Chapter 9
By the time we reached Westbridge, smoke was pouring from the basement.
Fire engines surrounded the building.
Students had already been evacuated.
Parents crowded the sidewalks.
News vans appeared almost immediately.
Someone had leaked the story.
Maybe the video.
Maybe the police presence.
Maybe everything.
My father kept me inside the SUV.
I fought him for thirty seconds.
Then I heard the fire captain shouting about structural danger and stopped.
Mrs. Adler cried beside me.
“My records.”
My father said, “Records can be replaced.”
“No.”
Her voice broke.
“Not those.”
I reached for her hand.
She grabbed mine.
“You think Isabella’s files are still inside?”
“Yes.”
“What if someone started the fire to destroy them?”
Nobody answered.
That was what we were all thinking.
Detective Morales received an update outside.
When he returned, his clothes smelled like smoke.
“The fire started in a storage room beside the archive.”
Mrs. Adler asked, “Accident?”
“No.”
My father’s voice hardened.
“Arson?”
“We found evidence of an accelerant.”
My stomach twisted.
“So someone knew.”
“Yes.”
“What about the heritage corridor?”
“It is on another level.”
Mrs. Adler exhaled.
“The plaque may still be safe.”
Morales continued.
“But firefighters found something else.”
I hated that phrase now.
Something else.
There was always something else.
“What?”
“A man was found unconscious near the basement exit.”
My father asked, “Who?”
“Brandon Hayes.”
The name hit me like electricity.
Principal Hayes’s son.
The man Carter said had given him my school schedule.
“Is he alive?”
“Yes. Smoke inhalation. He’s being transported.”
“Did he start the fire?”
“We don’t know.”
My father said, “Where is Richard Hayes?”
Morales paused.
“We don’t know that either.”
Dr. Shaw appeared beside the vehicle.
I recognized her heels even over the chaos.
“Richard is gone.”
My father asked, “What do you mean gone?”
“Police officers went to the conference room to question him.”
“And?”
“He wasn’t there.”
Morales swore.
Dr. Shaw continued.
“A rear service door was open.”
My skin prickled.
“He ran.”
“Yes.”
My father called his security chief.
“Find Hayes.”
Morales interrupted.
“No.”
My father turned.
“No?”
“This is a police investigation.”
“My daughter received threats.”
“And if your private security corners a fleeing suspect, I get a second problem.”
My father breathed slowly.
Then he said, “My team protects Emma. They do nothing else.”
“Good.”
I leaned toward the open door.
“What about Daniel Whitmore?”
Morales answered.
“Still here with his attorney.”
“And Carter?”
“With him.”
Sophie was also in the SUV.
She had refused to leave after her parents arrived.
At first they wanted to take her home.
Then Dr. Shaw told them about the photograph from my mother’s staircase and the Legacy records.
Her father changed his mind.
He went to pick up Ethan.
Sophie had not stopped shaking.
Now she whispered, “Emma.”
“Yes?”
“My brother texted me.”
“What did he say?”
“He remembers something.”
My heart pounded.
“What?”
“He said the night after his meeting with Principal Hayes, Brandon came to our house.”
My father turned.
“Why?”
“He told Ethan to delete copies of emails he had saved.”
“What emails?”
“Messages he sent to teachers asking for help.”
My stomach tightened.
“Did he delete them?”
Sophie’s voice changed.
For the first time that day, I heard a little strength.
“No.”
I smiled faintly.
“Good.”
“He saved everything to an old laptop.”
Detective Morales asked, “Where is it?”
“My brother has it.”
“Tell him not to touch anything.”
“He already knows.”
My phone buzzed again.
Every person in the vehicle froze.
I wanted to throw it through the window.
Morales took it.
Unknown number.
A text.
He read aloud.
“Your mother was warned too.”
Another text arrived.
Then another.
“You keep choosing the wrong side.”
My father said, “Trace it.”
“We are.”
A final message appeared.
Morales went silent.
“What?”
He hesitated.
“Emma needs to hear this.”
My father said, “No.”
I snapped, “Read it.”
The detective took a breath.
“Ask your father what Isabella did with the original ledger.”
I turned toward my father.
“What ledger?”
He said nothing.
“Dad.”
Mrs. Adler whispered, “Anthony?”
My father swore under his breath.
I felt my stomach drop.
“You know.”
“Yes.”
“What ledger?”
He leaned against the SUV.
“Your mother brought me a notebook when we were nineteen.”
“A notebook from the Legacy Council?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell police?”
“I tried.”
“What does that mean?”
“The notebook disappeared.”
My pulse raced.
“From where?”
“My apartment.”
“Someone broke in?”
“No.”
He paused.
“My father took it.”
I froze.
My grandfather.
Salvatore Moretti had died when I was seven.
I remembered him as a loud man with warm hands who smelled like espresso and cedar.
“What do you mean he took it?”
“He said he was protecting us.”
“From who?”
“He never told me.”
My voice rose.
“And you let him?”
“I was nineteen.”
“That didn’t stop Mom.”
“No.”
His answer was quiet.
“And I have regretted that every day since.”
I wanted to be angry.
But there was something crushing about hearing my father admit that.
He continued.
“My father had connections in city politics and finance. He believed the people behind the Legacy Council could damage our family before I had built enough power to fight them.”
“So he hid the ledger.”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did he destroy it?”
“I asked him before he died.”
“What did he say?”
My father hesitated.
“He said, ‘Some things are safer buried with the saints.’”
Mrs. Adler gasped.
I turned toward her.
“What?”
“The saints.”
Her voice shook.
“What does that mean?”
She turned toward my father.
“Where is your father buried?”
“St. Michael’s Cemetery.”
“No.”
She said it quickly.
“Not buried like a body.”
My father frowned.
“What are you talking about?”
“Did Salvatore attend St. Anthony’s Church?”
“Yes.”
“Was he a donor?”
“For thirty years.”
Mrs. Adler exhaled.
“Isabella once told me Salvatore kept important documents in a church safe because he didn’t trust banks.”
My father went silent.
I could almost hear him remembering.
Then he whispered, “The chapel.”
“What chapel?”
“He funded the restoration of a side chapel.”
“When?”
“Nineteen ninety-nine.”
A year after my mother’s staircase incident.
My heart pounded.
“Could he have hidden the ledger there?”
“I don’t know.”
Dr. Shaw spoke from outside the SUV.
“Police should search it.”
Morales nodded.
“We’ll contact the church.”
A firefighter approached.
“Detective?”
Morales stepped away.
The man spoke quietly.
I could not hear every word.
Then Morales returned.
“What happened?”
He hesitated.
“The fire is mostly contained.”
Mrs. Adler sighed with relief.
“But?”
“They found another person in the basement.”
My father asked, “Who?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“Alive?”
“No.”
The SUV became completely silent.
Sophie covered her mouth.
Morales continued.
“The body was found inside the archive storage room.”
Mrs. Adler began crying.
My father asked, “Male or female?”
“Male.”
“Adult?”
“Yes.”
My heart hammered.
“Is it Principal Hayes?”
“We don’t know.”
Then a police officer ran toward us.
“Detective Morales!”
Morales turned.
“What?”
The officer was breathing hard.
“We found Hayes.”
My father stood.
“Where?”
The officer looked directly toward the school.
“He never left.”
My stomach dropped.
“Then where is he?”
May you like
The officer answered.
“On the roof.”
