Page 79
Brandon shrugged. “Last I heard, it was sitting in some private trust. But that doesn’t mean someone else isn’t trying to claim it and doing it while hiding behind anonymity.”
She scanned the ledger. “There’s no name here, but it mentions a law firm.” She paused, squinting. “You have any idea who the representative might have been?”
“My dad butted heads with a guy named Waddell over this land. He’s a real estate lawyer and wanted to buy it cheap without bringing it up to fire code. He’s the kind of guy who hires muscle to do his dirty work.” Brandon wrote the name down and underlined it twice, pressing hard enough to gouge the paper.
Desiree snapped a photo of the ledger page, then drafted an email on her phone, her fingers moving fast and sure. “I’m sending a request for information about that law firm, Waddell, and any information about these pieces of land we don’t already have.”
He watched her, felt the admiration blooming somewhere deep in his chest. “Good idea.”
“Thanks.” She looked up and smiled. “The pieces are finally coming together.”
He nudged the map with his knuckle. “At least we finally have a lead that makes sense.”
For the next couple of hours, they continued to work side by side, trading files and reviewing their notes. They nibbled on the donuts, then on the sandwiches that Kimble brought in later for lunch.
It was just after they finished eating that Brandon noticed the cross-reference coming through the fax machine. A private survey was commissioned by a shell company tied to Waddell, the lawyer. The next step was obvious—pull the old title dispute files, find any threats, any hint of a motive in the public record.
Desiree slid her glasses down her nose, caught him watching, and just arched one eyebrow. “Something you need to say?”
He shook his head. “Just don’t want to jinx it.”
“Nothing to jinx,” she asserted. “We’ll get him and stop him from setting any more fires.”
He looked at her, the lush dark hair, the certainty in her eyes, and felt a strange sense of calm that only she could stir in him. Like everything was already done, and they were just waiting to write the last lines to close the case file.
They finished organizing the evidence wall, then sat back. Brandon stared at the map, at the name underlined in the margin, at the boundary lines radiating out. And for the first time since this all began, he felt like they could actually stop the fires.
The next day, Desiree arrived at the station with a large folder clenched against her chest. She splayed the folder open on the conference table and thumbed through the stack. “You said you wanted proof—I finally found it.”
He reached for the coffee carafe, poured a cup, and watched as she lined up three sheets on the table like evidence for a jury.
Desiree pointed with the edge of her hand. “The first is a property transfer request, dated three weeks before your father’s accident. That’s standard for the time—nothing weird there.”
Brandon squinted at the page. He recognized the date immediately, the month his dad had been spending every night going over legal forms in the living room, muttering under his breath about “those buzzards from Austin.”
Desiree continued, “But this” —she tapped the next page— “is a memo from the county clerk’s office, internal only. The day after your father’s fire, a legal rep from Waddell’s firm showed up and demanded a copy of the fire marshal’s preliminary report. That isn’t typical for a property sale unless there’s already an insurance claim or a suit, but there wasn’t one.”
He slid the pages closer, searching for a name he recognized. “So, he wanted to see the report before it was even final?”
Desiree nodded, her face flat as a chalkboard. “And the third page is the clincher.” She slid it over. “Waddell tampered with evidence in the case. Someone signed out one of the accelerant sample bags from the county storage and returned it two days later, with the chain-of-custody form unsigned by any law enforcement. One of my contacts at the county records department told me they were aware that a lawyer had requested it, was denied, and then suddenly, it was being requested by someone else connected to him that had authorization. There were rumors that the content was swapped, or at least contaminated, and that’s why your father’s case was ruled accidental instead of arson.”
His jaw flexed. He looked up at her, not sure if she was about to keep going or just wait for him to explode.
After another moment or two, she continued. “They can’t charge him for it since the evidence is mostly circumstantial, but now the county believes Waddell had motive to kill your father, or at the very least to orchestrate the fire so he couldn’t block the land sale due to the fire code violations. They flagged it as a potential homicide, pending further investigation.”
Brandon went still, hands flat on the table, all the air leaving him at once. He stared at the folder, the neat lines of text, the way his father’s name appeared repeatedly. Most prominently, on the third sheet just above the line for “legal protestant” was his father’s signature. Block letters, angry, the kind of writing he only used when he was trying to make a point. Brandon ran his thumb over the signature, then set the page back on the table. “You’re sure about this?”
Desiree’s answer was brisk. “The county is sure. They want us to keep quiet for now, let them work the evidence, but they’re going to officially reclassify your father’s case.”
He let the silence build, hands clenched so tight his knuckles ached. The old familiar burn of anger lit up his chest, sending him back to a time when he felt like he was the only one who thought there was something suspicious about his father’s death. The last time, he’d let it fuel him, kept him moving through the worst of it. Now it just felt like a weight. But he wasn’t alone in it this time, he reminded himself. Desiree not only believed him but had found evidence to prove it was not an accident. Finally, his family would have justice for what happened.
“What do I tell my mom?” He asked, knowing that she deserved to know the truth.
“You don’t tell her anything,” Desiree told him, “at least not yet. Not until we can arrest Waddell and whoever he hired to set the fire.”
Brandon crossed his arms over his chest with a frown. “So, I’m supposed to just act like everything’s fine? She’s been living with this lie for years. I’m not going to let her—” He cut himself off, jaw twitching again.
Desiree straightened, hands flat on the folder. “The truth always comes out—but in this case, it’s important when. Waiting a little while longer isn’t going to hurt her, but it could hurt the case.”
