“But how? The house is surrounded by police now.”
“It will be for a few hours. But at night, when he goes to the hotel—because he will not want to sleep in a burnt house—we can go in.”
I looked at her as if she were crazy.
“You want me to break into my own house?”
“Technically, it is not trespassing if you live there.”
She smiled in that cold way again.
“And besides, we are going to need proof. Evidence. Something solid that proves James planned this.”
It made sense. A terrifying sense. But it did.
“I am going with you,” said Leo suddenly.
“No way. You are staying here.”
“Mom, I know where Dad hides things.”
His voice was small but determined.
“There are places you do not know. I know because I watch. I always watch.”
And he really watched. My quiet son, whom everyone thought was shy, was actually incredibly attentive. He noticed things I missed.
“You are right,” Catherine agreed. “Kids see what adults ignore. If there is something hidden, he will know where to look.”
I did not like the idea. I did not want to expose Leo to danger again. But I also knew we needed evidence, and time was running out.
The day passed slowly. We stayed locked in the office, watching the news, watching James put on his show. He gave interviews to three different channels, always with the same story. A devastated businessman looks for his family. A father’s hope. The anguish of not knowing.
Lies. It was all a lie.
Through the subdivision’s security cameras, which Catherine had access to through a contact, we watched James being taken to the precinct to give a statement. We watched him return and stand in front of the destroyed house for hours talking to neighbors, to police, to whoever appeared.
And then finally, when the sun began to set, we saw him get into a car and leave.
“Now,” said Catherine.
She gave me dark clothes, gloves, a small flashlight. She did the same with Leo. We looked like burglars about to commit a robbery. And in a way, that was exactly it.
We drove in silence to near the subdivision, but we did not enter through the front. Catherine knew a passage in the back where the wall was lower and there were no cameras.
“Perks of having defended the developer in the divorce,” she explained.
We scaled the wall. Well, she and I climbed. We passed Leo over. On the other side, it was dark. The smell of smoke was still strong.
“Twenty minutes,” whispered Catherine. “Go in, take what you need, get out. I will stay watching here.”
I took Leo’s hand and we walked to the house. Or what was left of it. The back door, the kitchen one, was partially burnt, but could still be opened. We entered.
God, the destruction was total. The black walls, the partially collapsed ceiling, the smell of ash and chemicals. Everything that was my life was destroyed.
But we did not have time to mourn.
“The office,” I whispered to Leo. “Where is it?”
He guided me, passing through the destroyed living room, climbing the precarious steps of the stairs. James’s office was on the second floor, and miraculously it had not burned as much as the rest. The door was stuck, but I managed to force it.
The safe was there, embedded in the wall behind a painting. I punched in James’s birth date. Beep. Green. Open.
Inside were documents, a lot of cash—probably for illegal payments—and an old cell phone. I started shoving everything into the backpack I had brought.
“Take everything,” Leo’s voice sounded from the other side of the room. “Mom, look here.”
He was pointing under a loose floorboard, a hiding place I would never have known existed. I lifted the board. Inside was another cell phone, a black notebook, and an envelope. I took everything in a hurry, stuffing it into the backpack.
“Let’s go. Fast.”
We were almost at the door when we heard it.
Voices downstairs.
“Are you sure there is no one?”
“Yes. The police already cleared the site. We are just checking.”
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