Chapter 5 - The Fire That Was Never an Accident
For thirteen years, Maeve had believed her father's death was an accident.
A warehouse fire.
Faulty electrical wiring.
An old building.
A tragic loss.
Now the most powerful man she'd ever met was telling her Brendan Sullivan had died while trying to meet him.
She felt the floor shift beneath her.
“What was my father doing with you?”
Emmett's face tightened.
“He was investigating something.”
“My father was a firefighter.”
“He was also an honest man.”
Maeve folded her arms.
“Those aren't answers.”
Emmett looked toward Mercer.
“Bring me the Sullivan file.”
Mercer hesitated.
“Emmett—”
“Now.”
The attorney left.
Emmett waited until the door closed.
Then spoke quietly.
“Thirteen years ago, my family operated several warehouses near the waterfront. One of them was being used to store cargo that never appeared on the official manifests.”
Maeve stared.
“What kind of cargo?”
“Stolen pharmaceuticals. Counterfeit goods. Whatever Warren could move without attracting attention.”
“And you knew?”
“I suspected.”
“That's not the same as stopping it.”
“No.”
His honesty surprised her.
But it didn't soften her anger.
“My father died in that building.”
“I know.”
“He had a wife. A daughter. A baby on the way.”
Emmett lowered his eyes.
“I know that too.”
Maeve felt tears burning.
“Then why didn't you tell us?”
“Because I didn't know the full truth until afterward. And by then, Warren had buried the evidence.”
She stepped toward the bed.
“You could have helped my family.”
“Yes.”
“You could have paid for my mother's care.”
“Yes.”
“You could have done something.”
Emmett looked directly at her.
“I should have.”
There was no excuse.
No attempt to defend himself.
Somehow, that made her angrier.
She turned away.
“I don't want your apologies.”
“I understand.”
“I want my brother.”
Emmett nodded.
“And we're going to find him.”
Mercer returned carrying a thin black folder.
Inside were old photographs, witness statements, and a copy of a handwritten note.
Maeve recognized her father's handwriting immediately.
The note read:
Emmett — The fire wasn't an accident. Check the insurance transfers. Don't trust W.
Maeve touched the paper.
Her fingers trembled.
“This is his.”
Emmett nodded.
“He left it with a dock supervisor. I received it after the funeral.”
“Why didn't you give it to the police?”
“Because the dock supervisor disappeared two days later.”
Maeve stared at him.
“Disappeared?”
“His name was Thomas Keene.”
Mercer spoke.
“He was later found dead in Rhode Island.”
Maeve sat heavily.
For years, she had carried guilt about failing her mother.
About losing her career.
About not earning enough to keep the family comfortable.
Now she realized the suffering had begun long before she made any mistakes.
Someone had deliberately destroyed the foundation beneath her family.
And that person might still be living comfortably inside the Castellano mansion.
Emmett's phone rang.
Unknown number.
He answered immediately.
“Isabella.”
A woman's voice came through the speaker.
“Did you tell her?”
Maeve leaned forward.
“Where is Danny?”
The woman paused.
“Maeve?”
“Yes.”
“Your brother is safe.”
“Then let me speak to him.”
A rustling sound followed.
Then a small voice.
“Maeve?”
She covered her mouth.
“Danny!”
“I'm okay.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No. The lady gave me pancakes.”
Maeve began crying.
“Where are you, sweetheart?”
“I don't know. There's a big clock outside.”
The phone shifted.
Isabella returned.
“That's enough.”
Maeve's fear turned into fury.
“Bring him home.”
“I will. But first you need to understand something.”
“What?”
“Warren has been searching for your father's evidence for thirteen years.”
Emmett leaned toward the phone.
“What evidence?”
“The original shipping ledger.”
Mercer stiffened.
Isabella continued.
“Brendan Sullivan copied it before the fire. Arthur Bell found the insurance records years later. Both men tried to expose Warren.”
Maeve closed her eyes.
Two deaths.
One conspiracy.
Her father.
The patient who had cost her nursing career.
“And now,” Isabella said, “Warren believes the ledger is hidden somewhere in your mother's belongings.”
Maeve went cold.
“My mother's belongings?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Brendan sent something home before he died.”
Maeve remembered a battered metal toolbox her father had kept in their apartment.
It had remained locked for years.
Her mother refused to throw it away.
Even after dementia began stealing her memories, Colleen Sullivan would sometimes sit beside the toolbox and whisper, “Brendan said it was important.”
Maeve's heart pounded.
“The toolbox.”
Emmett looked at her.
“What toolbox?”
“My father's.”
Isabella's voice sharpened.
“Maeve, listen carefully. Do not go back to your apartment.”
“Why?”
“Because Warren's men are already there.”
The call disconnected.
Gabriel moved toward the door.
But Maeve was faster.
She grabbed her phone and called the neighbor who sometimes checked on her mother.
This time, someone answered.
A man's voice.
“Maeve Sullivan?”
She froze.
“Who is this?”
The man chuckled.
“Your mother is a lovely woman.”
Maeve couldn't speak.
“She keeps asking for Brendan.”
Her eyes filled.
“Where is she?”
“Come home, Maeve.”
May you like
The man's voice became colder.
“And bring whatever your father left behind.”
