Chapter 2 - THE REPORT MY FATHER NEVER GOT TO FINISH
I stared at my father's name on Nolan's screen.
Thomas Bennett.
For three years, I had missed him in ordinary ways.
The smell of sawdust on his jackets.
The way he folded grocery receipts into tiny squares.
The way he always checked smoke alarms twice.
Now I wondered whether those habits came from seeing things other people wanted forgotten.
Nolan looked at Lena.
"Open the memo."
She did.
The document was short.
Too short.
Thomas Bennett has raised concerns regarding structural modifications made before the Ortega fire.
His conclusions are inconsistent with the settlement strategy.
No distribution without approval.
Signed:
Richard Pierce.
Nolan's father.
My stomach turned.
"What settlement strategy?"
Lena continued searching.
"There's no attached report."
"Why?"
She shook her head.
"Missing."
Victor Salas shifted again.
Nolan looked at him.
"Still need that meeting?"
Victor said nothing.
I stepped closer to the screen.
"My father kept physical copies of important work."
Nolan looked toward me.
"Where?"
"I don't know."
That was true.
After my parents died, my brother and I had spent months dealing with hospital bills, probate forms, insurance disputes, rehabilitation appointments, and the apartment lease.
Dad's work boxes had gone into storage.
I had never opened most of them.
Too painful.
Too busy.
Too tired.
Nolan reached for his jacket.
"We're going."
I stared.
"Where?"
"Your storage unit."
I laughed once.
"No."
His eyebrows lifted.
"You just learned your father may have uncovered evidence connected to a deadly fire."
"Yes."
"And you don't want to know?"
"I didn't say that."
"Then what?"
I looked directly at him.
"You don't get to order me into your car because you're used to owning every room you enter."
His attorney looked down to hide a reaction.
Nolan's jaw tightened.
Then, surprisingly, he nodded.
"Fair."
That was not the response I expected.
He continued.
"Would you be willing to retrieve the records with your own attorney present?"
I stared.
"You really know how to ruin a dramatic argument."
One corner of his mouth moved.
"Occupational hazard."
Lena interrupted.
"We should also contact Ortega."
Nolan's face hardened.
"Not yet."
"Why?"
"Because Gabriel left believing my family buried the fire."
I folded my arms.
"Did they?"
He looked at the memo.
"I don't know."
That answer sounded honest.
Which made it more dangerous.
The next morning, I called the legal aid attorney who had helped me with my brother's disability paperwork.
Her name was Rachel Kim.
I explained enough to make her cancel lunch.
By noon, we were standing inside a climate-controlled storage facility in Somerville.
Nolan remained outside until Rachel agreed he could enter.
That seemed to surprise him too.
My father's boxes filled half a unit.
Engineering files.
Photographs.
Insurance documents.
Old rolled plans.
And one red metal case marked:
SANTA FE - O&S
My hands began shaking.
Rachel noticed.
"You want me to open it?"
I nodded.
Inside was a draft report.
Photographs from the burned Ortega workshop.
Witness statements.
Measurements.
And a handwritten note from my father.
Fire spread too fast for reported origin.
Below it:
New solvent storage added without permit.
Then:
Pierce subcontractor ordered walls closed before inspection.
Nolan went pale.
"What subcontractor?"
I turned the page.
The company name was Blackridge Industrial.
Nolan's expression changed.
"You know them?"
He nodded.
"My uncle owned it."
My heart tightened.
"Your uncle?"
"Sebastian Pierce."
The same Sebastian Pierce who currently sat on the board of Pierce North.
The same man whose approval Nolan needed for major acquisitions.
Then Rachel pulled out a sealed envelope.
Addressed to me.
My name in Dad's handwriting.
I opened it with trembling fingers.
Inside was one sentence.
Claire, if anything happens to me before I finish this, don't trust anyone named Pierce.
I looked up.
Nolan was standing three feet away.
And for the first time, the most feared man in Boston looked like he understood exactly why I might be afraid of him.
Then another photograph slid from the folder.
My father.
Gabriel Ortega.
And Sebastian Pierce.
Standing together beside the burned workshop.
May you like
On the back, Dad had written:
SEBASTIAN KNOWS THE FIRE WASN'T AN ACCIDENT.
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