Chapter 9 - Fire in the Foundation
-9-
The SUV tore around the corner of Elm Street, its tires throwing up sheets of muddy water as it careened toward Ethan’s house. Even from half a mile away, the scale of the disaster was impossible to ignore. Thick, billows of greasy black smoke poured from the basement windows and the attic vents, painting the gray storm clouds an ugly charcoal color. Flames licked greedily at the white siding of the garage, already consuming the back patio where Lauren’s hydrangeas drooped in the heat.
"Hold on!" Miller shouted, slamming on the brakes as the SUV slid to a halt in the driveway right behind a pair of local fire trucks whose sirens wailed in a disorienting, deafening cacophony.
Firefighters in heavy yellow gear were already swarming the property, unrolling thick canvas hoses and shouting urgent commands across the lawn. A pair of paramedics stood near the curb with a gurney, looking toward the burning structure with grim expressions.
Ethan threw his door open before the SUV had even completely settled, jumping out into the pouring rain with Noah close behind.
"Sir! Step back behind the police line!" a firefighter in a blackened helmet shouted, stepping into Ethan’s path as he tried to rush toward the front porch.
"That's my house!" Ethan roared, grabbing the firefighter by his turnout gear. "My basement is on fire! There was someone down there!"
"We cleared the upper levels ten minutes ago!" the firefighter yelled back over the roar of the flames. "Nobody’s inside! The structure is unstable—the front porch is starting to collapse into the foundation!"
Ethan stared at the burning colonial. The front windows were blown out, shards of glass sparkling like diamonds in the firelight as tongue-like flames lashed out from the living room.
He knew David wasn't inside. David had escaped to the airstrip. But something else was down in that basement—something David had desperately tried to destroy before the federal authorities could secure the property.
The physical evidence of the fraud. The offshore ledgers, the stolen hardware, the paper trail linking Robert Sterling and David Morgan to the multi-million-dollar conspiracy that had cost Lauren everything.
"Miller!" Ethan yelled over the din of the pumps.
The private investigator was already on his satellite phone, pacing near the edge of the driveway, his face tight with concentration. He snapped the phone shut and jogged over to Ethan.
"Air traffic control just confirmed," Miller said grimly. "A private twin-engine Cessna departed the Newport municipal airstrip fifteen minutes ago, heading south-southeast toward the Bahamas. Flight plan lists a single pilot: David Morgan."
Ethan clenched his fists so hard his fingernails dug into his palms. "Can we intercept him?"
"We don't need to," Miller said with a dark, satisfied smile, tapping the screen of his phone. "Federal air marshals were scrambled the moment we cross-referenced his transponder code with the DOJ warrant. They're vectoring a Coast Guard cutter and two interception jets to box him in over international waters before he clears American airspace. He's not landing anywhere, Ethan."
"Dad," Noah whispered, pulling gently on Ethan’s coat sleeve. He was staring not at the burning house, but at the edge of the property line near the old oak tree by the driveway.
Ethan looked down at his son. "What is it, Bug?"
Noah pointed a small, trembling finger toward the shadow of the heavy oak tree.
Standing near the perimeter fence, half-hidden by the falling rain and the smoke drifting across the lawn, was a figure in a dark trench coat. She wasn't running. She wasn't hiding. She was standing perfectly still, watching the house burn with an expression of cold, hollow satisfaction.
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It was a woman Ethan hadn't seen since the morning at the cemetery.
Lauren’s mother—Eleanor.
