.
“I don’t want that boy instead of you.”
His eyes filled.
“I don’t even know who I am.”
“Then we can find out.”
His expression twisted.
“There you go.”
“What?”
“Making it sound easy.”
I went quiet.
“You’re right again.”
He leaned against the wall.
After a long silence, he spoke.
“The fire happened when I was fourteen.”
I waited.
“State inspectors had started asking questions.”
“About the facility?”
“Yes.”
“Vane was moving records.”
“Did Richard know?”
“He visited that week.”
My stomach tightened.
“He told me Saint Bartholomew might close.”
Caleb laughed bitterly.
“I thought that meant I could finally go home.”
“What happened?”
“They moved six boys into the basement.”
“Why?”
“They said we were run risks.”
I felt sick.
“There was a kid named Noah.”
“How old?”
“Thirteen.”
Caleb’s mouth almost formed a smile.
“He stole food for everyone.”
My eyes burned.
“The fire started after midnight.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Richard—”
“No.”
Caleb looked at me sharply.
“I don’t know who started it.”
I nodded.
“Okay.”
That seemed to calm him.
“Smoke came under the basement door.”
“Was it locked?”
“Yes.”
My hands clenched.
“We used a metal chair to break a window.”
“How high?”
“Too high for some of the younger kids.”
He stared at his hands.
“I climbed out first.”
“You were fourteen.”
“I was biggest.”
He said it like a defense.
Like a fourteen-year-old being biggest made him an adult.
“We pulled four kids through.”
“And Noah?”
Caleb stopped.
My chest tightened.
“What happened?”
“He went back.”
“For someone?”
“A kid named Jason.”
Caleb wiped his face.
“Noah got him to the window.”
“And?”
“Smoke got worse.”
His voice broke.
“I tried to go back.”
“Oh, Caleb.”
“A staff member grabbed me.”
“You were trying to help.”
“He died.”
“That isn’t your fault.”
“You didn’t hear him.”
The words cut through me.
“No.”
“You weren’t there.”
“No.”
“I heard him.”
Caleb hit the railing with his palm.
“I heard him shouting.”
I flinched.
He immediately froze.
“Sorry.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“You’re allowed to be angry.”
His face changed.
“What?”
“You don’t have to protect me from your anger.”
“I yelled.”
“You didn’t threaten me.”
“I hit the railing.”
“You didn’t hit me.”
His eyes lowered.
“I don’t know the difference sometimes.”
That broke me.
We sat on the stairs.
Not touching.
After several minutes, Caleb whispered, “Noah’s mother blamed me.”
“Why?”
“Vane said I started the fire.”
“What?”
“He said I was violent and unstable.”
“And Richard?”
“He paid the facility’s lawyers.”
“For you?”
Caleb laughed without humor.
“For them.”
My stomach twisted.
“What did investigators decide?”
“Electrical failure.”
“Were you questioned?”
“Yes.”
“Did they believe you?”
“No.”
He looked directly at me.
“They believed adults.”
I had no answer.
“What happened afterward?”
“Temporary foster placements.”
“Did you tell anyone who you were?”
“Yes.”
My heart stopped.
“A social worker.”
“What happened?”
“She called Richard.”
Of course.
“He showed her paperwork saying you and he had voluntarily put me in treatment.”
“Forged paperwork.”
“I know now.”
“What did she say?”
“That I should be grateful my father still cared enough to pay.”
My eyes filled.
“So you ran.”
“That night.”
“And lived on the street?”
“Mostly.”
“For three years?”
“Yes.”
I looked at this seventeen-year-old sitting beside me and suddenly understood how impossible survival had been.
“You should be finishing high school.”
“I should have had a lot of things.”
No anger.
Just fact.
The stairwell door opened.
Detective Lopez appeared.
“We found something.”
Caleb stood immediately.
“What?”
“The original fire photographs.”
She showed us the electrical panel.
“The official report blamed this.”
“Yes,” Caleb said.
“There’s a problem.”
“What?”
“The panel was already disconnected.”
My blood chilled.
“So the fire wasn’t electrical.”
“Probably not.”
“Arson?”
“We’re bringing in specialists.”
Then she showed us a payment.
Two hundred thousand dollars.
Richard to Saint Bartholomew’s maintenance director.
Three days after the fire.
Caleb whispered, “He knew.”
Lopez nodded.
“Possibly.”
Back in the private office, detectives accessed an external hard drive.
One folder contained old security footage.
Caleb stared at it.
Lopez said, “You do not have to watch.”
“I need to.”
The video showed a hallway.
1:17 a.m.
A man in a cap walked toward the basement.
He opened the door.
Looked inside.
Then locked it.
“Vane,” Caleb whispered.
The man walked toward the utility room.
Seven minutes later, smoke entered the frame.
The footage ended.
My stomach rolled.
“He locked them inside.”
Lopez’s face was pale.
“Yes.”
Then an audio file appeared.
Vane’s voice.
And Richard’s.
Richard said:
“Once those files are gone, the investigation dies.”
Vane replied:
“And the boys?”
A pause.
My husband answered:
“They’re already documented as unstable. Who will believe them?”
Caleb stopped breathing.
I grabbed the desk to remain standing.
Richard had known children were inside.
Maybe he had not lit the fire.
But he knew evidence was being destroyed.
He knew the boys were trapped in that system.
My phone rang.
Blocked.
I answered.
Richard didn’t bother pretending calm.
“You found the drive.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t understand what Vane did.”
“You paid him after a child died.”
“I paid him to keep Caleb alive.”
“He locked six children in a basement!”
“I didn’t tell him to do that.”
“But you knew afterward.”
Silence.
“You paid him.”
Another silence.
Then Richard said:
“Victoria, listen carefully.”
“No.”
“Ethan isn’t with you.”
Everything inside me stopped.
I turned.
Caleb went pale.
“What?”
Richard continued.
“You left him in the lobby.”
I ran toward the elevator.
“Where is my son?”
Richard laughed.
“You spent seven years searching for one boy.”
The elevator doors opened.
May you like
My heart stopped at his next words.
“Let’s see how long it takes you to lose the other one.”
