“He took the bait. Live feed active.”

I opened the encrypted link on my phone. Night-vision surveillance cameras, discreetly installed by the police technical team that afternoon, covered every angle of the burned property.

On the grainy green screen, a figure in dark clothing slipped under the yellow police tape. It was Arthur. He moved with frantic, desperate energy, carrying a heavy steel crowbar.

I watched, holding my breath, as my father—the man who claimed the fire was too hot to save my mother—waded deep into the unstable, dangerous ash of the basement.

He battered the warped metal cabinet violently until the bottom drawer shrieked open.

He reached inside and pulled out a small, heavy fireproof box. (A box Ortiz had planted there hours before, filled with innocuous, heavy phone books to mimic the weight of documents.)