When my apartment burned down, I called my parents from the curb with smoke still tangled in my hair and ash clinging to my soaked sweatshirt.
My hands shook so hard I could barely keep hold of the phone.
“Mom,” I said when she picked up. “There was a fire. My apartment is gone.”
There was a pause. Not horror. Not panic. Just silence, the kind she used when she wanted me to shrink before she spoke.
Then she said, “Not our problem. Should’ve been more careful.”
I stared at the burned-out windows of what had been my second-floor apartment in Portland, Oregon. Firefighters moved through the building with flashlights. My neighbor, Mrs. Alvarez, sat on the sidewalk wrapped in a blanket. A dog barked from inside a patrol car.
“Mom, I lost everything,” I whispered.
“You always make drama, Claire,” she said. “Call your brother. He has real responsibilities.”
Then she hung up.
My brother, Miles, did not answer. He almost never did unless he wanted money.
I was still standing there when a man in a navy jacket came toward me. “Claire Whitman?”
I nodded.
“I’m Fire Investigator Daniel Reyes. I’m sorry about your apartment. I need to ask you a few questions.”
I wiped my face, though I could not tell whether it was rain, sweat, or tears. “Was it electrical?”
He hesitated. That was my first warning.
“Do you know who had access to your apartment last week?” he asked. “Because we found something at the scene.”
My stomach clenched. “What do you mean?”
He opened a clear evidence bag. Inside was a small brass key with a purple plastic tag.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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