“They set the house ablaze, thinking the fire would kill everything—her, the files, the kids.”
“Jace… he was there, watching the flames lick the curtains, the smoke curling around his face.”
My breath caught. “He saw it. He knows who lit the match.”
Ms. Harlan’s shoulders slumped. “I was forced to move them. I needed a family that would keep quiet, a family with no ties to the system.”
Mark’s jaw tightened. “You thought we’d protect them?”
She nodded, eyes pleading. “I thought you’d believe us. I thought you’d love them enough to shield the truth.”
The night air seemed to press in, heavy with secrets.
“We’ll get them out,” I said, voice steadier than I felt, “but first we need to find the man who started the fire.”
The Showdown
We tracked the social worker to a sleek office downtown, the kind that smelled of mahogany and lies.
Mark knocked, the sound echoing like a warning drum.
The door swung open, revealing a man in a crisp suit, his smile thin, rehearsed.
“Emma Collins,” he said, voice smooth as lubricated steel, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”
My heart hammered; his name—Victor Hale—was all I’d ever heard whispered about the scandal.
“You set the fire that killed a mother and turned her children into pawns,” I spat, each word a shard of glass.
He laughed, a cold, empty sound. “You think you know anything.”
“I know you built the adoption ring, that you silenced a whistleblower by burning her home.”
His eyes flickered, a crack in the armor.
“You have no proof,” he said, leaning back, confident.
Mark stepped forward, a folder in his hand. “We have this.”
He opened it, scattering photographs of Josie and Jace with a woman in a lab coat—Emily Drake, the whistleblower.
“Your own files,” Victor hissed, his composure cracking.
I held up Jace’s diary, the pages stained with soot, the entry about the night the house went up in flames.
“He wrote that he saw the match being lit by someone wearing your badge.”
Victor’s mask fell, his shoulders slumping. “I didn’t… I was ordered.”
He swallowed, eyes darting to the corner where a hidden camera blinked.
“The agency wanted her dead, the evidence hidden, and the kids placed where they’d never speak.”
“Jace isn’t just a brother,” I whispered, “he’s Emily’s son. He survived because you left the room for a moment.”
Victor stared at me, the realization dawning like a sunrise.
“He was the key,” he whispered, voice trembling, “the living proof that the fire was set.”
Mark placed his hand on the desk, firm. “You’ll tell everything. To the press. To the courts. To anyone who will listen.”
Victor’s eyes filled with a cold resignation. “I’ll talk,” he said, the words like a confession, “but only if they protect Jace.”
I felt a strange calm settle over me, the weight of truth finally lifting.
Jace’s small hand brushed my cheek, his grip tight, his eyes shining with a fierce, unspoken promise.
