Chapter 5 - THE MAN WHO KEPT A COPY
Thomas Morrison lived in a small brick house outside Charlottesville with wind chimes on the porch and a German shepherd named Max sleeping beside the front door.
He was seventy-one.
Retired.
And when he saw Jessica and me standing together, his face lost color.
“You look exactly like your mother did at thirty.”
Jessica glanced at me.
It was one of those strange twin moments when neither of us needed to speak.
Morrison invited us inside.
Maya came with us.
Daniel waited in the car because Morrison refused to talk in front of anyone from Hale Development.
The living room smelled like coffee and old paper.
Morrison lowered himself into an armchair.
“I wondered if this day would come.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because lies don’t age well.”
Maya set a recorder on the table.
“With your permission?”
He nodded.
“Record everything.”
I placed the photograph with the gasoline cans in front of him.
“Did you send this?”
“No.”
He studied it.
“But I’ve seen it.”
Jessica gripped the edge of the couch.
“Where?”
“In the original scene file.”
“What were the cans for?”
“Generator fuel.”
Relief crossed Jessica’s face.
Morrison noticed.
“That doesn’t mean they were used in the fire.”
I exhaled.
“Then what happened?”
He leaned back.
“The fire had two ignition areas.”
My heart tightened.
“The bedroom.”
“And the south utility corridor.”
Jessica whispered, “Two?”
“Yes.”
“The investigators said the second accelerant reading was contamination,” I said.
“That was the amended report.”
“What did the original say?”
“That the south corridor fire was intentionally accelerated.”
Silence.
Jessica stared at him.
“You’re saying someone deliberately set part of the house on fire.”
“Yes.”
“Was it Dad?”
“I couldn’t prove who did it.”
“Did you think it was him?”
Morrison looked at Maya.
She said nothing.
Finally he answered.
“I thought the circumstances warranted investigation.”
“What circumstances?”
“The increased insurance coverage. Your father’s financial problems. The accelerant pattern. A contractor who reported seeing Richard moving fuel containers into the hallway earlier that evening.”
Jessica stood abruptly.
“No.”
Morrison continued.
“The contractor later withdrew his statement.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“You do know,” Maya said.
Morrison looked at her.
“You kept the file for twelve years because you were frightened. Something happened.”
He closed his eyes.
“When I submitted my preliminary findings, Richard Hale came to my office.”
“What did he say?”
“He said I was confusing renovation chemicals with accelerant evidence.”
“And?”
“I told him the lab disagreed.”
Morrison’s voice became quieter.
“He reminded me my firm handled claims for three major Hale properties. He reminded me my son had just started work for a subcontractor that relied heavily on Hale Development.”
I felt sick.
“He threatened your son.”
“He never said the words. Men like your father rarely do.”
Jessica sat again.
Morrison continued.
“Two days later, the contractor withdrew his statement. A week after that, my supervisor told me the secondary ignition point had been reclassified as inconclusive.”
“Why didn’t you go to police?”
“Cowardice.”
He said it without decoration.
“I told myself I had no proof. I told myself nobody died. I told myself the girls survived.”
His eyes moved to my scars.
“And then I saw photographs of you leaving the hospital.”
He looked away.
“I kept the file because it was the only decent thing I managed to do.”
Maya asked him to retrieve it.
He returned with a locked metal case.
Inside were photographs, laboratory reports, handwritten interview notes, and a DVD.
Morrison held up the disc.
“This is the original scene walkthrough.”
We watched it on his old laptop.
The footage was grainy.
The camera moved slowly through our burned house.
I recognized the staircase.
The landing.
My bedroom.
Jessica’s room.
Then the south hallway.
The walls were black.
The floor had buckled.
Morrison’s younger voice came through the recording.
“Distinct low-level burn pattern consistent with accelerant.”
The camera moved toward the utility closet.
Something metallic sat beneath the debris.
A small timer.
Maya paused the video.
“What is that?”
Morrison nodded.
“Mechanical outlet timer.”
Jessica frowned.
“For what?”
“Investigators initially believed it had been connected to a portable heater.”
“In June?”
Morrison looked at her.
“Exactly.”
My stomach dropped.
“Was the heater found?”
“No.”
“Then why was the timer there?”
“We never determined that.”
Maya wrote something down.
“Was it tested?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“It carried residue from an electrical ignition device.”
Jessica stared at him.
“What does that mean in English?”
“It may have been used to start something.”
Her face went blank.
I suddenly remembered Dad’s obsession with timers.
Christmas lights.
Landscape lights.
Pool pumps.
He labeled every one.
My hands went cold.
“Do you still have the lab report?”
Morrison pulled a page from the file.
Maya read it.
Then she looked at me.
“This needs to go to law enforcement.”
Jessica immediately said, “No.”
I turned.
“No?”
“I mean—not yet.”
“You heard him.”
“I heard an old report with no suspect.”
“You’re protecting Dad?”
“No!”
“Then what?”
She stood.
“I want to know whether Mom knew.”
That question landed harder than I expected.
Mom.
Alice Hale.
Always smoothing.
Always apologizing.
Always telling me not to make a scene.
What if she hadn’t merely covered up what happened afterward?
What if she knew before?
Morrison shifted uncomfortably.
“There’s something else.”
I almost laughed.
Of course there was.
“What?”
“The night of the fire, your mother called the insurance office.”
Jessica frowned.
“When?”
“Before midnight.”
“So?”
“She asked whether accidental fire damage would remain covered if one of the daughters had been drinking.”
I stared at him.
“How did she know that mattered?”
“She said police had mentioned alcohol.”
“That’s possible.”
“Yes.”
He hesitated.
“But then she asked another question.”
Maya leaned forward.
“What question?”
Morrison looked directly at me.
“She asked whether the increased policy limits were already active.”
I stopped breathing.
Jessica whispered, “She knew about the increase.”
“Apparently.”
We drove back to Richmond in silence.
Halfway home, Jessica spoke.
“I remember something.”
I looked at her.
“About that day.”
“What?”
“Mom and Dad were fighting in the kitchen.”
“What about?”
“I didn’t hear everything.”
She rubbed her temple.
“Dad said, ‘By Monday it won’t matter anymore.’”
A chill moved through me.
“Are you sure?”
“No. I’m not sure of anything anymore.”
My phone buzzed.
Mom.
For the first time in two days, I answered.
“Hello?”
She was crying.
“Kristen, where are you?”
“Why?”
“You need to come home.”
“No.”
“Please.”
Something in her voice stopped me.
Not manipulation.
Fear.
“What happened?”
“Your father knows Daniel took records.”
Jessica leaned toward the phone.
Mom continued.
“He’s destroying files.”
Maya immediately signaled for me to keep her talking.
“Mom, listen to me. Do not confront him.”
“He knows.”
“Knows what?”
“That I kept it.”
My pulse jumped.
“Kept what?”
Mom began sobbing.
“The letter.”
“What letter?”
“The one your father made me write after the fire.”
I tightened my grip on the phone.
“What does it say?”
There was a noise behind her.
A door opening.
Then my father’s voice.
“Alice?”
Mom whispered one sentence.
May you like
“He planned the fire, Kristen.”
The line went dead.
