Chapter 3 - The Fire Before DawnAt 3:12 a.m., my phone began vibrating against the nightstand.
I woke before the second ring.
The caller ID showed Linda Parker.
"Emma!" she gasped. "The diner!"
I was already sitting up.
"What happened?"
"Fire. There's smoke everywhere. Somebody broke the back window."
I pulled on jeans and boots.
"Is anyone inside?"
"I don't think so. But the flames are coming from the storage room."
"Get away from the building. Now."
I called 911 while moving down the hallway.
Then I checked on Mom.
She was awake, sitting upright with both hands pressed against her chest.
"Is it the diner?"
I didn't lie.
"There's a fire. Firefighters are responding."
Her face crumpled.
"Your father built that storage room."
I knelt beside her.
"Look at me. Buildings can be repaired. You can't. Stay here and keep the doors locked."
Linda's husband, a retired firefighter named Paul, agreed to stay with her until I returned.
When I reached Main Street, flames were licking through the rear windows of Mercer's Diner.
Two engines blocked the intersection.
Firefighters were pulling hose lines through the side entrance.
Thick black smoke poured across the parking lot.
For forty-six years, that diner had fed truck drivers, schoolteachers, farmworkers, police officers, and families who couldn't afford expensive restaurants.
My mother had worked double shifts there when my father was sick.
She'd delivered free meals to people trapped indoors during winter storms.
She knew which customers took sugar, which needed decaf, and which pretended not to be hungry because they were short on money.
Someone had tried to destroy all of it.
I approached the fire captain.
"Captain, I'm Emma Mercer. My mother owns this building."
He glanced at me.
"Captain Alvarez. We're getting control of the fire. Nobody appears to have been inside."
"Any indication where it started?"
"Rear storage area. Too early to determine cause."
"I received a report about a broken window."
He nodded.
"We found glass near the loading door. The investigator will look at it."
I stepped away.
The street was crowded with onlookers.
Some were filming.
Some were crying.
Then I saw Wade Kessler.
He stood beside a silver SUV, sipping coffee from a paper cup.
His jacket was immaculate.
His hair was perfectly styled.
And he was smiling.
He noticed me.
His expression brightened.
"Well, look who's home."
I didn't approach.
He came toward me instead.
"Terrible thing," he said, gesturing toward the flames. "Old buildings. Terrible wiring. Should've taken my offer while the place was still worth something."
"Interesting theory."
"What's that?"
"You already know what caused the fire?"
His smile tightened.
"Just common sense."
"Then perhaps you should share it with the fire investigator."
He laughed.
"Still giving orders, huh? Must be nice having soldiers jump whenever you snap your fingers."
"My soldiers aren't involved in this."
"Good. Because this is a civilian town, sweetheart."
He leaned closer.
"And military medals don't mean much here."
I looked directly into his eyes.
"Neither does inherited money when evidence reaches the right people."
For one second, the mask slipped.
Then he grinned again.
"You think your mother deserves that diner? That old woman has been standing in the way of progress for years."
I felt anger rise.
But I kept my hands at my sides.
"Stay away from her."
"Or what?"
"Or the next conversation will happen through attorneys and investigators."
He snorted.
"You're no fun."
Then his expression turned ugly.
"Tell Ruth the clock is running."
He walked away.
I watched his SUV disappear around the corner.
Behind me, someone said quietly, "He did it."
I turned.
A young woman stood near the curb holding a firefighter's blanket around her shoulders.
She looked about twenty-three.
Dark hair.
Pale skin.
A small silver cross hanging from her neck.
"Excuse me?"
She glanced toward the street.
"Wade sent someone. I saw the truck."
"What's your name?"
"Jenna Wallace."
"Can you tell me exactly what you saw?"
Her hands shook.
"I clean the medical offices across the street. I was finishing my shift around two forty-five. A white utility truck pulled behind the diner."
"Did you see the driver?"
"Not clearly. But I recognized the logo."
"What logo?"
"Kessler Construction."
"Did you take a photograph?"
She hesitated.
"Maybe."
"Maybe?"
Her eyes filled with fear.
"I took a video. But I don't want to die over it."
The words struck hard.
This wasn't just an intimidated witness.
This was someone who genuinely believed giving a statement could get her killed.
I kept my voice low.
"Jenna, I'm not asking you to do anything unsafe. Do you have family nearby?"
"My little brother. He's sixteen."
"Is someone with him?"
She nodded.
"He's at my aunt's."
"Good. Don't send that video to me yet. Keep the original intact. I'll connect you with an attorney who can discuss how to preserve it and report what you saw outside the sheriff's department."
She studied me.
"Can you really help?"
"I can't promise what will happen. But I can promise I won't hand you over to Wade."
A tear rolled down her cheek.
"Nobody ever stands up to him."
"Then he's gotten used to the wrong kind of people."
By sunrise, the fire was extinguished.
The kitchen remained mostly intact.
The rear storage room was destroyed.
The fire investigator told me there were circumstances requiring further examination, but declined to speculate publicly.
I respected that.
Then Linda approached with an unfamiliar older man.
He had a white beard, a canvas work jacket, and a limp.
"Emma," Linda said, "this is Walter Briggs."
I recognized the name immediately.
Walter had worked with my father at Blackwater Ridge.
He'd been injured in the same incident that killed him.
Walter reached out his hand.
"Last time I saw you, you were wearing a lieutenant's bars."
"That was a long time ago."
He nodded toward the blackened building.
"I heard what happened to Ruth."
"So did half the county."
"Not talking about the fire."
His expression was grave.
"I'm talking about why Wade wanted her to sign."
I studied him.
"What do you know?"
Walter looked toward the police vehicles.
"Not here."
"Where?"
"My place. Noon. Come alone."
Before I could respond, he added, "And don't tell Dalton."
Then he turned and walked away.
At eleven thirty, while I was preparing to leave for Walter's property, my phone rang.
It was my attorney, Caroline Shaw, calling from Atlanta.
"Emma, I reviewed the documents you sent."
"Good."
"Not good. I found something disturbing."
"What?"
"The county filed a condemnation petition against your mother's diner six weeks ago."
I stopped moving.
"Condemnation? For what?"
"A proposed road expansion. But the documents claim Ruth Mercer voluntarily waived her right to challenge the acquisition."
"She never signed anything."
"I know. The signature doesn't match the examples you provided."
"Who's listed as the beneficiary of the project?"
Caroline paused.
"Kessler Development Partners."
Of course.
"There's something else," she said.
I waited.
"The waiver was notarized by Sheriff Dalton's wife."
I closed my eyes.
The sheriff.
The Kesslers.
A forged signature.
A suspicious fire.
And my father's old coworker suddenly wanting to talk.
"Caroline, how quickly can we challenge it?"
"I'm preparing emergency filings. But Emma, there may be more going on than property fraud."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because I traced the financing behind the road project."
I looked toward the photograph of Victor Sloane lying on my desk.
"Let me guess."
Caroline's voice dropped.
"The primary investor is Sloane Infrastructure Holdings."
My pulse slowed.
Not from relief.
From recognition.
Every piece was beginning to connect.
And at exactly 11:58 a.m., Walter Briggs sent me a text.
Don't come. They know.
A second message arrived moments later.
If something happens to me, look beneath the blue cabinet.
Then his phone went silent.
I called him three times.
No answer.
At twelve twenty, a police scanner reported an emergency at Walter's farm.
A vehicle had left the road.
May you like
One man critically injured.
And Sheriff Raymond Dalton was already on the scene.
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